Musician, Freak, Dayjobber, Etc.

There are certain places in Southern California where, during certain times of the year, the instinctive, almost-predictable behavior of trout can lead to spectacular fishing opportunities. This past weekend I experienced exactly such a scenario. So, sit yourself down, fix yourself a cup of coffee (or something stronger, if that’s your pleasure), and allow me to tell you about it.

I am sworn to secrecy regarding this stream; rest assured, it is local and well within the reach of the determined fly fisherman. I’m not sure if I’d call it a true Black Diamond trek, but, suffice to say, there is considerable hiking distance involved, and one needs to plan accordingly if one is to make it in and out in a day.

On the day of the adventure, I awoke stupid-early, grabbed some coffee and my gear, made the relatively short drive, and started hauling ass up the trail. Along the way, I encountered five deer (three of which crossed the path not ten feet in front of me), a very small bobcat (not much bigger than a common Tabby), a turkey vulture, several dozen quail, and a coyote. Small bear prints were visible as well, but, thankfully, no bears were encountered.

By mid-morning, somewhat worn out, I reached the sparkling stream. Boy, what a beautiful day! The chaparral was in full bloom, the phlox was exploding in delightful variations of pink and purple, the sky was a perfect shade of deep blue (not a cloud to be found wandering, anywhere), and the creek was flowing lustily with its springtime bounty. The water was just a little off-color, relatively clear but with just enough shading to help with matters of stealth.

For this trek, I carried my Cabela’s Stowaway, a 7’6” 4-WT model, along with my 5-WT-loaded Galvan reel. I was excited to try out this small stream rod; I had used it once before, months ago, up at Frenchman’s Flat, and had yet to catch a trout with it. Little did I suspect how I would “christen” it later this fine day.

I quickly rigged up with what has been working for me this winter: a #16 bead head Prince Nymph, a small split-shot, and an indicator secured an appropriate distance above. With a heightened sense of anticipation – you know the feeling – I tossed the rig out into a beautiful little pool and let it drift. Nothing. I did it again, and, again, nothing. I tried out a sweet, deep run just above the pool; again, nary a hit. Hmmm. This wasn’t good.

I decided to follow some old fly fishing wisdom: when in doubt, go smaller. I figured a #18 midge imitation might be a good bet, so I tied one on, and was met with the same results: nothing. I proceeded to scour an area of stream encompassing about three hundred yards, a nice stretch of riffles and pocket water with a few deeper channels here and there. I was nothing if not thorough, but damned if I couldn’t buy a strike.

After a fishless hour of working this fine stretch, I started to question my abilities, started to resign myself to another “practice” day on the water – not that that’s a bad thing, but, you know, I was hoping for fish. I knew, through the last few years of experience on this stream, of the potential for large trout, and the question became, “Are they here, and, if so, where are they?”

It was then that I spooked what appeared to be a thirteen-inch rainbow trout, right out of the middle of a wide, shallow gravel bar a dozen or more feet below a spectacular pool; perhaps it was a spawner, I’m not sure (the gravel bar looked perfect for redd-making). Regardless, the sighting revitalized me, got me amped-up, started the adrenaline flowing like a methamphetamine drip. I live for these moments.

It was then that I made the fateful decision to tie on a classic olive bead-head Wooly Bugger. Now, I haven’t caught a fish on a streamer since last fall in the Sierras, and I have been in doubt as to their effectiveness over the past few months, so my expectations were non-existent. With a measure of stealth, I made my way to the nice pool upstream, positioned myself at the top of the rapids, and let about twenty-five feet of line drift down the lane. I began a quick, herky-jerky strip retrieve, and was immediately hammered by a fish. Apparently, the Wooly Bugger wasn’t getting down too deep, because the fish exploded partially on the surface, inhaling the fly and immediately making a strong run downstream.

The thing felt like an Audi. My 4-WT doubled in half as I fought the fish in the morning sun, my reel sometimes screaming as the fish took line. It was a classic scene, every nerve in my body was alive, my mind totally in the moment. After a fierce battle, I got the fish in close and into my net. Wow! The monster was just a shade under sixteen inches, with an amazing sequence of spots running along its broad sides. I apologize for the cutting off of the fish’s head in this photograph due to my shadow, but you have to understand, I was out of my mind at this point:



After releasing the fish, I sat down on a rock, basking in the sunlight, and reminded myself of how lucky I am to be alive. I checked my knots and, sure enough, the fly broke off (I’m amazed at how often this happens after landing a fish). I re-tied the streamer, repositioned myself at the head of the pool, and repeated the same sequence of events for the next twenty minutes but, apparently, the fight had put down the pool, because I didn’t get another strike. It was time to move on.

And so went my day. I stayed with the Wooly Bugger exclusively and, while the stream wasn’t exactly generous with me, I did manage to LDR a handful of fine fish, as well as land a couple more; here’s two more photographs which illustrate the typical trout I encountered (again, I apologize for the shots, I’m a fisherman, not a photographer):





The somewhat ragged appearance of the tail of the fish in the last shot makes me wonder: was this a rogue stocker who somehow made its way upstream?

While I am beyond pleased with catching the fish shown above, please allow me to tell you about “the one that got away”, the trout who changed my fly fishing life.

Picture, if you will, a nice bend in a small freestone stream. The far bank consists of a ten-foot cliff composed of disintegrating river rock, with a sycamore tree precariously perched on the rim. The near side – where I’m standing – is a wide cobble-strewn flood plain. The stream gracefully glides around this small bend; the head of the run is about four feet deep, tailing out into a nice pool that might be, say, six feet deep, which, itself, tails off into yet another, smaller pool, which tails off into a shallow, stream-wide gravel bed bordered with magnificent, mature cottonwoods. The entire stretch is perhaps a hundred feet in length; that’s the scene.

I approach the bend from high above the opposite side, stealthily making my way up and around to the head of run, careful not to spook anything. I silently wet-wade into the fast water at the head of the bend, and begin stripping out line as the streamer tumbles down in the current. After stripping out, oh, about forty feet of line, I begin my upstream retrieve. I am immediately slammed by a fish, and the fight is on.

Now, you can choose to believe me or not, I don’t care either way; I – and the creator of the universe – know what happened this fine day, and we will never, ever forget it.

The fish, holding deep thus far, makes a reckless run right at me; I reel in line furiously, while keeping the rod up and the line taut. It is during this moment that I somehow retrieve my excess line, getting the fish on the reel. The trout explodes on the surface, thrashing wildly, and I all but faint. I see a pair of black eyes the size of dimes staring angrily back at me; the thing appears steelhead-huge, and I began to silently panic. With line zinging from my reel, the fish has its way with me, desperately trying to work itself back upstream into the bend. I use sheer force of will -- and 5X fluoro -- to guide the fish back in my direction, and it immediately blasts off downstream, into the smaller, secondary pool.

I helplessly follow it downstream, my net at the ready, my rod all but bent in half. The weight of this thing is unbelievable; I fear for my leader, if not my life. After a few moments, I somehow manage get the fish within ten feet of me; I cannot believe this fat slice of silver is actually on the end of my line. This fish is twenty inches if it’s an inch, not a millimeter smaller. The dimes look in my direction, frightened and determined. The damned thing looks too big to fit in my net; it’s absurd, it’s insane, this isn’t happening. It’s all too much to handle, but the best part seems to be that the fish is securely hooked. I start to feel a measure of false confidence, which is subsequently destroyed when the fish decides to take me downstream a second time.

My reel singing, the fish explodes out of the secondary pool, blasts into the shallows of the gravel bar, and proceeds to thrash wildly in the current. I panic, and manage to pull it back upstream into a small channel in which I am standing; the fish appears to hold for a moment, then, once again, explodes in the shallows of the gravel bar. I should’ve seen this coming, I know it. It is at this point – the monster splashing in the shallows – the fish manages to throw the fly. Dismayed, unbelieving, my line helplessly limp, I watch the beast slowly swim downstream, never to be seen again.

I collapse in a pile on the bank, tears in my eyes, becoming cognizant of the fact that this fish just played me, and not the other way around. I realize the monumental mistake I made in allowing it onto the gravel bar, and now I pay the emotional price for my sins.

For the first time since picking up a fly rod ten months ago, I tell myself , “I’m a fly fisherman now.”

I will never, ever, trust another human being for as long as I am on this planet.

Last weekend was pretty awesome...predictably, I went fishing early Saturday morning, and was rewarded with my best day on this particular stream EVER. In the span of two hours, I caught and released no less than six fine, healthy, wild rainbow trout, all caught from a short section of stream consisting of wide riffles and some whitewater. WAY TOO COOL! I am learning that this unlikely stream is, apparently, LOADED with fish; they seem to be everywhere, and big, too! I have caught nothing under ten inches (which is big for our local streams), and have had a handful of fifteen inch fish to keep me utterly obsessed. Here's a shot of what I believe is the prettiest local trout I have ever had the pleasure of engaging:



Drool away if you must...I certainly did! That, ladies and gentiles, is a TROUT. Man, am I ever happy with that photograph.

After that fantastic morning, I headed off to Ryo Okumoto's (www.ryookumoto.com) for a band rehearsal, and, I must say, we rocked the shizzit. Our new guitarist Andrew totally kicks utter ass; the dude has more chops than Ruth's Chris' Steakhouse, but his PHRASING is unreal. SOOOO freaking tasteful! We all feel that, with Andrew on board, the band has definitely turned a corner; Ryo is totally stoked, which is, of course, the main objective, but we're all excited. The vocal harmonies, especially, are coming together (we've got 4-part harmonies in some spots). On a very cool side note, Ryo has agreed to produce one of my prog-rock epics and said that, if it turned out cool, that he'd consider presenting it to Spock's Beard for inclusion on their next album. Man, that would just rock my world! If that happens, cool, but if not, I'm still ultra-stoked to even have Ryo and the band playing on this particular track. I can't wait to get started on this thing I just finished a set of lyrics that I think might work. I tell you, it's a bit of a challenge to come up with a consistent lyrical thread for a 12-minute song, but I believe I've done it. Saturday night I recorded guide vocals to the track and played it for Nipper; she said it sounded like a classic Kate Bush epic I can live with that!!!

My other band, the pop-luvin' The Ultra Suede (www.myspace.com/theultrasuede), have rehearsed a couple of times over the past two weeks, with very encouraging results. We've really been working on the vocal harmonies, and, after two rehearsals, things are tightening up. We have another rehearsal this week, but, I tell you, if we don't get a gig soon....

Tonight involves a Valentine's "date" with Nipper we're heading to Taix for dinner and then catch Jeff Merchant's (www.myspace.com/jeffmerchantmusic) CD release party for his excellent new album "Window Rolled Down". Should be a fun time Jeff's band for tonight seems utterly ass-kicking. I'm looking forward to seeing a lot of friends and hanging out, drinking somewhat excessively.

Pray for rain everyone the trout need some. Thanks for reading.

Emerson, Lake and Tomato,


kErrY

I haven’t posted any field reports lately; don’t think that means I haven’t been fishing. I just don’t feel compelled to publicly write about these recent experiences because, frankly, there’s not much to say that I haven’t said before.

However, right now, for the first time in my life, I am experiencing a slow unfolding of some vague mysteries regarding my local, home waters (you all know the place, no need for names). I’ve been on this stream about a dozen times over the past five weeks, and, I must say, I have not been doing a lot of experimentation as far as fly selection goes because I have found something that actually works. Why mess with success, right?

What has been working for me this year, so far, almost exclusively, is the tried-and-true Prince Nymph (sizes #16 and #18 with a gold beadhead), suspended a few feet below a foam indicator, with a little split-shot added to get the d@mned thing down into the depths. Sure, I’ve tried the occasional dry fly (I caught a 12” fish on a #18 BWO once which was a blast, but the fly has been a dud since then, as have all dries, in fact), a few black ants free-drifted, even the hated Glo Bug once. ONCE. After observing a large, winged, dead black bug floating in the water the other day, I tried weighting a #12 black Dave’s Hopper and letting it drift. I’ve tried weighted black beetles (made of FOAM, Flykuni) and gigantic Stonefly nymphs -- nothing has consistently worked for me except the Fly Formerly Known as the Prince Nymph.

I have been averaging two fish per trip, always in the 12” – 13” range, with a couple of 15”-ers thrown in occasionally to keep me obsessed. I had one day with three oh-so-close LDR’s, but which was technically a good old fashioned skunking, but other than that, I am pleased with my results. I’m getting a lot of nice “take-and-shake” hits -- most missed, incidentally – and a few takes which have luckily resulted in either delightful LDR’s or actual fish in the net. This place is not giving up her secrets willingly, but there’s just enough action throughout the day to keep me focused and interested.

What I HAVE been experimenting with are locations; in addition to a handful of incredibly reliable pools, I have started to really focus on the riffles and runs and, lately, this is where I’ve been having my greatest success. It’s blowing what’s left of my mind wide open: there is so much riffle-y water to focus on, with the potential for fish lurking almost everywhere, it’s insane. It’s almost like an inexhaustible source of potential trout lies, and I savor getting to know some of these riffles much better over the coming months.

I can’t begin to tell you how much fun I am having splashing around in the riffles (yes, I am still wet-wading; with the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been enjoying, why not?); a sort of ultra-serene state-of-mind takes over when I’m drifting/lobbing my nymph through a riffle, over and over, basking in sunlight. The shallower water makes it easy to know when your nymph is bouncing along the bottom, and it’s just flat-out exhilarating to pull a fat fish out of these places. I’ve noticed that the riffle dwellers seem to hit the nymph with more force than the quietly-sipping beasts in the pools, which is always a thrill.

Also, I really enjoy playing a hard-fighting trout in these types of waters. Not that I don’t enjoy playing (and even occasionally landing) a fish in a nice pool, but something about standing in the water near the edge of a nice riffle, fighting a decent fish, just turns me on. It seems somehow “classic”, like it’s meant to be, like it’s forever; I can’t explain it other than to say it makes me feel really happy, inside. Even back in my spin-fishing dark days, I loved pulling a fish out of a shallow riffle. Something about the setting really sits well with my Inner Fisherman.

Take the other day, for example.

I had spent a nice, quiet two hours working one of the “money pools”, with the end result being a handful of takes and two classic LDR’s (one I lost JUST as I was getting the net under the fish, the other went sky-bound and threw the nymph with a classic head-shake move ala Magic Johnson circa 1987). Feeling satisfied that I had worked the pool sufficiently, I decided to try another area consisting of shallow riffles with some deep grooves scattered here and there. It’s not too difficult to spot some of the deeper riffles with calmer seams on the sides, so I found a likely spot and began my meditations. After several uneventful drifts, as I was gently lifting the nymph, suddenly, BLAM-O!, I had a fish on. Now, mind you, all of the fish I’ve caught in my home waters lately have proven themselves to be powerful fighters, so it’s a little difficult to tell if you have a pig on the line, or a smaller cousin, unless they show themselves. The element of surprise is ever-present. This particular fish held deep, working her way into and out of the faster waters, once even darting directly at me, displaying a classic evasion tactic. Luckily, I was short-line high sticking and had the fish on the reel immediately, and I was able to raise the rod and take in line to avoid losing the fish via Slack Line Release, but she had me going there for a moment. Fighting the fish in these moving waters tends to tire them out sooner than playing them in a slow-moving pool, and, before I knew it, I had the fish at my feet, in the net. Here’s a little porn shot of this pretty 13” fish:



And so there you have it. I am in the throes of truly discovering what makes this water “tick”, and I still have a strong belief that there are much bigger fish to be found. On the other hand, maybe fish in the 12”-15” range are the size threshold that this stream is capable of supporting, I honestly don’t know. All I know is this place has captivated me and that I intend to continue to quietly work it until I am satisfied that I have a clue as to what makes it tick.

If you don’t see any field reports out of me, it’s because I am working my home waters with a vengeance, and that any further reports would be, for all practical purposes, redundant. I can’t foresee fishing anywhere else in the immediate future; I am bound and determined to get a handle on these fish. If and when I nail what I believe will be a truly crazy-@ss wild fish, rest assured I will post a report.

Until then, live and let fish.

Incidentally, I've given up the whole "heavy leader, heavy tippet" experimentation of a couple of weeks ago, instead going back to a 5X leader and 5X flurocarbon tippet. It seems to be working fine as I haven't been broken-off. Yet.