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The weekly musings of one kErrY kOMpOsT, (financially) struggling musician, freak, whatever.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Once again I found myself fairly free this past weekend and decided to try something I hadn’t done before: catching fish from two streams in one day.

First stop was my home waters, which, as you are all painfully aware, I have been obsessing over as of late. As many have noticed, this past weekend in So. Cal. was marked by very cold temps in the morning, and my home waters were no exception. It was freezing and, like a dummy, I was (and still am) wet-wading. Waders are in order ASAP!

It’s remarkable how catching a single fish can make one go from freezing cold to toasty warm in an instant. I was wet up to my thighs, fishing a spot that I hadn’t really thoroughly worked before, freezing my guides off in the relentless, biting wind, when, suddenly, BAM!, the old nymph and indicator worked it’s magic. I could tell it was a decent-sized fish the way it stayed deep, playing me like a hopeless fool (instead of the other way around). I stayed uncharacteristically calm, keeping the rod bent this way and that, trying to pull the fish gently from its intended escape routes, but, I tell you, it was nerve-wracking. The strong-minded fish dashed this way and that, sometimes coming dangerously close to a roiling, scary-fast current, other times dashing for a rocky ledge where I believe she’d have sawed me off if given half a chance. “Keep cool, don’t let any slack develop, get down close in the water when she starts to tire”, I told myself, and damned if I didn’t stick to the plan. Eventually – and this was a fight that lasted easily over five minutes, mind you – I saw her come close to the surface, and my breath was taken away by the sight of this fine specimen. All I could do was keep the line taut, let the fish run when she had a mind to, and hope and pray that my knots held.

They held.

As I worked the fish in close, I splashed down into the water, the better to get a net under this hefty specimen, but pretty much soaking myself to the waist in the process. At that moment, I didn’t care, I could freeze to death for all it mattered. All I wanted was to land the fish safely. Which, eventually, I did, all fifteen fat inches:

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Her upper jaw curved slightly downward, and she sported a fierce set of teeth, the likes of which I’ve rarely seen. As I revived her in a side-current, I marveled at her broad sides, strong back, and silvery sheen and, in a quick, propulsive switch of her tail, she vanished into the depths.

Good times.

Later that morning, in another pool, I experienced a strike that was akin to a Mitsubishi Montero smashing into the side of a Mini Cooper (sorry for the violent imagery, it was simply unbelievable). I was drifting the nymph and indicator in a wonderfully fishy looking run, and on the fourth drift, something bashed the fly, violently shook twice, snapped my 4X leader like it was made of bubblegum, and was gone – taking everything (nymph, splitshot, indicator, and tippet) with it. That strike actually scared me, and now I have yet another moment to obsess over (as if I needed another one of those). Moments later, as I was tying on a new rig, I spied a rather large trout downstream dive fully out of the water, snapping at some such insect or other, and landing back in the current silently. With that, I tied on a lame, #6 stimulator, and tried my hand at a few drifts, but my offering wasn't enough to coax the beauties from the safety of their lies.

Around late morning, after taking no more fish, I decided to head to Location Number Two to try my hand at drifting some dry flies along a sweet, much smaller stream a couple dozen or so miles away. I made it to the location (my first time there) and hiked a considerable distance to reach the small, crystal-clear creek. It became instantly apparent that my 8’6” 5WT Sage was complete, utter overkill for these tiny waters, but I persisted, undaunted, and actually drew a fierce strike on a #16 Red Humpy, much to my delight. Yeah, I missed the strike, but it gave me hope, and motivated me to spend another couple of hours working the deep-blue pools even with my oversize rig. With as many great things about this stream as I’ve heard, I was surprised and just a little disappointed that I didn’t encounter more action, but, you know, that’s the way it goes sometimes. Duly skunked, I made a vow to return soon, packed up my gear, and headed back to town just in time to make an evening gig.

Even though my goal of catching fish from two streams in one day went unrealized, all in all, it was a great day, the kind that, to paraphrase Nick Lyons, “brush the heart with their intimacy.” I look forward to many, many more such days.

Friday, January 20, 2006

I thought I’d post a quick blog about some things OTHER than fly fishing that I’ve been up to.

On New Years Eve Eve Eve, I partied down at Taix to the smooth jazz sounds of The Atomic Sherpas. My bro Cary Fosse plays guitar in the band, and I became friends with the bassist Pat Hoed last summer. The band smoked and we had a great time, although I had to work the next day and therefore made an early night of it.

Over the New Year’s weekend, I had the privilege of attending a performance by the fantastic musician and songwriter Mike Keneally; I got to hang out with Mike for a few moments before the show and in-between sets, and he spoke a little bit about his collaborations with the great Andy Partridge of XTC. Mike said basically that Andy was busy with other projects and that he’d have to “take the bull by the horns” in order to get the music out there to the public. So there is a chance this stuff could be released some day. Coincidentally, I was hanging out with my buddy Evan Urkofsky that night; he happens to play drums for Los Angeles’ only XTC tribute band “Drummed and Wired”. I introduced Evan to Mike and we had a nice little hang. We then proceeded to have our asses handed to us by Mike and the band (which, this evening, featured fellow Zappa alumni Chad Wackerman on amazing drums). Evan split after the first set, but I hung out the whole night, fascinated by the sight of Steve Vai checking out Mike’s playing. How unnerving must THAT be? Anyway, all said, it was a great time, and a great start to a great New Year’s weekend.

NY’s eve morning was spent fly fishing with my buddy Bernard. Between the two of us, a dozen fish were brought to net. Eleven of those were caught by Bernard! However, I pulled off a somewhat amazing stunt by enticing a strike on a dry fly and landing a nice ten-inch wild trout – the first trout taken on a dry on this creek by anyone we know. Kinda cool, but, honestly, it was pure luck.

Nipper and I spent NY’s eve at a couple of parties, one hosted by Bambi Conway (formerly of The Solipsistics), the other hosted by John Perry (of Adam Marsland’s Chaos Band). We had a blast at both parties, ringing in the new year at John’s surrounded by friends. Good times. Of course, the guitars came out and lots of bad Beatles and ‘70’s pop songs were attempted, and, just as often, aborted. I spent a few moments listening to Ben Eshbach (The Sugarplastic) wax poetic about the joys and strategies of chess, of all things. We stayed until about 3:30AM and spent the rest of the weekend relaxing and catching up on sleep.

Last weekend I went to a DVD taping of a set by local prog-rockers K2. My bro Ryo Okumoto plays keyboards for them, so he invited me and the rest of the band to the taping. It was at S.I.R. Studios, smack-dab in the heart ‘o Hollyrock; nice place to play! The band kicked ass, the crowd was great, and I had a fantastic time hanging out after the show, schmoozing and trash talking and drinking and basically just being one of the boys. I’m not sure if K2 will release the DVD, I think it was more of a promotional thing for them. Nice guys, good times, good night.

Speaking of Ryo, the band has been coming together fantastically of late. We recently let our young guitarist go (he’s leaving for college in Arizona in a few months) and we’re all digging the vibe of being a musical trio (the band is keys, drums, bass, and a lead vocalist). We’re still trying out guitarists but we’ve learned that, perhaps, it’s not essential to the project. Very ELP if you ask me (that’s a good thing, by the way). The vocals, especially, are coming together (we’re starting to dial in some 4-part harmonies), and my own lead vocals (I’m singing lead on two songs so far) have been decent of late, amazingly.

I’m also hatching a plan regarding recording one of my prog-rock epics, utilizing Ryo and, hopefully, some of his amazing musician friends. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can pull this project off. Wish me luck.

The Ultra Suede are still “on hold” for another couple of weeks, but I’ve been working on some demos with Tony Valenziano and things are sounding great. I can’t wait to get back together with these guys and make some soaring pop music.

This weekend, Nipper and I will be seeing Kasim Sultan, live, at a private performance. Word on the street is that it will be The New Cars line-up. If so, that means Todd Rundgren will be part of the festivities. Too cool! A full report will follow.

Also this weekend, I’m squeezing in another quick fishing trip, and we’re going to a party at my musician friend Brad Gordon’s place. Should be a good hang.

Whelp, that about covers it, ya’ll. Until next time, I bid you peace, love, frogs and wild trout. Remember: architecture is frozen music, so build yourself a motor home with seven wheels today. x0x0x kErrY x0x0x

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Due to some last minute scheduling rearrangements, I was able to hit what I consider my home waters a couple of times over the past few days, and, after my experience there last Wednesday (see The Nymph, The Pig, and Other Things blog) , I was eager to return, having a serious score to settle with a certain large fish that got away.

You know how that is.

Even though I had landed a nice fish on my prior trip, I wasn’t entirely satisfied with that fact. Kind of lame, but it’s the truth. No, it was that d*mned LDR that has been on my mind, constantly, ever since. Over and over, I thought about how I’d lost her (on a barbless #16 PT nymph, no less) after a fierce, two or three minute battle, and how, at the time, I was oh so sure I’d land her (haha!); I thought about how beautiful the pool was under the sunny, blue January sky; I thought of the image of the football in mid-jump, glistening in shades of silver and purple, splashing like a boulder back into the froth, with a gentle sheen of blooming Ceanothus as the backdrop.

Mostly, I thought about what I could’ve done differently to have landed the fish.

The night before my “revenge” trip, I decided to go flat-out overkill, so I tied on a 7’5” 3X leader to my WF 5-WT line; to that I added another 2’5” of 4X tippet. I figured if I connected with the monster, the 4X would give me a significant advantage during the fight; if I got no hookups, I could always switch back to a 5X tippet and take it from there. I thought about what nymph I’d use, exactly where I’d stand to make my first crucial drifts, pictured the small side-pocket of relatively still water where I would scoop the fish into my net (which I planned to have at the ready, right at my side). I thought about how I’d take the pictures (with the rod and reel in the shot) and about how freaking happy I’d be when I released her back into the stream.

You see, I had the entire event planned out, the coordinates mapped, the details dialed in. All I had to do was make it happen.

Of course, nothing even remotely resembling the prior experience transpired. I pretty much figured that, if I didn’t nail the monster – ANY monster – within the first handful of drifts, that it probably wasn’t going happen.

At least I was right about one thing.

I tell you – and my fly fishing buddy Bernard laughed like crazy at this – I spent a solid three hours working that pool. Three hours. I never would’ve imagined that I’d have that kind of patience, but somehow, I was transfixed, like a madman, with all of my hopes and dreams pinned on that fish. That’ll teach me.

However, I’d be a fool to say that it wasn’t a great day. I took off the 4X tippet and replaced it with 5X. I then managed to bring four nice fish to net, three of them on #16 PT nymphs, one on a crazy #6 black stonefly nymph that looked like something a cat might cough up onto the carpet. It was kind of funny; after a couple of hours of not catching the monster, I starting looking for other options and, while going through my terrestrials box, spied the silly stonefly nymph (which I had purchased specifically for this stream). I tied it on and PLOP!, it immediately dropped into the water at my feet. I pulled the line up to make a proper cast and, what do you know, fish on! Here’s a shot of this greedy silverback:

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And here she is in a total, crazed frenzy (don’t worry, I caught her before she hit the rocks, really):

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Later that day, I caught this cutie on a #16 beadhead nymph of some sort (caddis?):

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I returned later in the weekend and, as before, had no luck in locating a piggy. However, I managed to flip some rocks and found these in abundance:

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Also, that afternoon, a full-blown mayfly hatch occurred; I am assuming they were mayflies based on the wings and the tails. They were a little smaller than a dime. I was prompted to switch to a dry fly, and tied on a #20 baetis imitation (hand tied by Dennis over at The Spot, nice work!), which I drifted, fruitlessly, for the next couple of hours. Nothing was rising, at least that I could see, and, predictably, I didn’t catch anything on the baetis. My eyes must be getting used to this stuff, because, amazingly, I was actually able to see the imitation on at least half of my drifts (much of them in faster-moving water and behind-the-boulder pockets).

I switched back to a nymph and indicator rig, threw my line into a nice riffle feeding a pool, and was immediately rewarded with this fighter (she took me deep several times, never breaking water, fighting like a true champion, keeping me on my soaking wet toes):

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I’ve been categorizing my photos for this year by month and date, and keeping field notes like a good boy and, after five trips in just over two weeks, I’m starting to maybe, perhaps, gain a smidgen of insight regarding this fishery.

Did I mention that I’m having a blast? I can't believe the January we are experiencing, fish-wise. Insanity.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Wednesday, January 11, 2006, 10:30AM, Sherman Oaks, California.

Me: “Hey boss, I’m caught up, and I’m not expecting anything from my clients until tomorrow. What do you think about me taking the afternoon off?”
Boss: “Fine, as long as I don’t have to do any of your work.”
Me: “Don’t worry, boss, everything is current, correct, and under control.”
Boss (spoken in a suspicious tone of voice): “You’re going fishing again, aren’t you?”
Me (sheepishly): “Yeah.”

With that simple exchange, a plan was hatched.

I’ve taken to keeping my fly fishing gear locked in the trunk of my rust-bucket just for moments like these. You see, I can save myself ten full minutes by leaving for the hills directly from work instead of having to drop by the house to collect my paraphernalia. Ten minutes. When you’re talking about fly fishing for trout, well, you all know that a lot can transpire in a few moments.

In the car, on the several freeways that confusingly link together to provide access to the trailhead for my destination, I listened to The Cowsills “Greatest Hits”, thrilling to the fantastic, whimsical chord changes and soaring vocal harmonies that made this unlikely family one of the best bubblegum pop bands ever. Music is one of the few things that can help ease the tension and frustration of navigating the freeways of Los Angeles on a busy weekday, and, today, it worked for me.

After somehow surviving the trauma of the traffic, I found myself at the trailhead, unloading my cheap Target $59.99 mountain bike (good in the unlikely event someone finds it stashed a few miles away and decides to steal it, and it fits in the trunk!), strapping on my daypack, and soon pedaling my way merrily through the forest. I was blissfully alone, fairly electrified with the anticipation of fly fishing for local, wild trout.

It’s a lengthy bike ride, the road is slippery with gravel, washboards, and debris, and it wasn’t long before I was out of breath, walking the bike up one of the many steep hills that make this trek so ultimately rewarding. Soon, the unmistakable music of flowing water reached my ears, and a spring came into my step. Suddenly, I felt as fresh as a daisy (but not smelling near so nice). After an hour or so, I reached the bike-stashing point and caught a bit of a chill due to the shade, and the sweat generated by the exertion of the ride. But I was there.

“There” is a sweet spot in this wild local stream, a place where two separate braids of current clash together against a rock wall in a cacophony of water, mist and froth. It’s an unlikely looking spot – kudos to my fly fishing friend Bernard for initially having the wherewithal to scope it out – but there are occasionally healthy, fat trout feeding deep within the maelstrom. And why not? The churning of the current spins drifting insects around and around, and the heavily oxygenated water is highly desirable to the trout. The conflicting currents and the wall of rock make for challenging fly fishing, trust me on this one; acheiving what would be considered a decent drift is sometimes all but impossible. Because of the usual presence of at least a few good fish, and because of the rock wall, I’ve come to somewhat unimaginatively call this place the Walmart Hole.

But first, I had to make the thorny scramble down to the stream. I had previously rigged up with a barbless #16 Pheasant Tail nymph-and-indicator set-up (thanks to Ken at the local fly shop, The Spot in Van Nuys), so I sucked in my gut and proceeded to practically glissade down the slope towards the Walmart Hole. Somehow, in my haste, I managed to get my line entangled in a large, prickly bush, and promptly lost my fly. D-a-m-n the luck! However, the delay forced me to relax, to slow down, focus my energy, and, much to my surprise, I saw a blooming Ceanothus (aka California Lilac), the first of the season. Its heavenly blue flower clusters and spring-sweet scent brought a smile to my soul, and I continued my way down to the stream with a song in my heart.

Now it was down to the business at hand. I quickly re-rigged, then quietly worked my way into Position Number 1 (standing at the top of the cauldron), and lobbed my first cast. I got in a nice drift and performed what was quite possibly a Lensering Lift. I threw another lob, performed another Lift. Nothing doing. I lobbed for a third time, this time aiming a little to the right of the rock wall, and, suddenly, the indicator took a not-so-subtle dive straight to the bottom. I gently lifted the rod tip, felt the tell-tale “tug-tug” on the end of my 8’6” Sage 5WT, and felt something similar to a log on the end of my 5X tippet. Suddenly, my line was racing downstream, and I felt the unmistakable heft of a large fish toying with my emotional state.

Instantly, the fish broke water, and my jaw dropped, shattering like glass on the rocky ramparts below. This fish was – I kid you not – the size of a football, only longer, and when I caught a glimpse of the purple-silver beauty splashing like a bowling ball back into the water, I panicked. Folks, this was a serious fish, easily in the sixteen-inch range. My heart was racing, my thoughts suddenly scattered, and I held on for dear life as this fish had its way with me. You’ve been there before, when a fish simply does what it wants, no matter what your intentions, and all you can do is hope for the best. Several deep, strong dives were followed by more aerial assaults, and all I can recall doing was trying to steer this monster out of the fast currents and into my direction.

After several moments had passed – I had had enough time while fighting the fish to remove my daypack and get my net handy – I made a stronger, more aggressive lift and, just like that, my line went slack, the indicator whizzed past my ear, and my rig landed in the bushes behind me. I figured “yet another one of my knots failed” but as I untangled my rig, I noticed that the PT nymph was still securely attached. I had simply lost the fish on its own terms. I was beyond disappointed, but I could live with this turn of events. At least my rig had withstood the jackhammer assault of this monster fish, the biggest I have ever seen locally.

I do believe the battle must have spooked the Walmart Hole, because, for the next half hour or so, I deciphered no strikes, no takes, no sympathy. But, eventually, I started feeling subtle takes again, and, over the course of an hour, I hooked – and lost – two more strong fighting, good-sized trout. While neither one was anywhere near the size of the first pig, they were both firmly in the twelve-inch range, and would’ve been delightful to behold, safe in my net. I resigned myself to experiencing “one of those days”, but my pride soon took over, and I decided to make a switch.

Usually, with smaller fish, I don’t had a problem with landing them on a barbless fly – however, this was another situation altogether. Call me a flower leopard, a pansy, I don’t care; I removed the barbless PT nymph and tied on a #18 barbed, dark-hued Copper John. Now I was ready to bring home the bacon with confidence.

I realigned myself to Position Number 2 (standing atop the rock wall at the bottom of the Walmart Hole) and started getting in some very interesting drifts. What once had appeared to be a downstream current actually turned out to flow UPstream. From Position Number 2, I had an almost perfect vantage point which allowed my nymph to drift fairly naturally in the vortex, around and around in the endless cycle of the cosmos. I only needed about ten feet of line in order to keep a tight, slack-free rein on the nymph, and rarely did I have to re-lob the fly. Instantly, I felt a strike, set, and missed. This pattern repeated itself for about another half hour until, suddenly, salad.

My rod took a sharp bend down toward the surface of the stream, and I felt the strength of a large fish through the taut line. Surprisingly quickly – the advantage of keeping a short line in the water – I had the fish on the reel, and, this time, there was no turning back. An epic battle ensued, although, unlike the other three fish, this one didn’t break water once, instead staying deep and close to the rock wall, trying, apparently, to saw me off. Imagine that! I scuttled down right to the waters edge, my net nearby, and continued to work the fish as she made repeated, exceptionally violent runs between the rock wall and the dangerous, fast currents.

Eventually, I caught sight of her – wOw! – and managed to work her tired body in closer to the rocks. Every time she’d get near, she’d make another run, frazzling my nerves, psyching me out. The entire time, I kept praying “please, let my knots hold, let the fly stay hooked fast, I’ve gotta land something today or no one is going to believe me.”

You’d have laughed at the way I viciously lunged at the fish with my net, a desperate old fool determined to snag his hard-won prize. I can say that, when I finally got the net under her, and lifted that heavy weight for the first time, I nearly cried. I had done it – I had finally nymphed my way into a fat local pig, the kind Bernard seems to entice regularly. I captured two images of the fish; I apologize for the blurry nature of the second shot, especially. You see, when I catch a fish, especially something of size, I tend to shake like a wet dog:

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That’s my story and I’m high-sticking to it...

Monday, January 09, 2006

I hit a local, creepy spot on Saturday morning, solo-style. Got up at the crack of 6:00AM, had a beautiful drive to the location (I could clearly see the outlines of Mts. San Jacinto and San Gorgonio in the citrus-tinged morning light), parked my junky car, rigged up, and hit that mofo!

Utilizing a black #16 AP nymph with a small splitshot suspended about five feet under an indicator, I slowly, methodically worked a nice pool where two currents converge. The water was fairly murky and high after last week's rains, but I've seen this place even higher so I wasn't too concerned.

Nymphing still seems like a black art to me. My indicator constantly bobbed and submerged in the conflicting currents, and I tried to be very diligent and sensitive to strikes, yet I still felt lost, like events were out of my control. As usually happens when I nymph, it seemed like a miracle when I lifted my rod and suddenly realized I had a fish on.

Holy mother of Tijuana! That oh-so-satisfying "tug-tug-bang" on the end of my Sage put a smile as wide as the San Gabriels on my face as I fought this feisty trout for what seemed like at least five minutes. This silver-blue beauty broke water no less than three times, making strong dives upon her return, trying her damnest to break me off. After a panic-filled few moments, I brought this solid thirteen inch fish into my waiting net:

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My "net shots" are pretty boring so I tried for an "in hand" angle (so to speak):

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As far as streams "turning on" later in the day, let me state that this blessed event took place at about 7:30AM, well before the light of the sun had reached the canyon floor.

Man, was I ever stoked, but something soon made me realize just how lucky I had been.

I had made a few more casts, feeling smug, then noticed my tippet had become slightly entangled in my indicator. As I fixed my rig, it came to my attention that my nymph was fraying, and, as I checked it out, the eye of the hook broke off in my hands like that. No pressure on it, nothing, it just broke. It made me realize how close I had come to losing that fish.

After that early success, the pressure was off and I enjoyed a few hours of additional nymphing (very slow; I believe I had a handful of strikes but I was fishing deep so I may have been hitting bottom, I'll never really know, will I?). I also tried a black wooly bugger and an absurd, Rapala-like shad imitation that I believe is normally used in salty waters. No luck there, shad to say (sorry for the pun).

Later in the morning, around 9:30AM or so, in a much deeper pool a short ways upstream, the Trout Gods bestowed this gift upon yours truly, a much smaller specimen (a solid nine inches plus) but no less of a fighter:

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This silver-blue bear was also taken with the #16 AP/splitshot/indicator set up, just like the first.

I messed around, satisfied, until about 10:30AM, hiked back out, hit a favorite Mexican restaurant for breakfast, and was home, showering, by noon.

All in all, it was a great morning and I am really "feeling it" about this location; I think, with persistence, skill and a lot of luck, a true piggy will come out of this place before too long.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Happy new years everyone! May 2006 find you fondled and happy, healthy, prosperous, and ultra-creative.

If you're interested, a good friend of mine put together a 2005 fly fishing retrospective featuring some music and images courtesy of yours truly. Please right-click here and "save as" to your computer, then view it from there.

It's a big file (17,797kb) so don't say I didn't warn you. If you're not into pictures of streams and gorgeous trout, don't waste your bandwidth!!!

Thanks and many pearl onions to you.

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