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