I was out the door before first light hoping to reacquaint myself with more Shad; I was laid up last week so I picked an access point at random hoping I could “slop” my way into fish…

“Slop fishing” is the time honored method of crystal ball gazing, wherein the angler takes a lottery-like chance at actually catching something – figuring “there’s water there, it’s got to hold fish.”

For resident fish it works swimmingly, for migratory fish it works not at all, part of the reason Old Guys stay in the truck and young guys don’t.

Through weakness or ardor, I failed to consult the river gauge while loading the vehicle – and gazing at the now swollen torrent Poppa’s words rang in my ear, “Kid, if you don’t use your head – you’ll have to use your back.”

He was off by a foot, and I was arse-deep after tip toeing only 20 feet from the bank, and waist deep after a step further. I dutifully sprayed a shooting head over the water ahead of me, but outside of the fervent hope that deeper water meant the fish were closer, it was a vain attempt.

I chewed on my lower lip and contemplated the “Great Unforgivable” – the mystery that all fishermen puzzle over throughout their angling career – why it is that people with palatial homes on the river, never use it …

Every fishermen faces this quandary, resolving that “if it were my house, I’d look over the terrace, grab a rod, and kick some butt.” The reality is that with a mortgage that size you have to work weekends, and fishing is something you’ll get back to after your second heart attack.

See you on the public side ..

I spent the last couple of weekends Shad fishing – and like many of my trips, spent more time tying flies and losing them then putting them to good use.

I’m close enough to see them though, and it’s enough to make the predawn outing worthwhile. Seeing some other fellow get some fish is enough boost to know your turn’s coming.

It makes up for the #8 beaded headed monstrosity that caught an updraft earlier. A couple of turns of 7X to close the wound, splash a little pond water to make the surgery antiseptic – and off to the next hole.

Last weekend it was the pram across from me, and today it was the small male someone had left on the bottom dead. Just enough affirmation to continue hurling bead-headed-sharp-stuff into a headwind.

I see a parallel to drinking, about the third “stiff one” you’re bulletproof and invulnerable, and the sight of your quarry lifeless imparts an irrational sense of pending victory, allowing you to pound water for another 50 minutes, despite everyone else leaving in disgust.

I did meet the “Goose Whisperer” – some young lass that belted out an eerie cry from the bank. It’s the “shock and awe” of urban fishing, odd rituals performed at dawn, with only the river as witness.

I was mid-river and distant, and watched as every feathered creature for miles swam up to the lady, surrounding her and clamoring for attention. She was dispensing bread and seemed content to ensure every gosling got its due, including every mallard, teal, and puddle duck within proximity.

I was summoning up the courage to ask her what she’d charge for calling Shad, but thought better of it.

I did manage to foul hook something ponderous. Thinking it was a tree branch I drew the line tight to bust the fly off – when it moved upstream smartly. It ignored my 8 weight and 3X and showed no sign that it knew I was attached. We parted company shortly thereafter, thankfully.

I’ll try again tomorrow. If you hear some bloodcurdling cry from the bank and some moron emptying goldfish flakes into the river – give a wave.

Technorati Tags: American river, shad, fishless fishing, goose whisperer

I need only the rumor that someone’s smelled one to pack the truck, it’s a byproduct of months of tying drab earth-tone flies that resemble insects, suddenly the artist busts loose and your tying bench is a riot of forgotten fluorescence, shiny tinsels, bead chain, and chrome hooks.

 The Shad are at the mouth of the American – I have to drive by daily, cursing all the guys that called in sick and were miraculously cured when they donned their waders. Too many bait and spin fishermen to make a fly angler anything other than unpopular – but the fish will move up river as soon as they’re able.

Fish were caught at the Howe Avenue access Saturday, but the river flows are quite low, which may impede their march upstream to Folsom Dam.

I tried the Watt Avenue access for a couple hours yesterday with little success. Using an 8 weight shooting head (type IV) I caught enough streambed to lighten my fly box by a couple dozen – so you’ll want to use lighter gear or slower sinking heads.

Mustad no longer makes the 3908C (silver) hook and I had a hell of a time finding the venerable Eagle Claw 1197N (Nickel) hook. Only Cabela’s still stocks them in quantity, ($7.79 per 100, good price) none of the fly shops I searched has silver hooks outside of the standard Mustad 3407/34007 saltwater styles. I’m not quite sure what everyone else is using as a replacement.

The “traditional” shad darts are shown in the foreground above, simple floss bodies, streamlined profile, and bead chain eyes to add weight and flip the hook over.  Shad have paper thin jaws and there’s better purchase on the upper lip than the lower. The balance are what I’m using this season, I call them red and green “Tomato’s.”

Next month the run will be in full swing, and likely I’ll be in the thick of things, as shad fishing is a “drinking Man’s” thoughtful sport – warm temperatures, balmy weather, half nekkid rafters and “silver bullets” that don’t ask for quarter – and don’t give any.

Keep an eye on your backcast – the urban setting always means some interested onlooker is behind you unannounced. Fish barbless, they’re easier to extract from a screaming jogger.

Technorati Tags: american shad, watt avenue, sacramento, american river, rafters, jogging

That’s the problem with being a member of the “working press” – what with the brutal deadlines, the fishing, and the lying-about fishing, I needed some decompress time  – so I went fishing.

I threw some fishing tackle in with a change of dry clothes, adding some beef jerky, Kashi bars, and some bananas, and pointed the rig north. I knew it was early still – but the lull that follows Opening Day is well known; all the faux-Sportsmen bust out for the Opener, alternately freezing and burning – then lick their wounds the following weekend.

I hit the Upper Sacramento on Friday and Saturday, and she hit back. Heavy bruising water – cold and swift, and deep enough so that anything more than a couple feet off the bank was a tenuous ambition.

Wading alone you’re prudent and cautious, and I tip-toed around the heavy stuff hoping to find a pocket of something with minimal IQ and low standards, but they were all abed.

Insects were evident but they were trickling off unmolested, two or three different mayflies and the occasional lumbering Giant Stone, as the birds were inactive, everything made it into the underbrush.

No fishermen, no fish, and plenty of water.

I did have the opportunity to meet Tom Chandler of TroutUnderground fame, a friendly and gracious fellow that opted to share the Upper McCloud. It’s a tad unnerving to fish with another blogger – in the back of your mind you know that one false step and you’re cover art.

As both of us were packing cameras we were on double good behavior, I used fly floatant on my dry flies, rather than Velveeta, and he did likewise.

A whirlwind tour of the McCloud waterfalls proved opportune – as they’re still swollen from snow melt and in rarified plumage.

Neither of us caught any fish – but as the photo’s attest, who cares. It’s a bit early still, TC measured the McCloud at a chilly 48 degrees, so you’ve time yet.

I found the $4.00 per gallon gas starts about 200 miles upstream from me, anyone thinking they won’t be curtailed by the expense is kidding themselves, as a tank-up and a tank-back adds $100 to the outing and that’s enough to give pause.

… and no, I didn’t wear my Brownline waders in all this pristine-ness. Formula 409 is a snack for those beasts – I left them in the back yard to control the cat population.

Technorati Tags: Upper McCloud, Upper Sacramento, bluelining, fishless fishing, Tom Chandler, Trout Underground

I managed to sneak up to the lake for some additional recon, taking advantage of the lack of wind to get a better feel for what’s offered. I took the hip boots with me so I could wander around without regard for mud and marsh.

In the Central Valley, March is traditionally the month where the Bass start heading for the shallows to spawn. Timing varies widely but it appears I’m still much too early. 

One boat and two campers were the only folks present, but the muddy water persists despite the lack of wind, and no fish activity of any kind. I wandered up the creek channel and couldn’t find any weeds or bug life. I wasn’t expecting to find anything as this part of the creek would be buried in the lake if it were full.

The boat anglers gave up at 10AM, I stuck it out for a couple more hours until the breeze started. I had found a nice log to perch on in the clean water at the creek and was flinging streamers in all directions. I heard the report of a gunshot, and a bullet rips into the water about 20 feet away.

I take cover behind a log and wait for the clip to empty, some dumb arsed kid is firing at the trees in the water, and hasn’t seen the human in their midst. That’s the problem with the “Quiet Sport” we don’t have some monstrous V-8 to announce ourselves properly.

I’m counting the reports, 5-6-7 .. bullets are thudding into the trees on my left, I know it’s an automatic not a wheel gun, 8-9-10-11, he should be dry*, and edge out past shelter to see the kid fiddling with his next clip. I announce my presence and the kid takes off like a scared rabbit.

Maybe it’s what I said, as I quoted Han Solo, “.. good against trees is one thing kid, good against the living, is quite another..”

* California restricts clips on pistols to a max capacity of 10, plus “one in the pipe.”

Technorati Tags: fishless fishing, indiscriminate gunfire

That ain’t necessarily a compliment either, but with a gale howling outside and the promise of something never seen – it was enough to get my brother off the couch and into his waders.

The last trip had been interrupted by the pager, far enough in to think I was going to find something special, but not far enough to lay eyes on the lake, or see what might call it home.

Indian Valley Reservoir is north and east of Clear Lake, about eight miles of bumpy pavement followed by another eight of dirt. Most of the ground was working cattle ranches and decaying outbuildings, followed by a precipitous single lane climb to the crest, and a dusty descent into the valley below. It’s possible to do the road with a two wheel drive vehicle, but you’ll have plenty of white knuckle moments.

Once in the canyon country the wind was a non issue, a good map and careful odometer readings got us through the unknown dirt intersections, and only one sign mentioned the lake and that was at the end of the pavement many miles distant..

We’re thinking “unspoiled gem” as there’s no tourist trash, no traffic on the road, no Taco Bell wrappers hung in the underbrush; I’m ready for a heady “blueline” experience, while my brother “white knuckles” the armrest and points at the creek we have to drive through.

I saw it, no worries.

Both of us have our blood up, it’s “Lewis & Clark” about to catch sight of the Pacific Ocean, it’s rediscovering King Solomon’s Mine compliments of Google Earth, it’s …. %$&@.. Dry?

We cracked the hermetic seal of the door in disbelief, and just before the gale emptied the truck of humans, paper maps, and tackle, we saw water. Brown water.

It’s a shallow lake and the bones of the Old Gal were exposed, the northern arm was dry, but the balance of the lake had plenty of water. The wind was driving the white caps into the bank and the water was discolored by debris and mud.

The main body of the lake was unfishable due to the wind, but we found the promise of better fishing later in the year. Large rafts of Digger Pine had been submerged when the lake was filled, leaving plenty of Bass structure for a float tuber. We found a less blustery arm and threw flies at downed timber – with the wind throwing them back as unworthy.

I had a chance to unlimber the new Orvis 8 weight, but what I was throwing wouldn’t have been called a loop, it was more like a right angle – with fly somewhere in betwixt rod tip and the water.

We found fire pits on the lake bottom proper, so we assumed we’d found the campground. No facilities of any kind, requiring you to pack in whatever is needed, a boat ramp (of sorts) was nearby, but few signs of humans other than the occasional crazed ATV rider, everyone else had more sense.

The North Fork of Cache Creek was our goal, it’s closed until the general trout season opener, but we were hoping to see monstrous fish doing lazy somersaults while flipping us the extended digit. The creek looked really good, but no fish – and the amount of expended quail ammo suggested they’d insulted the wrong group.

More campsites, suggesting the area may be frequented by bird and deer hunters during the fall. Ballistics was the main event and everything had a bullet hole in it, including the unlikely propane bottle and fire extinguisher.

In short, another great adventure – and another fishless fishing trip, plenty of excuses, but it weren’t for the lack of trying.

Technorati Tags: North Fork Cache creek, Indian Valley reservoir, fishless fishing, four wheel drive

I figure Indian Valley Reservoir must hold monster fish that commit suicide for flies – because my aggregate Karma prevented me from ever seeing this pristine beauty, either that or Brownliners ain’t allowed.

It was a heck of an adventure but was cut short before I reached paydirt, it still holds promise but now we’re captive to the weather and may have to wait a bit.

In early morning light, it’s plain what makes California appeal to a lot of folks, at times the vista available in the Central Valley rivals anything I’ve seen of Montana, you can imagine what those early settlers thought when they crested the rise and beheld all that untrammeled real estate.

I had to stop the car a couple of times just to admire my surroundings, which quickly turned to misery after I hit the “Road Closed” sign; the dirt road leading in had been washed out by heavy storms weeks ago, now I’m leaning on the hood poring over a map.

I found an alternate route coming into the lake from farther up the valley. I’d already got mud on the fender so my blood was up. The track through the foothills was lined with “early Americana”; most of the outbuildings and  barns were in poor repair. Nothing stirring except my dust and bovines, who feign interest as I rattle past.

It’s the part of California that even residents never see, as most are hellbent on getting to Los Angeles or Oregon, leaving the middle for us early risers.

The first glimpse of water is a welcome sight, and I’m focused on the immediate goal of waving a fly rod in anger. The creek empties the lake I’m looking for – and with clean clear water in the creek, I’m thinking the lake level should be just fine.

Right about then the pager goes off – I’m far enough into the canyon so there’s no cell coverage, and I grind to a halt reluctantly. I’d taken the pager from another fellow with “big weekend plans” – and now he owes me. “Hell hath no fury like a fisherman interrupted” – his week will be long and arduous.

Tags: Early riser, California’s Central valley, Leesville, Clear Lake