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

Out of the sack at the crack of dawn, the weather is cooperating as it has dropped nearly 20 degrees since last week, I’m in the mood to spoil someone’s breakfast… I meant besides the neighbor seeing me in my skivvies.

I’m headed for the Bridge Pool of the Little Stinking, that’s where the Carp sleep at night and my ongoing struggle with them is giving rise to an angling complex, I can get to the Superbowl, I just can’t ever win the damn thing.

I sneak my head over the bridge railing and immediately scream really quietly. Below me is about 100 big carp milling about looking for chow.

The smallest is about 6 lbs, the largest appears closer to 17lb, and I am doing a happy dance all the way back the vehicle.

This won’t be easy, but the volume of fish suggests something stupid is present – besides me. These fish weren’t here last week and where they’ve come from is a mystery, but I am not examining the teeth on this gift horse.

I sneak down to the creek and move about 50 yards upstream from the bridge, staying in the bushes – keeping a good 30 yards between me and the water. Walking on cobble is noisy, and usually these fish know about me before I get within range – so I’m ensuring they don’t get the chance this time.

The upstream side is all in shade, it’s early morning and the sun isn’t high enough to give me away. I’m going to fish down to the pool assuming that anything spooked will head downstream to where the other fish are already feeding.

I walked into a full bore mayfly spinner fall, last week I was lucky to find a single mayfly, now they are all over the place – more importantly, the fish are eating them. Not heavily, just an occasional gallon sized dimple appears in the line of foam downstream.

A #14 Black AP Nymph is my first choice and I start quartering down and swinging it across the current. The AP is a fast sinking nymph, a slim silhouette with little to impede its sink rate, and from the bridge view – most of the fish were on or near the bottom.

I have carp moving by me constantly, all looking for something and schooled nicely, they are moving as a group sticking to the deeper water and moving up and downstream continuously. This appears to be a feeding pattern, as I’m only 30 feet away and they’re unconcerned.

I get a bump and set hook, 30 yards of stream erupts all at once – I have carp headed north, carp headed south, mud flying, and me standing there with mouth agape, nearly soiling myself. Something big is on the end of the line and it’s scared every fish around. The suddenly skinny 8’6″ fly rod with the #5 line is very much outclassed, but rather than melt the reel the fish is hanging in cover, with me attached. I’m seeing color as the fish heads for downed timber, but it’s not carp colors, I lay the thumb onto the exposed reel rim and bear down, I have 5X tippet and it’s time to check my knots…

I have a bass hooked solidly, not a carp, the knots hold and I steer the beast clear of the branches. I am able to work the fish in close and finally get to see clearly what I hooked, it’s a really big Largemouth and it likely owns this stretch of the river.

Nothing is more fun than being surprised and finding a nice fish when you are expecting his smaller cousin, it’s like winning the lottery and not having to share the proceeds. I light a cigar and wait for the ruckus to die down. The bass had fought right through the carp and they were all on Defcon 4, alert and suspicious.

I ease down nearly to the pool, fishing the bend and slot it made in the far bank, the carp have returned to their earlier patrol and I am still obscured by bridge shadow and unnoticed.

I’m caught wool gathering, but set hook anyway, two head shakes and I am wearing the fly. The V-wakes headed away from me are testimony to something sizeable. I quarter down with the next cast and get thumped softly, another couple of head shakes and the fly and tippet are snapped clean.

They’re eating what I’m offering and that’s the hard part, but the disturbance of hooked fish has driven the bulk of the school into the pool proper. The sun is high enough to illuminate the entire area and I have to move below the bridge to get within range. No longer cloaked in shadow, I will be in full view of the fish, as will the rod and line.

I make a wide loop away from the water and regain the shore behind a large clump of tule rushes. Hoping they mask my presence enough to get some casts at the fish…

I get a dozen casts at the fish and nothing. There is at least 50 fish visible and suddenly they’re not interested in what I am throwing. I was fishing in shade before, now I am in bright sunlight. I swap flies to a Pheasant Tail nymph with a pearl flashabou line down each side, just enough flash to offer visibility, yet not so gaudy that it might spook the entire area.

The fish suddenly go on alert and voices from upstream start filtering to me,  before I can curse I am surrounded by  four dozen eco-terrorists. Zealots are never too pleasant,  I’m usually one of them, but this time I’m the odd man out and the horde descends on me oblivious to my fishing. It’s a good cause, they were the Cache Creek Conservancy folks picking up streamside litter. I can’t protest too much as the area sorely needs cleaning and outside of the small amount I can pack out, deserves some environmental love.

“Grandma” standing behind me wasn’t so good, I’m trying desperately to remain cordial and good natured, and Grandma’s bottom is in mortal peril of an errant backcast. I’m thinking, “Check the Physics, Grandma – the line is in front of me, then it’s behind me – and if you are slow in announcing yourself, I am likely to bury a beadhead where the sun don’t shine much…”

It’s one thing to think that, but I am seriously outnumbered here. Eco-terrorists are always squeamish at the sight of their own blood, I figure I can take at least two dozen of them wielding a hemostat and line nippers, but as they’re now on both sides of the creek and the high ground, I’ll just nod pleasantly and out wait Grandma.

The Trout Underground had mentioned something about an Upper Sacramento cleanup, likely I was callously in the middle of some national event – being suddenly self conscious, I put the cigar butt in my vest.

The crowd began to thin but the kids were fascinated by me fishing in the effluent. I figured the little girl for no more than 6, and her brother posed some intelligible remark that had her valiantly come to my defense. “No, he’s FLY FISHING, and he uses insects and the fish jump out and eat them.” I was facing the other way grinning from ear to ear, I didn’t need to add to her older brother’s quandary – but he just got owned…

I can see the last of them headed downstream and sent the next cast up by the bridge abutment. I am strumming the line with an index finger as it passes through a pod of fish, I get a gentle thump and set hook. My old System 7 reel starts screaming, the rod is doubled over, and I am grinning the “Who me?” idiot grin…

Now I’m back in “5 weight hell,” woefully under-gunned, 5X tippet and attached to a train headed north. The fish blows past the bridge and is sawing my floating line against the concrete in a painful way. I’m unconcerned about the fly line and really concerned about what I am going to do next; I can’t move upstream to follow, can’t move out far enough to get the line away from the bridge, and can’t do anything rational except cackle gleefully as I watch the fly line vanish and the backing start.

Thankfully the fish stops somewhere upstream, and I start the slow process of convincing him he needs to head my direction. What would really be useful is a couple of noisy environmentalists grabbing trash near where it’s come to rest, no such luck.

I have the “suddenly spineless” rod parallel to the water on my left side, hoping he’ll swim in the “easy” direction – away from the bridge and out into the open water. As the fish comes into view he does just that, and the line is no longer being tortured against the concrete. I can see three other big carp following my fish in squadron formation. I have about 40 yards of open water below me and I catch a break – my fish wants to fight me south of the bridge. I am guessing the weight as “larger than my tippet” so I can’t horse this cow too much, it blows water violently at every run – a big fish in shallow water and me holding on for dear life.

The down side of a 5 weight rod is the lack of power when you need it most, that last 30 feet, he finally sees you and wants no part in coming closer – with you lacking anything to convince him otherwise. That little nymph looked mighty fragile in the maw of this tuna, the small gape doesn’t allow for much purchase. Each time I head the fish and turn it back towards me I have the vision of it coming loose. (I would see that happen later on a second fish)

These fish are stunning when caught, large golden scales prominently displayed during battle, mixed with a bit of iridescence as they get closer. They are mortal now, not the cunning and shy beasts that tormented me during my vacation. A great adversary, giving the angler as much nail biting agony as anything I’ve caught in the past.

I expect tomorrow morning will find me here again, I may want to try a shot at a Fly Fisherman cover story:

“I hastily switched to 7X and presented the gossamer #20 upstream to the slimy Polaris Class submersible rooting about the sunken tire… it was a smutting rise, and I nearly lost my grip on my crumpet..

I got to go get my teeth whitened for the cover shot, one of you lads take my place on the foam line.

Technorati Tags: carp, bass, Putah Creek Conservancy, fly fishing, brownlining

We left the clean water in our wake and with fear and trepidation faced the unknown downstream section of the Little Stinking. Water visibility was about 12″ so we had a bandolier of flashy things to throw.

The weather was just a bit more cooperative, I had replaced the waders with the old guide moks, allowing me to go in about 4″ of water before shipping any inboard. One lone osprey kept me company and I wondered if the “one meal a month” restriction held for him as well.

I opted for a Bead Head Pheasant Tail with a hint of pearl flashabou figuring anything serious about eating would see that even in a cloud of Selenium. It’s one of the good things about Brownlining, desperate and hungry fish sure make you seem like a genius.

I worked structure and shadow, quartering downstream – letting the fly swing through the bulk of the stream, following with a little staccato retrieve on my side of the bank. I was attempting to be more selective, figuring the Smallmouth would hang near the structure offered. I was alert for Carp, but with the water as murky as it was, nothing was visible.

Pikeminnow just love snot out of bead head flys. They were about a 2:1 advantage over the bass, I’m hesitant to ascribe anything to that statistic, as they may just be more aggressive than bass. OK, dumber than bass, hard to imagine anything could be more aggressive, other than a high schooler on prom night…

After I got away from the road and the Paintball bunkers, the stream got pastoral, no trash, weeds and riffles with overhanging willows. I found evidence of other fishermen, but all of it looked pretty old, nothing from this season.

I found some really nice deep spots, small abrupt dropoffs that had developed behind trees, big enough to hold fish, but not big enough to hold more than a couple.

I got a nice strike retrieving a nymph under the overhanging willow branches, slipped another cast into the same slot and stuck a nice Pikeminnow, likely the biggest fish landed to date.

Wound up with three fish over 10″, which made my day. Heat forced me off the water by 11AM.

The bad news is that the Carp were nowhere to be seen, having covered about 4 miles of creek on foot, I have seen them only in one spot, a deep pool by the bridge. It may be there isn’t enough oxygen to support them anywhere else, given the temperatures and low water flows of August.

Then again, most of this creek is a loose gravel bottom, where the bridge area is mud, either way I have my work cut out for me.

Tags: Cache creek, Sacramento Pikeminnow, Smallmouth Bass, fly fishing, Yolo County

Now that them Mountain Folk of Trout Underground fame have cast a pall on us “Brownliners” – I figure it’s up to me to settle scores. Rather than spend the morning searching for Bikini pictures, I hit the “Little Stinking” with rod and dry waders..

Last evening we confirmed the kind and type of fish present, while the temperatures were mild I wanted to cover some ground to see what was available.

This is an “olive” stream, Mother Nature will cloak most of the fish and bug life to match the color of the stream bottom. A fine cobble stream, with all of the cobble edged in olive green filament, ideal for spawning fish and ATV’s. Knowing the predominant camouflage color makes fly choice easy, Olive anything, with size the only real variable.

For starters I hit the same couple of spots I had tried the night before, flinging a #14 Olive Bird’s Nest to a luke warm reception. Went down to a #18 and picked up about 8 smallmouth, none larger than 6 inches.

Saw my first dry fly action, could not make out anything on the water, so I retrieved small nymphs through the rises and landed some more minuscule bass and pikeminnows. The midges that were present were about size 32, not suitable for imitation, at least not with these tired old eyes.

Briefly I considered baiting TC with the “Brownliner Three Three-Oh” club, catching a fish under 3 inches on a fly smaller than 30, but if he lost he would pummel me with soft porn posts, better not…

Found some nice water about a mile upstream, small pools of 6 feet depth, deep enough to have some real fish. Switched to a bead head Pheasant Tail and thrashed about briefly. Landed a 10″ pikeminnow, which was a big thrill – 10 inches of anything is fun to catch, and these torpedos are movers, Brownliner Bonefish, they do everything but jump.

My favorite run had a nice riffle leading into a pool dominated by a gigantic earth mover tire, easily 6 feet in diameter. Made for a nice perch to fish from – unfortunately the deepest cut was under the tire, and I spooked a pod of fast movers getting on it.

Found my first evidence of mayflies. A snow white #16, saw one in the air, and found one adrift in some weeds. This is sure going to be easy to imitate. The presence of the riffle water and some weed beds likely was the cause, the ecology had undergone a change with the water depth. Riffle water increases the oxygen content, and some beds of elodea added cover for more varied bug life.

I ran the riffle with a Bird’s Nest and landed about a dozen fish. One bass and 11 pikeminnows, to about 7-8 inches. Nothing quite like small fish, their aggression overcomes all other instincts, with us Brownliners reaping the proceeds.

Two hours into a stellar morning, temperatures starting to rise, and I can hear the roar of ATV’s and the staccato bark of paint ball guns flaring from across the creek, looks like the Armored Cav hit an ambush.

I beat a hasty retreat, Brownlining is fun, but when those Phantoms roll in with the Napalm, you’d best be at distance…

See you on the foam line.

Tags: Brownliner, White fish, small mouth bass, Cache Creek, fly fishing

Experience has driven home the lesson Never Predict Anything, just when you think you can’t miss, fate finds a new way to humble you.

The converse is true when some terrible calamity happens early, like forgetting your fishing rod. Then all hell busts loose and the fish commit suicide, with you grinding your teeth, and some other angler the beneficiary.

I should have known something was going to happen when I pulled on my waders and saw my pants leg where my waders should be. My own fault, as I had grabbed an old set not knowing what I was going to be wading through.

I was about a mile and half from my house on the maiden foray into “Effluent Creek”, figuring evening would be a good scout trip. This is actually lower Cache Creek, it doesn’t resemble much where I fish it, but it’s close, has water, and may hold something with fins.

I had done the initial investigation last week, mentioned in an earlier post.

Now I was equipped with a rod, and a fist sized hole in my waders, about 18″ up the calf. It was about 100 degrees out, so the left pants leg full of water was welcome.

With about 30″ of water under the far bank, I started flipping nymphs under the alder branches. I spooked some large carp in the process, figuring they would be fun to catch. After leaving a couple of nymphs in trees I felt like I was really fishing.

After landing the first fish, I felt even better, smallmouth bass, about 5″ long. Smallmouth? This creek shows promise…

I have a bonafide fishery in my backyard, and victory smells like a #14 Olive Birdsnest.

Say hello to my little friends, I was wet – but they were hungry.

Tags: cache creek, smallmouth bass, bluegill