It’s part of the Californio “Coming of Age” ritual, wherein you chat with Poppa over your responsibilities as a Man, and unbeknownst to you the miracle of your birthright requires you be tanned and blonde, love raw fish, and speak like Jeff Spiccoli. The lecture concludes with the understanding that as I live in one of the Great Wine Regions of the Northern Hemisphere, I would be required to jettison the Childish Toys of my Youth (Schlitz Malt Liquor) for the love of a piquant Chardonnay.

… Duuude.

It wasn’t as bad as all that however, white wine excels at washing down a Twinkie ..

I did have to learn when to use “fruity” versus “oaken,” however. Misuse of one meant some self styled “Marlboro Man” took instant offence, and was also high on the list of instant fistfight if you lived in my corner of San Francisco. I eventually did develop a taste for aged grape juice and have always marveled at how the palate recoils at one age and is pleased at another.

Of late we’ve endured many weekends of unfishable weather, and have traded the “wide open spaces” for a wide open air conditioner. Indoors and cool being foremost given my brief attempt at fishing in 109 degree weather had me lightheaded shortly after leaving the parking area.

Much of the triangle of brown grass bordered by Hwy 505 and Interstate 5 is becoming a hotbed of wineries and olive orchards. Most can’t be seen from the road, but as you whizz by enroute to Hat Creek, Fall River, or the Upper Sac, you’re in proximity to neatly ordered rows of expensive grapes.

Route 3 Vineyards is a couple miles from my house, and as I prefer supporting local products over the rarified Napa vintners, I bought a Wine Club membership so I can perch on their verandah and make all the appropriate learned lip smacking noises …

At one of their gatherings I wandered over to watch a fellow ladle grilled meat into a soft taco, and noticed the pond serving as the vintner’s water supply. “How many cases do I have to buy to get pond privileges,” says I, in between pursing my lips while sipping “fruity” and “oaken”  …

“None,” was their reply. Although whether fish existed was somewhat in doubt. Vintners being more interested in yeast and tannin in liquids, fish being better served as accompaniment to a beverage, versus swimming within its depths.

The above quick foray was done when it was 105. Little Meat is fresh from the water and had the good sense to pant in the shade, the rest of us simply threw enough flies to satisfy our honor, then beat a hasty retreat for free liquor.

One friendly field hand spoke a mixture of Spanish and English, mentioning, “Tortuga”, “Carpe” and “Catfish” living in the pond (turtles, carp and catfish), and while I found plenty of minnow evidence, we didn’t have much chance to explore, the lure of chill glassware and the oppressive heat making us opt for “Orvis” versus “Death Valley.”

I suppose I could attempt “Brownwater Merlot Guided Flyfishing” but the damn ascots will just get in the way.