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