Now, that’s a Lunker!
January 23, 2007
Forget tarpon, steelhead, bones or peacocks.
If you’re truly looking for some real sport with the ol’ fly rod, give paedocypris progenetica a shot this winter.
Lurking in the wonderfully steamy peat wetlands of Southeast Asia, paedocypris progenetica, is , according to scientists, the world’s smallest fish. The tiny critters average under 8 millimeters in length, though some lunkers to nearly 9 millimeters possible — if you know where to look (My insider sources tell me that Borneo is a good place to begin your quest for HAWGS).
A Steelhead for Thanksgiving
November 23, 2006
He got the idea from a Zane Grey novel he had read a year prior. It was just a passing phrase in which Grey, who spent a good chunk of his time in a cabin on the Rogue River in Oregon, mentioned something about killing a steelhead for Thanksgiving dinner. The old man didn’t think much about it at first, but then the thought of a steelhead instead of a turkey began to intrigue him.
Don’t be Too Quick to Judge!
November 16, 2006
As I was filleting salmon for some successful clients one morning along the banks of the lower American River, a lady I did not recognize walked up to me. I could tell from her attire that she had been jogging along the bike trail. Apparently, she’d seen me cleaning fish and came over to investigate. Her scowl told me her visit wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.
I looked back down at the issue at hand and finished removing two beautiful fillets from the salmon and then I took its carcass and tossed it back into the river. At that point, the woman decided she need to stick her nose where it had no business going.
Freight Train on the Line
September 5, 2006
I love fall king salmon fishing. The epic takedowns you get on Kwikfish; the autumn colors along the river; the crisp nights and warm days; the bobber downs, big head shakes and long runs. There’s nothing quite like it. Just imagine sitting there…watching the river go by…and then THUNK…PUMP…PUMP! Your rod tip gets jerked down several times. Hard. At first, you’re taken aback by the violent nature of the act. The strike is about as subtle as a slap across the face with a wet hand on a 32-degree day and you sit there, momentarily stunned.
You rod continues to buck wildly. If you sit there dazed and out of it any longer, the monster’s going to get away. But, a little voice in the back of your head starts getting through. Pal…hey buddy…youhoo…
WAKE UP!!
You snap to and rear back mightily on the rod. The hook set is true and you can feel the beast surge downriver like a loaded Southern Pacific headed down the Colfax Grade. You try to slow the fish’s streaking run by putting pressure on the rapidly-revolving spool with your thumb. SSSSSSSINGE!! You jerk your hand away from the reel like you’d touched an electric fence. Don’t worry — the pain will go away…in about week. No time to suck that thumb now, though — you’ve gotta hang on for dear life.
Only moments ago, you were being lured into a drowsy-God-ain’t-this-the-greatest-way-to-spend-a-day sleep by the gentle rocking of the boat, but now — now, your heart is pumping at light speed like you just downed a double espresso and chased it with a Jolt Cola.
Take the California Fish Quiz!
August 18, 2006
Okay all you fish aficionados (afishionados?) out there, it’s time to test your California fish knowledge. Take the quiz and see how much you know about our finned little buddies. The answers are below.
1) Which fish are not native to California waters?
a) Brown Trout
b) Largemouth Bass
c) Channel Catfish
d) All of the above
2) Which fish are native to California waters?
a) Coho Salmon
b) Kokanee Salmon
c) Pink Salmon
d) Chum Salmon
No Bananas!
June 19, 2006
If I were the producer of the TV show Fear Factor, I’d skip all the tired bug and guts eating stunts and instead have my contestants walk onto a charter fishing boat with bananas in their lunch coolers. Then, I’d just sit back and watch the fireworks.
In case you’re unaware, bananas on fishing boats are considered bad luck and most skippers take this superstition very, very seriously.
A Day in the Life of a Giant Brown Trout
March 19, 2006
Mr. Hogito was hungry. Being early spring, there was not much life out and about and meals were few and far between. He hadn’t eaten anything in about a week, and then it was only a small chub that he surprised along a shallow flat — hardly enough to sustain his great body for more than a day. He cruised along a rocky shoreline, 20 feet down, hoping to intercept a careless sucker or perhaps a rainbow.
In the light of early dawn, nothing edible exposed itself and Mr. Hogito continued on a parallel track to the bank for another quarter mile. As he rounded the point, the huge brown’s lateral line sensed commotion in the distance and his exceptionally sensitive nostrils picked up a faint scent that made his fins twitch with anticipation.
Fishing with a Legend
July 11, 2005
The General’s rod tip pumped twice as the big king mouthed his silver and chartreuse K16 Kwikfish. He let the fish take the plug for a second longer and then jumped from his seat and jerked his rod wildly to bury the hooks. The blue GLoomis doubled over and bent almost to the cork under the strain of yet another jumbo salmon streaking, hell-bent for Bristol Bay.
Each time the fish burned line from the reel, the General squealed with delight like a kid watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. After a very spirited battle, the huge buck finally succumbed to the General’s steady pressure and I was able to slide the net under it. Back at the lodge, the other clients couldn’t believe the General’s luck. All week long, he had been bringing in the biggest fish of the day and today was no different.
I even heard one envious angler in the crowd mutter “what the heck did he do to deserve all that luck?”
Well, a lot actually.
Rejuvenation
December 1, 2004
Long, narrow shadows were creeping across the final days of salmon season like fingers of spilled ink spreading over a page. The bank-side cottonwoods, awash in yellow foliage but a week ago were now mostly bare and their branches shivered in a northerly wind. The end was near and I wished I could will it to speed up.
I had been grinding it out since the middle of June and the salad days were long since passed.
The big schools of salmon that had delighted us for so many weeks were well upriver, either dead and picked clean by stream-side scavengers or in the last throws of spawning. Fresh, shiny kings were few and far between and my last charters of the year hadn’t gone extremely well from a fish in the boat perspective.
On the last day of the season, I had two very excited fellows in my boat – a father and his young son, both of whom had never been salmon fishing before. Their almost giddy enthusiasm contrasted loudly with the sleep-deprived haze in which I was slowly shuffling like so many B-movie zombies. Without a day off in five weeks, I was so far gone that I secretly loathed them for their zeal. How could they be so happy? Didn’t they know it was a stupid idea to come out so late in the season when there were no fish around? Weren’t they aware of how rude it was to prolong a guy’s agony for one more day? Why couldn’t they just go home and leave a weary, grumpy guide alone?
Apparently, I had lost the entire essence of fishing and forgotten why I originally started doing the job I do.
What Fishing’s REALLY About
November 12, 2004
Awhile back, I had a couple of characters in my boat that just didn’t get the true concept of fishing. Throughout the day, they sat with their arms crossed tightly across their chests, starting at their rod tips. The pair didn’t say two words to each other or me the entire day.
Within an hour, they both had furrowed brows and facial expressions that ranged from scowls to grimaces. The bite was slow that day and their moods soured with each passing moment. All the while, I tried to get them to lighten up a little, to remember to enjoy the fact that they were not at work, but instead on a lovely stretch of river.
I tried pointing out the surrounding flora and fauna along the riverbanks, cracked a few jokes and busted out every funny antidote from previous trips I could remember. They didn’t even give me a sliver of a smile when I told my now-famous story about Chloe, the dead rat. Eventually, I exhausted my entire bag of tricks…but still, nothing. It was like having two granite boulders in my boat — each etched with Olympic-sized frowns on their faces . I see this type of person every so often — the kind who doesn’t understand the point of going on a fishing trip.
