Musician, Freak, Dayjobber, Etc.

A few odds and ends.....

I hosted a dinner-slash-party for Thanksgiving, attended by a dozen-twenty or so wayward friends. It was more of a party than a dinner, even though I put out a traditional spread...I was partying pretty hard and didn’t even eat that much. No wonder I slept in until 3:00PM the next day. Sheesh....anyway, THANKS, ya’ll, for coming out and sharing the holiday with Nipper and me, we appreciate it! Oh, by the way, WHO STOLE MY SOUTHERN COMFORT? ;)

Also on Thanksgiving, I got to hear some of the much-anticipated Nelson Bragg (Brian Wilson, The Now People, The Quarter After, Cloud Eleven, The Negro Problem) solo album. All I can say is WOW. Vocally, it’s a stunner -- think Byrds meets CSNY meets XTC. Great stuff!!! Apparently, this album will be dropping early next year, so stay tuned. Thanks for the sneak-peek, Nels....

Happy to say that the Ryo Okumoto (www.ryookumoto.com) project is back in full schwing....I somehow managed to find a freaking amazing drummer – Jerry Beller, for those keeping notes – out of the Recycler of all places! Jerry’s a monster – he’s currently “Carl” in an Emerson, Lake and Palmer tribute band (www.knife-edge-elptrib.com, he even plays off-time for the Asia segment, LOL) – and, at his audition, at one point Ryo turns to me and says, in that cute voice of his, “You find him in RECYCLER?”!!! We all cracked up. Anyway, yeah, I’ve got the next two months totally, one-hundred percent musically blocked out for this project....we’ve been practicing a cover of Spock’s Beard’s (www.spocksbeard.com) “Go the Way You Go” which is just a frigging BLAST to play and sing...this twelve minute epic goes by in a FLASH, the hallmark of a true, excellent epic...can’t wait to play this live (we are planning on a February gig)...stay glued...

Speaking of Spock’s, I recently corresponded with their fantastic bassist Dave Meros.....he dropped a couple of “tone” secrets on me....thank you Dave...I also recently worked on a “jam riff” that a member of the Spock’s message board created....hear my guitar and synth freakout at www.myspace.com/kompost.....

Last week I got a really sweet email from the one and only Mike Keneally (www.keneally.com), thanking me for a song I wrote which he inspired...you may remember me posting about a silly tune a couple of years ago called “Mylk of Mygnysya”....Mike said he was “instituting a program of thanking me every two years...” which I thought was HILARIOUS. That dude is such a great guy. :) Join me on December 30, 2005, at the Baked Potato, won’t you, and see the power and the glory that is the Mike Keneally Band – this night featuring fellow Zappa alumnus Chad Wackerman...should be a head-slammin’ time...and potatoes, too....

This is funny....I recently corresponded with a local musician regarding some advice regarding recording a solo album....I had heard a CDR of his solo record and loved the production and thought I’d ask for advice.....I then officially bought his CD and gave it a good dozen listens....thought it was about one-half of a brilliant album, one-half of a “been there, heard that before” album....and told him as much....haven’t heard back...maybe I pissed him off....

I’m contributing some fishing-related stories to a magazine called The Drake (www.drakemag.com), here’s hoping they find ‘em good enough to publish...I’m such a total rank amateur at writing – hell, at fly fishing, too – I have no clue what is compelling me to do this stuff. I mean, some people on some fly fishing boards have been heaping huge praise upon me for my stories, and I am totally beyond flattered, so maybe that’s my motivation: I can’t seem to make it as a Rock Star(tm), so I’m trying to make it in a much easier field – freelance outdoor writer! Am I an idiot or what?

Don’t answer that...

Did you know the first written reference to fly fishing is dated 200 A.D.???.....talk about history....

In other fly fishing news, I’m contributing some original music and photographs for a 2005 retrospective being produced by a fishin’ budddy of mine....this should be up and on the internet by January, stay tuned for links....it’s gonna be a fun project if fly fishing is your thang....

What else....gonna catch Patria Jacobs (www.myspace.com/patriajacobs) and Carolyn Edwards (www.myspace.com/carolynedwards) this weekend (Saturday, actually) at Taix....

Pop band The Ultra Suede (www.myspace.com/theultrasuede) are on hold until February....drummer Jeff appears to be back in the fold...can’t wait to spring this project on the LA pop world, everyone will probably hate us....just as well...hey, at least I have the words of the immortal Stew (www.stewsongs.com) to hang onto...he said this after I played him a track or two...”This is what the Wondermints wish they sounded like”...I dunno, I thought it was funny...

Hey, whatever happened to those Tribeca (www.tribecamusic.net) guys...my ex-band....the last email I got, about two months ago, claimed they’d be playing stadiums by now....lemme check TicketBastard...nope, nothing there...hmmm.....I wanted to finally see them live, too....

I’ve gotta get some fly fishing in this week....late fall/winter is a weird time for So. Cal. trout....very limited feeding window...cold nights and colder water makes these fine fish sluggish, slow, prone to laying around all day, smoking...I am, in a word, JONESING for some stream time...gotta get out....

Speaking of smoking...wow....after not smoking for over fifteen – FIFTEEN – years, I recently smoked a fag or three....very strange...Marlboro’s are weaker than I remember them being....gotta squash this habit NOW, I am NOT going back there, all filthy smelling and throwing five dollars a day at the very mega-rich RJ Reynolds company...

Oh....Nipper and I caught a couple of movies over the weekend...a trippy mid-70's thing starring Jack Nicholson called "The Passenger"....and another one called "Maria, Full of Grace"....both pretty cool in their own way, especially "Passenger".....fantastic visuals....a total 5-star Hotel movie...

And how was YOUR week?

Thanks to Debbie Diamond for the inspiration for the “style” of this update...and thanks for reading....bye bye blackberries....

Round about twelve, fourteen years ago, I backpacked into quite a few local canyons, sometimes ultra-light spin-fishing, other times bringing no gear at all, content to merely observe the resident trout, and to splash about in sunshine and solitude.

In one particularly delightful sylvan sanctuary – a tributary of the West Fork, San Gabriel River, in fact – I once saw the one of the biggest local trout I had ever seen.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was a late April Saturday morning, and our beloved San Gabriels were alive with wildflowers, honey bees, deer, rattlesnakes, coyote, bobcats, birds, and countless other living, wild creatures. A warm spring breeze greeted me at the trailhead, like the breath of the mountain herself. Heaven.

Having hiked down, down, DOWN into the canyon very early that morning – by dawn’s first golden light – I had quickly established a stealth camp and replenished my energy reserves, wolfing down trail mix and granola bars, enjoying the sweet filtered stream water (flowing nicely – NICELY! -- with her springtime bounty).

With a day’s worth of exploring ahead of me, and no fishing gear along for this particular trip, I intended to enjoy a leisurely morning safe within the cool confines of the creek, splashing around in shallow pools and walking among riffles and runs – often doubled-over to avoid overhanging branches and streamside growth.

Hoping to spot trout.

I’ll never forget the pool. You know the one. There’s a small tributary on the east – EAST, I tell you – side of the main stream, a feisty little thing full of froth and fury, which feeds a veritable swimming pool, a sparkling, oxygen-clear reservoir that shimmers like a mirage under the spring-green alders. A true pool, an emerald gem, a prime lie.

Trout habitat.

As I approached the pool from upstream, I saw it: an alarmingly large black torpedo which quickly dashed -- frankly, the words “quickly dashed” do not do justice to the speed with which that trout moved -- from the base of the pool, immediately taking cover under a flat, circular boulder that sat at the upper edge of the pool, directly next to the two-foot inlet waterfall that churned the cold waters into ice-blue fury.

I was astounded. “That was a big fish”, I told myself, somewhat understating the situation.

Sometimes having no wrist watch, no schedule to adhere to, can be a good thing. I made myself comfortable on the flat circular rock and decided to out-wait the fish. I figured I could do worse things on a Saturday morning than relaxing on a nice smooth boulder alongside a beautiful stream with a large wild trout lying virtually under my feet, sight unseen.

The brook continued to babble watery nonsense; I continued to listen.

The thing with having no timepiece is, sometimes you lose track of the hours. One could conceivably doze off, perhaps for so long that one might miss seeing the fish as it leaves the safety of the lair and resumes feeding in the shallow outlet, eventually disappearing under an embankment before you arise. Or, on the other hand (hand, as in hands on a clock, as in the passage of time), one might lose track of the actual time spent waiting for the trout to appear, so much so that one begins to have doubts as to the fish’s very existence.

Either way, you eventually leave the pool for other sparkling passages, for other fish to fry (so to speak), but you never, ever forget that dark torpedo; your brain never, ever forgets the adrenaline rush that accompanies such a sighting.

You never forget these things.

I was young and full of energy then, full of enthusiasm for my local wilderness and my secret trout populations. And, with the torpedo very much in mind, I found myself back at the pool – you know the one – the following weekend, the first weekend of May.

May: the month of possibilities. The month that can’t quite let April go, but isn’t quite ready for June just yet.

Tiny blue wildflowers – I called them San Gabriel Blues, but they have a more common name which I can’t recall at the moment – decorated the trail where last week there were none. Transition in progress. Shaggy red cedars provided welcome shade from the brash spring sun. Water called to me as I wound my way down the switchbacking trail and into the riparian canyon below.

Same stealth campsite, same routine: rest, relax, refresh.

The eastside – EAST, I tell you -- feeder stream was a little smaller, a little less feisty, this weekend. Spring travels fast in these arid landscapes. But the pool was still there, shimmering like a diamond a few dozen yards below me, as I stood, observing, as yet unseen by the torpedo feeding in the shallows.

Forgive me, my fellow fly fishermen, for I have, in a past life, donned the spinning rod and bail-style reel overflowing with two-pound test line, languidly tossing the smallest lures money could buy -- barbs crimped and trebles snipped -- side-arm style, aiming the dazzling engagement rings under willows, into alder thickets, behind boulders, hoping to attract trout.

Such were my intentions this fine May morning. Forgive me, my brothers and sisters.

Okay, there’s a big rock at the head of the pool. If I’m quiet and stay low, I can walk right along the west bank of the stream, and the big rock will shield me from the torpedo. I know she’s there. She has to be.

Splish. Splash. One watery step at a time. My back hurts but I’m almost to the rock. I haven’t even seen the surface of the swimming pool yet; I don’t dare. She’ll see me, and she’ll dash under the rock and I’ll never see her again this day, sure as sugar.

I’m there. I still can’t see the torpedo pool; I’m safe behind the big grey boulder, and if I so much as let a fraction of my sun-hat into view, she’ll spook. Mustn’t have that now.

I’m already rigged up and ready to cast; in fact, I rigged up at breakfast, double-checking my double clinch knot, sharpening the single barbless hook that I’ve attached to the ½” Red Devil spoon (deadly on these small streams, I’ve learned -- at times, anyway).

I’ve only got once chance, one cast. My heart is racing. “Let’s go”, I tell myself, unhooking the lure from the foam handle of the telescoping spinning rod, the one I bought at Target for $9.99 (plus tax). I used to pride myself on my ragtag gear. I’ve gotten over that.

I draw the rod backward, simultaneously lifting the bail, freeing up the line, then make a sharp forward cast, effortlessly tossing the lure twenty feet or so, at what I am imagining is the bottom of the swimming pool. I still can’t see; I’m still in hiding.

I crank the reel, snapping the bail shut, securing the line. I’m shaking. I begin a slow retrieve; too slow, I think to myself. I crank a little faster, then stop. “Let it sink.” I retrieve again, this time faster, and, suddenly, like that, I’m into trout.

I can’t believe the weight of this thing; it’s like trying to reel in a Boeing. Being careful not to tumble over the inlet waterfall, I stand up, exposing myself to the pool, just in time to see a fat, colorful fourteen inch wild rainbow trout dancing in mid-air. I’ve got her!

Now the hard part. I can’t bring her in from where I’m standing; she’s too fat, too heavy, to risk hauling her up two feet on this light line. I’m convinced she’s securely hooked; if that head-shaking jump didn’t free the hook, nothing will short of letting her dive. Mustn’t let her dive.

I carefully make my way around the big sheltering boulder – the boulder that made catching this fish possible; thank you boulder, I love you boulder, please marry me boulder – eventually reaching the poolside proper.

There she is, waiting for me, shining like a rainbow diamond. The biggest fish I’ve ever caught, let alone seen, in all of the San Gabriels. It’s like a taste of the late 1800’s, when Pasadena gentlemen-fly fishers would catch hundreds of sixteen-inch wild rainbow trout out of a single pool, except it’s only one. That fact makes her even more treasured to me.

I gently grasp the heaving beauty – what a healthy, gorgeous fish, and heavy! – and, using my hemostats, remove the single hook lure from her upper jaw, freeing the fish. I hold her steady in the shallows with one hand, grasping for my camera with the other. I manage a photograph of the fish (I have a hard copy and hope to scan it and post it soon, I promise). I revive the monster trout and she begins to show signs of recovery. She makes s-curve motions that my clumsy fingers can barely control.

Gratefully, and with as much respect as I can muster, I thank the creator of the universe and release the torpedo back into the pool. She darts in the direction of the circular rock and disappears into the silver shadows.

I’ve often imagined going out on tour with a kick-ass band, traveling and sleeping all day, playing shows every night (and developing serious chops as a result), seeing new/old places and making/meeting new/old friends, drinking, hanging out, putting on make-up and cool stage clothes, doing radio interviews and record store signings, being consistently tit-flashed, and generally having fun in the maelstrom that is life on the road.

Or so I’ve imagined.

At my advanced age it’s likely I’ll never experience the particular joys of the Rock Tour. Many people won’t nor ever will -- not many bands get the opportunity to tour “old skool” style (ie. bus, driver, crew, hotels, first class flights, plush venues, cocaine shampoos).

It’s not something that bothers me – the horrors of the road have been so overly-chronicled as to become cliche. I’m happy being home; I know what I’ve got.

With that in mind, you really couldn’t call the recent spate of Abe Lincoln Story gigs a tour proper, although, technically, we WERE on the road.

I dubbed it the “4-3-2-1 Tour”: four shows in three cities in two states in one weekend.

Friday night – the start of the tour -- found us playing two sets in the small room (what IS the name of that room, anyway?) at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood, Caleefourneea (spoken in Arnold Vision); an early “quiet” set and a later “loud” set. We were sandwiching (love that verb) Neil Hamburger and his bizarre stand-up comedy routine on this jaunt, by the way – the classic Rock/Comedy Package Deal. We were music, and we wrote the songs. Actually, Steve Moramarco wrote the songs, but we WERE music. Neil was comedy. Got it?

Getting into Hollywad, itself, was a nightmare. Some Creepy O’Creepster had called in a bomb scare in the area which resulted in even more mangled traffic conditions than normal. Dozens of television helicopters chronicled this non-event, adding to the irritation of the stool-y bowels of the Beautiful People. Additionally, the Knitting Factory’s underground parking garage – home to a couple of hundred perfectly usable parking spaces – was closed due to construction. What should have been a routine, relatively easy load-in became 1) a mad scramble for street parking and B) a nightmare of hauling of equipment for what seemed like miles. To top it off -- and to illustrate just what a shitty-looking car I drive (mechanically, it rocks, what else matters? A plasma screen TV? Fuck you, General Motors!) -- I had left my car keys in the ignition of my UNLOCKED car parked right on Sycamore at Hollywood Boulevard – AND NO ONE STOLE MY CAR! After the show, in a state of mild panic and abdominal discomfort, I was pleased to find the keys still dangling from the ignition switch, jingling ever so slightly, as if a mild earthquake had just manifested itself far underneath Hollywoop-dee-doo.

I had to laugh like hell.

In hindsight (does that mean when someone sees ass?), all of us agree that the first set was a sonic disaster, a melodic misstep, the aural equivalent of a stool sandwich. Even the deaf would’ve covered their ears. Sadly, some old friends of mine – Wayne Resnick, a local talk-radio personality and hella-cool songwriter, and his girlfriend (or is it wife?) April – witnessed this sonic debacle (that’s a good band name: Sonic Debacle), much to my shame. I don’t know what hurts more: knowing the band sucked ass, or smiling that vacant, idiotic smile, squirming, while old friends lie to you about how great your set was.

After the first set, most of the band went out to dinner, all of us having a marvelous time and laughing at how bad we just were, while tourists wandered around, gawking, their Mid-Western mouths agape like hungry catfish feeding on a bait-fisher’s Velveeta cheese-balls.

I can say with all honesty that the second set was much, much better. We actually rocked, and a lot of great old friends – and some new fans – showed up to support us, to party down, to be aurally fondled. Yes, this second set was a much better representation of the band; I’m only sorry that Wayne and April hadn’t seen us then instead of earlier (who goes to early shows anyway?). Guitars were hammered, drums were bashed, harmonies were belted out and horn sections roared. Suddenly, we were back to being the well-oiled machine that the world knows, loves, and fondles. Thanks to all my MYSPACE and non-MYSPACE friends who made the effort to come out; I’m buying you breakfast tomorrow.

Strangely, I never got to see Neil Hamburger perform that night.

Next mid-morning, I met up with another band member -- keyboardist extraordinaire Brian Mendelsohn -- and we commenced driving to Tucson, Arizona, trying to loosen our loads (such a fine sight to see). “Luxury” is the word I’d use to describe the Lexus SUV (which belonged to Brian’s lovely wife Beth); I had lots of fun playing with the interactive touch-screen map-finder devise thingie. This vehicle was so technologically superior, there were even airbags built to protect your feet.

In the Lexus, we Jackson Brown’d our way across the Colorado Desert, thru Desert Center, then Blythe (it kind of sounds like “blight”, don’t you agree?), then beautiful East Blythe, across the bored-er and into AZ (“the first and last letters of the alphabet,” he said blandly, without emotion), onward, forever onward. My bandmate and I had long, involved conversations revolving around music, women, politics, and religion; time passed like a kidney stone. Actually, the time flew by in a haze of cacti, roadside attractions, blue skies and laughter, very quickly passed indeed.

Like life, itself.

Before you could say “foreskin” we were in Tucson. We drove straight to the venue (The Hotel Congress, a neat old place), dropped off our gear, then headed to our hotel, which, surprisingly, turned out to be quite nice (it was a Sheraton; I was expecting a Motel 6, so this unexpected upgrade was a nice surprise). I took a quick shower followed by a mini-power-nap, straightened myself out, then headed to the venue to meet up with everyone else for a pre-show dinner.

Arriving at The Hotel Congress around 9:00PM, we found a Halloween party atmosphere in full swing. A really nice outdoor stage – one we wouldn’t be playing, sadly – with a neat little lighting rig hosted a local(?) band who kicked ass. Like us, they had a horn section, too, although our horn section couldn’t make this particular gig. Whatever, they sounded great, and struck a wee bit o’ musical fear into me, personally; they were that good. We all had a nice dinner together, watching the festivities, grooving on all the great costumes, digging the other bands and each other, and just having fun.

I stupidly kept asking “What city is this again?”, pretending to be in the midst of a whirlwind two-year world tour.

In a strange moment of “ha ha that sucks”, we learned that our bandleader Steve was being put-up at The Hotel Congress rather than with us at the Sheraton, and that his room was the size of a shoebox and had a malfunctioning toilet to boot...AND BUNKBEDS! I’ve never seen a hotel room with old-style military boot-camp bunk beds before. I half-expected a wizened old Drill Sergeant to pop out of the closet and make us drop and give him forty. I found it funny that the band leader got stuck with the worst digs; maybe I’m lame, I dunno (don’t answer). On the bright side, the hotel had provided the band with a cooler full of ice cold beer and sodas, so that was nice. I helped myself to several beers and basically hung out, checking out the authentic old west vibe of the place. It was pretty neat.

Sadly, our set that night wasn’t the best we’ve ever done. The first opening notes signaled the start of an Amtrack-quality trainwreck, what with the keyboards somehow mistakenly transposed an octave down. The effect certainly sounded different, even exotic. That moment threw off the whole band right from the get-go, and we never truly recovered. We were playing inside one of the smaller bar areas, and the “show me what you can do” crowd (estimated around 50 people, not too bad) didn’t seem to buy into us as a whole; rather, a few drunken hardcores stayed around dancing and yelling, but I have to say that we lost a good chunk of the room after that opening mess. Personally, I sunk into a mini-depressive state and probably didn’t play my best. It was one of those situations where I’d have been more comfortable being elsewhere, anywhere else. It wasn’t that bad, but the “band from Los Angeles” didn’t deliver the goods, and, as usual, I took it personally.

In our haste to break down our gear and get the hell out of there, I again missed Neil Hamburger’s scathing, hate-filled routine, opting instead to head back to the hotel and crash.

Which is exactly what I did. No Tucson groupies, no grope-fests, no cocaine, nothing but sleep and television. I’m fucking old.

After a great band breakfast at the Sheraton’s better-than-expected free buffet, we all once again gathered into our vehicular cliques and headed out of town, westward (ho), towards San Diego and our final gig of the 4-3-2-1 Tour. A gorgeous fall day provided a nice backdrop to the spectacular desert scenery, where hours passed in quiet conversation, listening to Chicago II and other various musical treats (Tuvan throat singing, anyone?). At one point, we stopped for a break in tiny Sentinel, AZ, where were were ripped off by an ancient old woman who happened to be working at the old mini-mart/general store. Here’s how the scam unfurled:

While Brian was in the bathroom, I purchased a single beer (a bottle of Miller Light, in case you’re keeping tabs) and a dill pickle, and paid the old woman accordingly. I then went outside into the sunshine to enjoy my rightful purchases. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, inside the store, while buying himself a snack, the old woman had told Brian that I hadn’t paid her for my beer and pickle, so he paid her for me -- scam number one. He didn’t tell me this until later, mind you, so, innocent of the scam-in-progress, we both enjoyed the desert sun and snacked out like hungry hyenas. I’ve gotta tell you, that dill pickle was the best freaking pickle I’ve ever tasted, so much so that I went back inside the store to buy another one “for the road” (as if the road would eat such a foul thing). At this point, the old woman tells me “You know, I forgot to charge you for the first pickle you bought; I only charged you for the beer.” Like a true victim, I told her not to worry about it and that I would pay for both pickles, which I then did – scam number two.

Later, a few miles down the road, Brian tells me that he paid for my beer and pickle; I told him I’d already paid for them, and told him about the additional pickle-ripoff. Between the two of us city slickers, that old hag scammed us out of close to five – FIVE -- American dollars. I wasn’t concerned about the money – Brian, by far, took the hardest financial hit – but the fucking NERVE of that old bitch amazed me. I guess she’s to be commended for her cunning, but, I can promise you, the next time I find myself passing through the shit-heap known as Sentinel, AZ, I’ll be paying a certain old fuck a visit, and it’s going to get ugly. Very ugly.

We made it into San Diego at around 7:00PM, following a gorgeous drive up and over the Coast Ranges, and after a tense twenty-mile stretch where the “low on fuel” light came on – with not a gas station in sight (and us in the middle of nowhere). Predictably, we found a gas station before running out of fuel, so all turned out fine. Brian and I enjoyed a nice little dinner at a bar (the name escapes me now, but it was touted as “the oldest bar in San Diego”) down the street from the venue (the venerable Casbah) and hung out for awhile, awaiting load-in.

We were playing an early set -- 9:30PM, for which we were all very grateful, for that meant we could get back to Los Angeles at a reasonable hour -- and we had ample time to set up our gear, soundcheck, and hang out at the bar, playing Galaga (I got the top three high scores; if you see the initials “ALS” and “FAG”, that was yours truly) and shooting pool. The overall mood was festive as three of the band members had relatives attending the show; everyone, while tired, seemed relaxed and eager to rock.

A good crowd -- again, in the 50 people range – was there for our set, and, like the second Knitting Factory show, we rocked, hard. Everyone could sense that this would probably be our last gig of the year, let alone the tour, so everyone seemed particularly ON. The fact that two really hot women were standing right in front of me *may* have had an affect on my playing – I can’t be sure. I know that I head-banged so much that my next hurt for the next three days, for whatever that’s worth. Suffice to say that we played at the top of our game and that everyone – including the crowd – seemed very happy and well-entertained. It was a nice way to end the tour.

At this point, we were all very ready to get back home, so, once again, we made a post-haste breakdown, packed up the vehicles, and made the uneventful drive northward to Los Angeles, arriving at the very reasonable hour of 12:30AM. Not bad, considering that some of us had day jobs to return to the following morning.

It turns out that I never saw my tour-mate Neil Hamburger perform.

Posted by: kErrY / 12:10 PM

Earlier this week, I had the extreme pleasure of sharing a local stream with the one, the only, the inseparable Evening Rise (aka Les, a television/movie director whom I met via a fly fishing board, a nice guy and one hell of a fly fisher).

We decided to fish one of our more popular local creeks on a weekday -- the first day of November, in fact. As we reached the empty trailhead parking lot at the civilized hour of 9:00AM, the mashed banana autumn sun began cresting the southernmost ridge, flooding the canyon with light and much-appreciated warmth. The sycamores, willows, cottonwoods and even a few hardy big-leaf maples positively glowed in the copper light of morning:



Who says Southern California only has one season?

The prior few days had seen a sharp increase in high pressure over the southwest, resulting in extremely warm temperatures throughout the region. This rapid rise in temperature gave me pause for thought: would the warm weather result in heightened insect activity and, if so, would it stand to reason that the trout would take advantage of such unexpected abundance, especially in light of the fast-approaching winter?

In what’s left of my mind, I pictured sixteen-inch rainbow trout recklessly slurping all manner of insect life on the surface (ants, caddis flies, damsel flies, ladybugs, you name it), saw myself sight-casting flawlessly to the speckled torpedos, standing amidst clouds of hatching insects, landing prize after prize as Evening Rise stood silently nearby, nodding his head -- sage-like – in approval of my impeccable fly fishing abilities.

Such is the mind of a lunatic.

Eagerly, Evening Rise and I set off down the garden path, our exhalations curling into fog in the morning chill where the trail passed through deep and shady side-canyons, pausing to wipe sweat off of our brows in the warmer, fully exposed sections. The well-worn trail offered fine views of the stream far below, and, occasionally, the sound of rushing water reached our ears, heightening the sense of anticipation that goes hand-in-hand with the pursuit of wild trout.

My primary goal for this adventure was to carefully study Evening Rise: his approach to locations, casting technique(s), choice of presentation, fish-landing skills, insect identification skills, everything I could think to observe. Usually, I’m one of those “I’ve got to do this myself” personality types; today, I wanted to try to subjugate those impulses and simply Be The Student.

Of course, once we got down to the water, all of my well-meaning intentions vanished as quickly as a spooked brown trout, and I rigged up with what I thought would be a great fly to start with: a #18 “hot butt” Parachute Adams (highly recommended by one of the knowledgeable fellows at The Fisherman’s Spot). Coincidentally, Evening Rise also started out using a dry fly (a variation of a Parachute Adams if I recall), which surprised me somewhat because I have come to know him as an accomplished nymph fisherman and had assumed that he would start with such.

As we both began to work the Future Floor Wax-clear waters of the stream, it became painfully apparent that my insect visions of wild trout abundance were not to be realized. In fact, the fish appeared to be spread out and not particularly active, although rising fish were occasionally identified and pursued with varying results. It wasn’t too long – ten minutes maybe – before I had such a fish slurp my fly: a chubby 8”-range wild rainbow trout which sported the butter-cream sheen that make the fish in this particular drainage uniquely identifiable. Evening Rise looked over and nodded his approval and, for a moment, all was right with the world.

Not long after, while I was busy re-checking my fly and line, I heard Evening Rise say “Fish on”, and, as I turned to face upstream, I could see his rod bending spastically under the weight of what appeared to be a sizeable trout. He soon netted a gorgeous 12”-range ‘bow and took this somewhat arty photograph (in fact, Evening Rise took all of the photographs this fine day; yours truly was not in a camera-snapping mood):



Encouraged by Evening Rise’s success, we continued upstream, with me consistently picking up smaller fish, while Evening Rise chose his spots with an eye towards precision, targeting the likely “big fish” locations as opposed to my scatter-shot “hit all waters” mindset. It paid off, as Evening Rise managed to catch, revive and release up to a half-dozen larger rainbow trout (12”-15” range) throughout the day – 90% of them taking small dry flies -- as opposed to my take of a around dozen or so much smaller fish (again, all on small dries).

At one point, at the exact confluence of a much smaller stream, Evening Rise switched to a #22 midge suspended about a foot or so under an absurd #4 stonefly dropper; it was the right move, ladies and gentlemen, for within moments I heard his telltale “Fish on!” and raced to see Mr. Rise landing this absolutely gorgeous fish, the stuff dreams are made of:



As we explored the side canyon of the smaller stream, Evening Rise pointed out a likely location and kindly offered me first shot at the pool; a devilish location, I had to climb through some downed branches and maneuver myself on top of a rock before I could get a cast in:



Impulsively switching to a #16 Black Gnat imitation, I somehow managed to make a sidearm cast about 10 feet upstream, into the tight pool. My first cast was flawed, ruined by a big pile of fly line landing right on top of my fly (a situation that happened again and again this day using the 6’6” 3-wt small stream rod I had chosen; in hindsight, I should have brought a longer rod). My second cast was right on – Evening Rise whispered “That’s it, let it ride...” – and, as the fly drifted from the main current into a foam-laden eddy to my right, we witnessed a silvery-purple head poke up out of the water and take the fly. I gently set the hook with a sideways motion and was rewarded with a nice fish dancing on my line. With Evening Rise’s words of caution and encouragement, I swiftly brought the 10”-range ‘bow into range and into ER’s waiting net; he was gracious enough to snap this photograph for posterity (proof is more like it):



A couple of high-fives and we were on our way back to the main stream, enjoying the fine fall day and each other’s company.

There was one particular location where I mustered enough discipline and self-control to truly observe Evening Rise in action. We approached a small bend in a channel of the stream -- one of many in this particular section where the creek braids itself into several strands – and Evening Rise said “There has to be a fish in that bend, right there under the overhanging brush.” I agreed – the spot looked like an ultra-prime lie – and proceeded to watch as Evening Rise expertly cast his dry fly into the foam line, carrying it right under the brush and into range of the fish. We both watched, mouths agape, as the fish repeatedly investigated, then rejected, his fly. His persistence and casting accuracy paid off, for within moments, the fish deemed his final drift acceptable, darted out from the safety of the underbrush, and inhaled his offering. After a quick fight, Evening Rise was rewarded with this fine specimen:



All in all, this was one of the slower days each of us had experienced on this stream.

It was also a difficult day: we both seemed to experience an inordinate amount of snags and tangles, and, for me personally, hiking upstream (basically due south) and facing into the sun virtually all day made seeing my presentations extremely difficult. I found it frustrating to say the least. Also, my short rod made for very difficult casting; many times, my cast would go all of ten feet and collapse in a pile of line, well out of my intended range. It was humbling and a bit unnerving to have to forego certain locations because I was incapable of reaching them with my fly, while Evening Rise had no such difficulties.

So, overall, things weren’t quite as amazing as we’d anticipated, but I would be a fool to say it wasn’t a fantastic or informative day on the water. Funny thing is, I seem to be hitting a wall as far as my fly fishing is concerned. After a fast initial start – made better by a generous dash of beginner’s luck, apparently – I now find myself facing certain inevitabilities if I am ever to be able to consistently catch bigger fish in our local waters: my casting needs to improve a hundred-fold, my choice of equipment needs to be more appropriate, my insect and imitation identification skills need to be much more thoroughly developed, my strike-setting skills are practically non-existent, and I have body odor.

It’s evident to me that I am at a crossroads at this point and that, for me to progress as a fly fisher, I’m going to have to put a lot more off-stream time and energy into the pursuit. I’m learning that, much like music, fly fishing involves endless, infinite sets of circumstances that need to occur simultaneously in order for success to be guaranteed. I’m learning that there is a virtual lifetime’s worth of knowledge that has to be accumulated and assimilated, and, frankly, I find that quite comforting. This sport has legs, and, if I’m not in it for the long haul, I can resign myself to observing accomplished fly fishers – like Evening Rise – catch the big boys while I flounder about with the small, inexperienced fish.

I’d like to think I’m ready to take that next step.