I’ve never caught a fish enough times to name it, I always thought the practice was proof the angler needed to fish somewhere’s else. Old angling cartoons first acquainted me with the practice, usually with some big city swell telling some kid to put the big SOB back before “Old TackleBuster” expired.

If I was the kid, I would’ve kicked Mr. Aberchrombie and Fitch in the nuts, then taken off running, but I always was an insensitive little brute..

I was supposed to go Christmas shopping and when no one was looking snuck the rod in the back of the truck instead – figuring two hours of fishing and an hour of shopping technically qualifies. If you are lucky enough to have water nearby, Christmas is the perfect subterfuge – you scuff  the ground with your toe and claim it’s her present you’re shopping for – otherwise you’d be thrilled at spending the afternoon shopping for Aunt WhatsHerName and her idjit children.

That’s not insensitive, that’s practical.

It’s getting cold in the morning, and even the fish were huddled for warmth. I hit two or three spots and had little success – figuring the bite may pick up with additional sun on the water.

The beaver had completed the dam on the “Hatchery” stretch, raising the water level by two feet. Industrious fellow, I would love to see a time lapse photography of how he managed to get all that brush and timber into the creek. It’s a two phase build method, they plunk all the branches into the water then go upstream and uproot as much weed as they can, the branches catch it all and make a perfect watertight wall.

I had tested Curly’s Nondescript nymphs here last week, and remembering that big smallmouth that cracked me off, I had another six Nondescript Blacks to tempt him. I didn’t figure he would be fool enough to eat another one, I was hoping some of his relatives might.

The fourth cast into the brush pile was perfect, the fly was in the branches above his hiding spot and I let the current pull it off and drop it in his living room. I gave it one tug and then all hell broke loose, water flying, fish airborne, and me standing there with an unlit cigar and a foolish grin.

I got as far as “Son of a…” before the line went slack. “Old Nondescript” had busted me off a second time, and now he had two flies in his face. I can only hope they’re at opposite ends of his jaw so he still swims straight…

Nice fish, and with the extra two foot of water depth he’s likely to get a lot bigger. Addiction to Nondescript nymphs should prove his undoing, as I’m the only “dealer” in the area, I’ll be sure to make him pose.

Technorati Tags: brownlining, smallmouth bass, Old Nondescript

Remind me to add some form of prosthetic device to my spinners, as these eyes ain’t what they once were. Perhaps a move to Alaska is in the cards, as my buddies mentioned the mosquitoes are as big as Honda Civics, and carry off farm animals and small children. That I may be able to see.

I had a couple reasons for sustained abuse, a new Sharkskin line from Scientific Anglers arrived in the mail, and the “rain” that was to dominate this weekend failed to materialize.

In either case, I figured a couple hours on the Little Stinking was in order, far away from humans in case my sudden switch from Double-Taper to Weight-Forward rendered my casting uncontrollable.

I headed up to the Conservancy stretch figuring to scare up some fish and arrived in time for the morning spinner fall. I’m counting how many cigars I brought with me and comparing it to the clouds of spinners, and I’m woefully outgunned.

I’m thankful that mayflies live no more than eight or nine days as adults, figuring none of this horde will recognize me as the cigar chomping Torturer of Things Smaller than Him, from last week. They didn’t, instead I was forcibly recruited as an “aircraft carrier” for the many squadrons comprising the Mayfly Strategic Bomber Command.

Fish were rising all over, anything that had fins was out in the middle of the river sucking down as many spinners as fast as possible. Fish didn’t even bother to submerge fully, they were running neither silent nor deep, dorsal and shoulder areas exposed, setting in the current with mouth open.

I’m listening to the inner demon who insists I throw a nymph, despite all the evidence to the contrary. It’s just fear, as I can’t remember whether I stuffed that pinch of spinners in my nymph box like I was supposed to …

They were there, and I was resolved to land my first trash fish on a dry fly.

The will was there, but the vision wasn’t – reality is a harsh mistress, I realized I’m the “old hunting dog contentedly licking his nuts by the fire,” and when the Boss reaches for the shotgun, the desire is there, but youth is gone.

I’m reduced to an area effect strike, hoping that the dimple I saw was my fly, rather than the four hundred million naturals next to it. It works well enough on greedy fish, less effective on selective less voracious beasts.

If there was any doubt about Pikeminnow and dry flies, it’s been dispelled. Ditto for anything else with fins, including smallmouth.

There was one broad shouldered brute under a cane canopy that defied me, he made sucking noises like a freckled kid finishing a milk shake – naturally I took offense. I managed to drop the spinner into a clear area that fed his protective lair, and was rewarded with an explosive battle, line screaming off the reel, aerial antics, and the thrill that comes once in a lifetime, trophy Pikeminnow.

Technorati Tags: pikeminnow, little stinking, dry fly fishing

Brownliners love all them barbaric male rituals, like football players we pat each other on the bottom after a good fish, like Indians we name each other after some act, deed, or singularity.

Mostly because of the limited membership – no one is willing to remain downwind of us, so we’ve overcome our fear of societal censure, that coupled with our boring cocktail conversation has us on the outs with the balance of the social scene.

Everyone else is too smart to accept an invite to fish with me, so I had to lure an “innocent” to go fishing. One of the lads at work is taking up the sport – and is untainted – at that rarified stage where he has no false idols, many bad habits, and hasn’t developed an inflexible opinion on anything. Fishing is still a source of mystery, and he hasn’t learned that the effluent water is anything other than great sport, better than sitting on the couch watching football.

He’ll learn the horrible sin he’s committed later, right now he’s a blank canvas upon which the Brownline stain is starkly visible.

Meet “Dances With Bushes,” the man who showed me a thousand landscaping tips for 5X tippet, none of which are sanctioned by the vendor.

DWB was a good sport despite the time spent punishing undergrowth, we all did it, some still do it – it reminds me of  sage advice my father gave on the eve of my first fly fishing trip, “Kid, you may want to leave the fly rod at home, you don’t want to learn casting while fishing.”

He was right, and I ignored him, thankfully I didn’t lose an eye – I just lost esteem, and most of the flies I brought with me.

Dance With Bushes landed 5 fish today, then promptly lost his Indian name by going golfing afterwards. Damn golfers – they never understand that if you lose a fly to underbrush you’re penalized a fish..

We’ll see you on the Brownline.

Technorati Tags: brownlining, tippet abuse, weed whacker

Still smarting from Upper Sacramento rejection, I sought solace in the Chocolate bosom of my Fortress of Solitude. No sooner do I step out of the car when the acrid odor of skunk hits me like an oily cloud. He couldn’t have been aiming at me, one whiff and he would’ve recognized a brownliner as blood kin.

Home. The Little Stinking in all her odiferous glory, I could feel my spirits lift even as my nose cringed.

I needed hungry and desperate fish, actually I just needed to get out of the skunk enrichment zone, as it was evident this furry bastard had been on a multi day binge, involving discarded Cheetos and warm beer.

I had never been upstream of the  “Conservancy” stretch, a small chunk of real estate donated to the county by the gravel company that mines the drainage for aggregate. I assume that they donated it after imbuing it with toxic waste, but needed a tax right off, and good press never hurts.

A gravel conveyor dominates the skyline, I wade up above it while spitting spinners out of my mouth, each puff of breeze bringing winged reinforcements. I fought back with a cheap cigar – cigars make great bug zappers, first you hear the sizzle, then the smoking death spiral like an ME-109 during the London Blitz.

Now that something other than me was suffering, I was starting to feel better.

Enough bugs were making the water that fish were rising. Not continuously, but enough to realize my dry fly box was perched on the tying bench and not in my vest. I had one #18 Pale Morning Dun attached to the fleece patch, and the lure of catching a trash fish on a dry fly overcame any thought of fair play.

The river had changed to include slots of deep water that slid under overhanging brush and trees, nice looking bass water – and the lure of rising fish made it doubly so.

I eased into the water above the working fish and sent the “too big too yellow” dry fly down amongst them. Thankfully it passed serenely through the working fish because I’m thinking “Selective Pikeminnow” has a Fly Fisherman magazine cover written all over it.

My hopes were dashed as the dry vanished in a swirl, and I set too late to feel anything. I got one more take a bit later, but it was half-hearted. I swapped out the fly to an Angelina Hare’s Ear and went prospecting.

Big Pikeminnow, 14-15″ fish that slammed the fly and and gave ground grudgingly, fast movers – reacting just like trout, running,  even jumping, and great sport, just the thing for a bruised ego.

If the fly was within 6″ of the tules, the smallmouth were on it, if the cast landed further out the Pikeminnow fought themselves to eat it. The smallmouth ranged from about half a pound to a pound in size, and would always spin out of the water immediately when hooked.

Pikeminnow school to size, they had been disappearing steadily downstream, and apparently had moved upstream to more favorable water.The first I encountered was the 9″ to 18″ school, about 100 fish milling below an overhanging tree. If the fly “fell” out of the tree into their midst it triggered a feeding frenzy. You could even follow the swing of the fly by the parade following it, and each fish hooked would have 5 or 6 curious fish following throughout it’s struggles.

I saw some enormous fish, landed a couple in the 15″ range – but saw 2-3 that would approach 18″. The California record for Sacramento Pikeminnow is nearly 30lbs – so an 18″ specimen may be large for the Little Stinking, but it’s not exceptional.

Thankfully Bass aren’t timid – as the only way to outwit the smaller Pikeminnow was to slam the fly into the bass’s living room.  After bolting out of the way they would pick the fly off as it swung away from the brush. 

I was now about 3 miles from the vehicle and most of that was wading upstream. The fish had been increasing in size as I moved farther upriver and each new stretch looked better than the last.

I figured enough time remained to eyeball one last stretch, then throw myself on the mercy of the Court as to why the lawn was ignored. I’m thinking a couple bottles of cheap red and she’ll forget my transgressions…

I fought my way overland through the snarl of brush, burst onto the edge of the creek; a deep slowmoving run, 300 yd’s long and 4 foot deep. The hardpan of the streambed was visible and channeled, I could see movement in the shadowy clefts and as I approached, a pod of huge largemouth bass slides out of the channel and bolts downstream.

It’s midafternoon and I’m in trouble already, I stayed long enough to stick two fish, one broke me off and the other was on only for a couple of headshakes.

This is where I’ll start this weekend, what’s needed is a closer access point so the walk isn’t so time consuming. Then again, that may be why there’s big fish – as the distance eliminates them beer guzzling lightweights, and only the unshaven recently scolded sorefooted brownliners get to play.

Technorati Tags: sacramento pikeminnow, fly fishing, smallmouth bass, tired old guy