Wherein we salute all patriots still abed, and commiserate that the empty beer cans and explosive debris on your lawn simply will not wait for your head to clear, or the throbbing temples to subside:
Us clean-living types braved the cordite and pre-dawn roadside IED’s to get blanked, but the colors are remarkably similar …
… at least one of us can make his next house payment.
Tags: July 5th, shad flies, fireworks, IED, clean-living, fishless fishing
I’m feeling particularly turgid at the prospect of a spending the weekend with you, yet you remain swollen and bloated, claiming you’re retaining water and in no mood for a frolic. In my feverish condition I’m past considering your feelings, so I looked up other flames and they’re in similar shape, singing the same sorrowful tune and disinterested in a passionate tryst.
While reluctant to pay for pleasure, most of the guides won’t take my money, claiming everything North of South is blown out, knocked up, and stay away. Even the party boat skippers claim the ocean bereft of salmon, and my idyllic little stinkwater a lifeless yet burgeoning plume of dam release unable to provide the release I so sorely need.
I’ve little choice and fewer options, and the prospect of fixing sprinklers versus putting the boots to your watery, yet supple form, is just increasing my ire … and as a vindictive SOB I’ll spend those agonizing moments of forced idleness producing even more things that’ll prove irresistible later.
We’ve done dinner and the obligatory romantic comedy, now I’m requiring more than a peck on the cheek, or nervous handshake on your dimly lit boat launch – I’m not looking for your regard or your respect, I’m looking for some action.
… that’s right, I’m looking for the nasty.
Sure, you’re the coquette and playing the field – but them other fellows are nice guys, who’ll keep their hands off your ample shoreline and respect your irritating seasonal largesse.
… flirt with Igor, the Hunchback of Folsom Dam … but while you’re giggling over the scowls of fishermen below, I’ll be in the bushes contemplating the unspeakable … waiting for your return home.
Tags: American River, enforced idleness, tired of this bullshit, Pink Pee Wee, fishless weekend, snow melt,
The snarling black lab with the faded red kerchief reminds me it’s his garbage can – and despite my wish to pass, he’s unwilling to share either contents or the path.
Fishing of late has become a series of indignities; rain when there shouldn’t be any, sun when there shouldn’t be any, and mean arsed black Labradors who beat me to the river just to harsh my mellow.
I can’t wade anywhere near where I fished last year, the water being too high and too cold, and can’t cast far enough – now that the river’s twice as wide. Yet I still wade out with high hopes and practice something or fiddle with flies, and after a couple hours stride back to the truck contented.
Make that three times as wide, as of today’s graph…
I had an opportunity to confirm model plane fabric is tough as nails. Thirty minutes of abuse on a seven weight head didn’t even scratch the carapace.
… and despite being hung up on rocks a half dozen times, that point is still sharp enough to make any gamefish blanch …
Tags: American River, fly fishing for shad, cubic feet per second, terra firma, wino dog
You can’t fault them as it’s worked well for the environmentally conscious types.
Stop the creek with a well placed cork, extinct everything but ATV hellions and gravity donations from the housing dispossessed – and when no one’s looking – slap up new signs to keep out the dog walkers and environmentalists.
Are they worried someone will destroy the perfection of their mounded symmetry?
The latest batch of signs that surround a couple billion pounds of spawning gravel excavated out of the surroundings of my newly dampened – dirty little creek.
… soon to be part of your driveway or that subdivision up the road that’s dampening the resale value of your home – due to jinglemail and foreclosure.
It’s one of many changes I logged while tromping through the underbrush this weekend, part of the yearly Spring ritual which maps the newly deepened, the undercut, and the shallow.
… and the living, although there’s not much of that left.
Saturday yielded two turtles lounging in the shallows, away from the sterile scour of the main stem – proof that some of the larger life had made it through the de-watering and subsequent flood.
Old cars being a lifeform of a sort, and most are disgorging their contents independently of the chassis. This old Chevy moved a couple dozen feet closer to the Sacramento, complements of the root ball it has created.
I managed to sting one bass up at the Siphon hole, and the departing ripples suggested at least a pair of carp remained from the school that inhabited the area last year, so some small brood stock remains.
There are no minnows in the shallows, nor fry of any type.
Benthic drift suggests the smallest insects repopulate first, and the larger organisms follow. This may be why the watershed is dominated by Trico’s – who have yet to stage an appearance.
All algae and weeds are limited to the secondary channels which are typically dry by June. New growth is readily apparent and I stomped through the dense sections to assist Mother Nature in releasing plenty of algae and sprouted growth to repopulate the sterile sections downstream.
Sunday it was the upper stretch of the river, which had been completely dry last year. The creek is running about four times normal, so crossing the main channel required trepidation and tree limbs morphed into wading staff.
No sign of fish or weeds apparent, drastic bank removal complements of the earlier flood, and the bottom cobble covered with a thin layer of brown algae.
Much of the willow growth has been sheared cleanly, evidence of the flood’s ferocity.
What’s left is being eaten by those beaver that survived, and the ample tracks in the drying mud suggested numerous survivors.
After covering nearly five miles of creek in two days and finding visual evidence of fish in only a single spot, things look grim. It’s not unexpected, and the increased flow likely hides additional detail, but it will be some time before anything more than casting practice is offered.
Tags: rebirth of the Little Stinking, turtle, largemouth bass, grass carp, fly fishing, brownlining
It was many things, slippery mud, icy water, and blustering breeze, with the occasional dog walker giving me a wide berth. They were as uncomfortable as I was, me out of shape and unkempt – wearing too much olive drab to suit them – and me hoping they wouldn’t ask what luck I’d had, as luck wasn’t in the cards.
I had cork in my hand, the creek was a river – and hip boots weren’t enough to get me to the other bank.
Unsettled flood gravel gives no purchase when fording, and the water’s pressure merely drives you and the pile of gravel downriver without regard to how the cleats bite or the frantic tap-tap-tap of a wading staff.
I was content. A winter worth of couch pupation had birthed the awkward predator – the young lion, clumsy and unsure of footing and every disturbance an excuse for the stalk and pounce, yielding only dry leaves and dandelions, adventure of a sort as the den and safety only a few feet distant.
The river hosts a single green frog.
The insects are largely absent, many perished during the drought and those remaining were hunkered down for Spring. Cracks in the clay banks yielded small scuds and water fleas and little else.
The beaver dams are gone, but they served their purpose. Alder shoots driven flat by flood are starting to emerge from the matted grasses and sticks cast onto the bank by receding water – prime forage for beaver and the multitude of muddy tracks and gnawed ends suggested a few survivors.
I added a single green wing teal to my collection – the outdoor’s equivalent of dumpster diving, as everything manmade eventually becomes entangled in a root ball. This year was mighty slim as the scour was thorough and even the ever-present water bottles were gone.
I was content to throw experimentals at imaginary steelhead lies – or dangling them in the current to see their posture. Scouting via long line – as the far bank was inaccessible to foot traffic.
With the first week of dry weather scheduled, I expect flows will begin to dwindle and allow me a little elevation and ability to see whether any fish remain. Until then my fishing is reduced to out of practice, out of shape, and out of luck – old friends in our annual Spring purgatory.
Tags: Little Stinking, spring flood, green wing teal, spring purgatory, fishless fishing
This was the weekend where my newly placid and emerald alma mater was to be violated cruelly by my large feet. Flows were perfect, the sun was out – and a balmy 67° predicted.
Friday night was the prenup. Rods inspected, reels freshly oiled, boots sterile from chemical bathes and three months of enforced idle, flies neatly ranked by size and color – and experimentals squirreled away in secret compartments safe from prying eyes …
Saturday morning was corporate taxes, income taxes, laundry, and groceries – aided by the whirlwind “guy clean” of bathrooms and footpaths, sinks and dishes, and I plunged into the sack knowing that on the morrow, order would be restored to the Universe once I felt the first new leak in my waders.
… and while I slumbered fitfully, the light patter of rain turned foul.
Now I know the endless grief that was Lucy pulling the football away at the last bloody second, and how Charlie Brown suffered horribly.
I returned home a broken man.
Tags: Charlie Brown, Little Stinking, season opener, brownlining, disappointment,
With the promise of but a single day of sunshine between storms and with most of next season’s flies already completed, I had a fast closing window of opportunity, and took it.
Some prefer soaking in pricey venues with mud bathes and mineral springs, instead I uncrated all of my wading finery to launder – in the soothing and heated waters of an atomic forebay. Proofing me of New Zealand Mud Snails, Mussels, Asian Carp spawn and anything else that climbed aboard unnoticed.
It’s the root of my immunity to the lingering pestilence of brown water, how I can tighten knots with my teeth and expose my soft posterior to flesh eating disease, Ecoli, and submerged barbed wire.
… and now you know. The white blotches in the above photo testimony of the relentlessness of excited electrons that find the smallest recesses in felt soles and laced uppers – leaving enough residual radiation to keep the surfaces sterile for the season.
… ditto for me. I’m content with someone else’s bloodline relieving your darling of his lunch money.
Kelvin and I hopped fence and spent the afternoon lolling in the steaming current. Me testing how many kilorads Marabou can withstand before losing its supple, and Kelvin watching the waterline of his float tube until the seam actually blew.
We managed only a single fish between us, shown above … It started as a Rainbow trout, but like most of the larger fish, loses it’s genetic distinctness after the m-RNA becomes corrupt.
Sun on my cheek, something I haven’t felt in many weeks, and won’t (hopefully) for many more.
Tags: fly fishing, nuclear power plant, rainbow trout, marabou, subatomic particles, mud snails, mussels, invasive species
Sure I’m bitter and resentful but as a lay scientist I thought I’d find out first hand which is higher in my esteem, cheap produce or inedible fish.
If we measure just the carbon footprint, fish win. But as half of the populace disagrees with it being an issue, and despite my frantic attempts at dodging semi’s loaded with bell peppers and tomatoes, it’s a poor measure of inherent value.
I needed a common metric that was unimpeachable, some simplistic test that would be readily apparent to the casual onlooker, yet was based solely on the respective merits of the two species.
Bell Peppers aren’t bad on pizza or a good hearty stew, and assuming the flatulence they cause is due to potential energy stored within its fibrous core, would that translate into a horrific struggle when they feel the sting of steel, or would it be like most produce – requiring farm machinery and a good waxing before showing signs of life?
Capsicum don’t range far for food, but don’t spook much either. They take surface flies extremely well as most of their food is delivered aerially – by both plane and tractor. Patience, coupled with their cunning predatory instincts allows them to remain motionless and invisible – despite the noise and commotion of nearby farm equipment.
I caught this gaggle of “Red’s” growing flaccid in the sunlight – approaching them directly and casting right at the alpha bell itself …
As I’d never landed a bell pepper in full mating plumage, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
They’re bulky and muscular and retain their texture despite frying, boiling, or baking, so I was hoping they’d give a reasonable account of themselves – some small payback for extincting the fish in my creek.
I felt a brief jolt when I stripped the fly through the pack and set hook tentatively, unsure whether to get the reel handle clear of the vest or whether to duck to avoid incoming angered Capsicum. The lead pepper was clearly startled by the hook – and came out of the rye grass like an avenging angel …
Airborne and headed away in a hurry, and I’m frantically “bowing” to the beast each time it clears the fescue.
It stem-walked towards a couple of fir trees, and I’m leaning into the butt section trying to steer opposite – thankful that I’d rigged an 0X tippet.
It was plain this wasn’t merely a red pepper, it was likely a “Waldo” Pepper – known for aerial hyjinks and often sport a similar coloration when drinking heavily or during harvest months…
The leader knot is getting close and I entertain visions of landing this brute. I’d tucked a plain brown double-bagger into my vest hoping sight of a familiar shopping bag with its welcoming Halloween colors and festive label would serve me better than the expected violence once “Waldo” spied the unfamiliar net.
Like the Roma tomato I fought earlier, aerial antics appear to jostle the delicate internal organs of Capsicum Annum as well. It’s unfortunate, despite the heroics shown early in the fight, these internal injuries tend to take the starch out of the quarry if the battle is prolonged.
Any chance of “Catch and Release” will require a firm authoritative hand on the rod in order to keep the fight decisive and short.
As the rest of the bushel was alert to my presence, I faded back onto the patio and let them “cool” a little.
In summary, a tenacious yet fragile foe. A bit of Smallmouth bass mixed with the aerial grace of a deflated football, try not to get any on you …
They’re not a complete replacement for my beloved Salmon, Pikeminnow, Carp, and all the other tainted inhabitants of the local waters … but if I was “hope to die” desperate and needed to get bit, they’d be right up there with rabid dogs and hookers.
Tags: Capsicum Annum, red bell pepper, angling for vegetables, catch and release, fly fishing humor, tippet, rabid dogs, hookers
I managed to eke one last trip out of the old waders – and with one set on backorder, I was just lucky I opted for the “chemical resistant” flavor on the second pair. No camouflage this time, just the ninja-esque black boots famous for cleaning overflowing toilets and oil spills.
Now I just need gloves to match.
Black will come in handy now that I know I’m standing on a 16” pipe bursting with Kerosene.
Peeking over the levee yielded the above warning, and I was sure some trigger happy airman in a Humvee was in my immediate future. It’s times like this you think about the Tungsten beads you ordered from mainland China, and the Jungle Cock you scored from Pakistan …
… and you wonder whether that cranked telephone attached to your testicles will hurt a lot – especially when you’re cuffed to a metal box spring and soaked with water.
Why didn’t I just buy them from Dan Bailey?
I’m staying at the bottom of the trench frantically throwing “L” shaped casts as the wind is blowing much too hard for flies. I figure after a hundred yards I might get lucky and snake a few fish to the bank, which will give me a clue what calls this home.
Standing on a greasy mud spine throwing crayfish is much less fun when a squadron of fast-movers pull high-G above your head. I frantically try to find purchase knowing they’ll get “tone” on the second pass.
Bad enough that I can’t control the flight of the flies I’m using – much less dodge Sparrows while moonwalking around muskrat holes. Wisdom overcame fish lust and I sought terra firma.
I was tempted briefly by the Brownline Shower facility above, no soap needed and undressing optional. It’s the drain from an unknown number of cornfields making it rich in precious nutrients, so precious they’re sprayed from planes rather than found in the soil.
The head would build to the size of a small car and the wind would tear it free and send it aloft. Once it crested the levee the wind would shatter it into a thousand pieces and the process began anew.
I christened it the Popcorn Geyser – something to torment fishing buddies with…
“OK, there’s some really big fish on this stretch, I want you to stand right here and …”
Blanked again. Three trips, two called by wind and the third by low water. I suppose I should’ve taken my cue from the wind farm just down the road.
Tags: Solano County irrigation district, brownliners, fly fishing, crayfish, mudbugs, fast movers, waders, Tungsten beads, Jungle Cock
I was acting on a tip. A friend of a friend had heard I was chasing inferior mouths in grimy drainage ditches and had marked a large “X” denoting an unknown ditch overflowing with fish.
I always take these with a grain of salt, as folks that use regular tackle can fish a much greater range of water than I can. It was close by, so I risked the pre-dawn bumper-tag with loaded tomato trucks while sliding precariously in their wake.
It’s the height of the tomato harvest, and the cool of darkness allows workers a respite from the 100° daytime temperatures. Harvesters clank away in the fields scraping the tomato plants out of the ground, where their sorted and the undesirables are mashed underfoot. A steady stream of trucks rumble out of the fields spilling tomatoes on every curve, causing the entire county to smell of blood; a cloying mixture of rotting fruit with a hint of the ketchup twang.
I finally found it – technically it was a slough, one of many that feeds the lower Sacramento river, the progeny of countless tomato fields and rice paddies, a toxic plume too deep to wade – and too opaque for flies.
Each body of water, clean or dirty, has its individual style or flair – and despite all the hideous things I’ve stepped in or waded through, this place turned me squeamish.
It’s not the color of the water or the odor therein, I had to face a personal Demon, a special form of Kryptonite that sends me screaming back to the car – something rabid dogs, an angry landowner, or bloodthirsty gangbangers could never do.
Big Man-eating Spiders, thousands of them….
As big around as a half-dollar, and every break in the foliage had 10 or fifteen of them idling in the breeze waiting for some sweaty fisherman to take a face full of creepy crawlies and expire in terror.
My unique flavor of mild arachnophobia is typified by tolerance … until I see the eight-legged SOB, and then his arse is lipstick. The surrounding countryside and my house may belong to “Sir Charles” at night, but come daybreak he’d better dig a deep hole…
It’s an uneasy truce, “don’t see, don’t mash.”
Fortunately all the migrant field hands were at distance, because even though I backed away slowly, the involuntary shudders transformed my normally masculine stride into something a runway model would envy.
Spoken to no one in particular, (A couple of octaves higher than normal) “Nope, no fish there, not worth stringing the rod, Nope.”
(… cue the squealing tires and spray of gravel …)
I had once heard that Japanese anglers have a custom of entering the water on the sight of a spider’s web – as it means no one has fished there recently…
… which neatly accounts for the skeletons I saw.
Tags: arachnophobia, spiders, personal demon, fly fishing, slough, lower Sacramento River, tomato, Sir Charles, Kryptonite