Now, my fishin’ buddy, Sean and I have certainly recognized, and maybe even reveled just a little bit, in the fact that urban fly fishing qualifies as a paradox.

We’re OK with the common perception that fly rods somehow just don’t work in urban waters.

We have grown accustomed to the odd looks, strange questions, or the guy who walks up to us and plants himself next to us so he can give us long-winded explanations as to why flyfishing doesn’t work – even as we are pulling in Bass and Bluegill.

We’ve gotten used to the packs of kids running up to us and staring, the dogs on retractable leashes barking and snapping at our flies, the stroller joggers observing our back casts and yelling in that protective parent way to warn us that they are behind us with a child.

We already plan on giving away wooly buggers and short pieces of tippet in a somewhat self-serving act of charity that buys us a little peace and quiet and we are always on the watch for nefarious characters in the same way that our Alaskan wilderness counterparts always keep an eye out for grizzlies.

Yet, given the realities of our work schedules, our finances, our time commitments and the alternative, i.e., flyfishing only very occasionally, we have opted to adjust to the circumstances and be urban flyfishers.

To that end, we are always looking for new ways to engage, enjoy or enhance our chosen obsession.

Sometimes, paradoxically, new ways even find us.

Consider what happened to my fishin’ buddy, Sean, recently:

A few months ago Sean made an impromptu decision to stop at a small urban pond on the way home from the office to blow off a considerable amount of steam acquired after a particularly grueling business meeting.

As he stood there, in the dark, muttering and grumbling to himself and hurling a Krystal Bugger into the inky blackness, a couple of things happened:

One, his blood pressure began to drop back into the normal range;

Two, he began to catch fish and;

Three, he experienced a heightened sense of awareness that he had not felt before while flyfishing.

Now, I’m not talking about a sense of awareness like, “Oh crap, I’m standing by myself dressed in slacks, shirt and tie in the dark in a (hopefully) deserted urban park griping out loud to myself and waving a very expensive stick in the air… and no one knows where I am.”

No, I’m talking about a “gettin’ into the zone”—that heightened sense of awareness regarding the feel of the unfurling fly line on the back cast, the heightened sense of feeling that same line slide through the guides in a smooth forward cast and even the heightened sense of hearing for the subtle plop of the fly as it lands in the dark forty feet out in front.

Yeah, in that impromptu moment, Sean discovered flyfishing at night.

And therein lies part of the paradox.

Flyfishing is all about catching fish, for sure, but it is also an art form and as such, there are elements to it that one might consider “active meditation”.

I’m not going all mystical or anything. But almost every flyfisherman I know takes a subtle pleasure watching his or her line form a perfect tight loop and then lay out on the surface of the water in a perfect, straight line.

Almost every flyfisherman I know delights in watching for that subtle dimple in the surface as a trout or a wary urban carp quietly sips the carefully presented fly.

And almost every flyfisherman I know breaks into a smile when droplets of water shower in every direction and sparkle in the sun like a million diamonds as the line tightens from a solid hook set.

So, what happens when darkness seems to render all those simple pleasures null?

Well, paradoxically, new types of awareness kick in and new pleasures with our obsession reveal themselves.

Flyfishing in the dark becomes more about feel and movement. It becomes more about perfecting skills that may have grown a little sloppy and it becomes more about appreciating familiar realms in a whole new way.

Case in point: A couple of weeks ago, Sean and I made arrangements to hit a local park where he has had pretty good luck catching Carp and Bass after dark since his epiphany about night fly fishing.

We drove to the target spot and parked under a street light about two hundred yards away from the water’s edge.

The air was mild and still so we only donned light windbreakers and the bare minimum amount of gear. I opted for a lanyard rig and Sean grabbed a small waist pack. We clipped on our nets and we both put on LED headlamps over our TU ball caps.

I choose a five-weight while Sean chose an eight-weight rig. He was clearly more optimistic then me but, then again, he had caught one of the largest Carp he had ever taken on a fly in this park after dark.

We tied on rather large, flashy buggers in the cone of light thrown off by the streetlight then headed across the wide expanse of grass.

My first impression, as we stood there waiting for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, was with the peacefulness of the situation. During the day, this park is loaded with runners and bicycle riders and kids on skateboards and an endless variety of dogs and dog-walkers. Now it was still and calm and a slight ground fog rose from the damp grass.

The water was glassy smooth and reflected the three-quarter moon, the treetops and the lights from nearby businesses. Near the edges, where the water was shallow, little wisps of mist also rose up and blurred the normally sharp concrete lip of the pond. We stood near the edge for a long time waiting and listening. Occasionally we would hear a faint splash but mostly we heard snippets of lively conversation and distant laughter bouncing out of the row of restaurants across the normally busy street.

When we decided to move. It was slowly and deliberately, almost reluctantly, as if we each did not want to break the spell of the moment. Our walking roused a mixed flock of sleeping ducks and mud hens who protested with soft quacks and grunts and moved en masse just far enough away for us to no longer be considered a threat according to some streetwise avian formula we couldn’t figure out.

Then in our usual fashion, we split to the left and the right and began fishing.

My first casts were pathetic, limp tangles of fly line. I kept misjudging the timing of my back cast.

Was I really that dependant on sight for my casting technique?

I shook my head and muttered to myself and was thankful that Sean couldn’t see the mess I had created. Then I took a deep breath and regrouped.

The words of a pilot friend of mine came to mind: “You can always count on your basic training, if you’ve been properly trained in the basics.”

So, I took a deep breath, pulled a couple of yards of line off my reel, gathered it in loose coils with my off hand, positioned my grip on the cork the way I had been taught and actually closed my eyes.

This time, when I made my cast, I could feel the rod load on the back cast, I could actually hear the line move through the air with a soft, smooth whooshing sound, I could tell that the forward cast was smooth and straight and I heard the fly land with a clean plopping sound just like an Olympic high-diver making a clean splash on a 9.9 dive.

I was in the “zone”.

With each subsequent cast, I worried less and less about technique and began to enjoy the moment more and more.

I marveled at the way the ripples of my casts made the reflection of the moon shimmer and sparkle on the water. I delighted in the peace and freedom of being alone in the moment even though we were in reality only a few hundred yards away from thousands of people. I took pleasure in “hearing” my line form a perfect tight loop on each cast. I smiled at the millions of starry diamonds that formed in the moonlight when I made a hard hook set and the droplets of water showered away from my line in every direction. And I laughed out loud each time I saw Sean’s headlamp snap on from across the pond because I knew he was playfully taunting me with a visual cue that he had landed yet another fish

And that’s when it occurred to me, in one of those great paradoxical moments, that I had to step into the dark before I could see the light as to why I love this addiction called urban flyfishin’.

The first couple of times out felt like the most frustrating time I’ve ever spent fishing, not just fly fishing I’m talking freaking fishing in general!

I remember going home the first night, and stating to my wife just as I walked in the door “I’m never trying that again”.

Yet just a few days later, I found myself back in the dark, headlamp on, and more clothing than I needed to keep the mosquitoes away.

On the second night things started to turn around. I started feeling the fly on the back cast, and I had only hit one tree. After a couple of hookups, but no fish to net. I sat down on the bench and started to contemplate what I was doing wrong.

I started to realize that the fish were hitting a lot harder. I needed to set the hook with more authority and get the fish to the net as quick as possible.

The next night I brought my 6 weight, beefed up to a 3x tapered leader, tied on a heavier BH Flash a Bugger, and started working the fly just a little slower than usual.

One cast and I had a 2 pound Largemouth Bass on the other end of the line. So many things started flooding to my head. Why had I been sleeping every night for all these years? Was this a dream? Was I really starting to get the hang of this Urban Fly Fishing at night thing.

After dodging a couple of drunk teenagers, a homeless man sleeping on the bench, and a few hundred sleeping ducks (Apparently Urban Fly Fishing at night has just as many dangers as it daytime counterpart).

I cast out a couple more times to a new spot with no luck. Then a Thud. I stopped my fly for a split second, and all of the sudden the line started flying out of my hand. I set the hook and the fish changed direction. I started the chase running from one end of the pond to the other like a mad man (which I’m sure the drunk teenagers got a real kick out of).

After about 5 minutes. I pulled the fish to the net (at least what of him would fit). Flicked on my headlamp and could not believe my eyes. It was a 20 plus inch Bass (not hard to figure out as my net’s only 20 inches). I grabbed my phone to snap a quick pic, and pulled out the lip scale. The fish weighed in at just over 5 pounds!

This was my best Bass in a long, long, long time. I was shaking uncontrollably. I didn’t want to let go, but I remembered that I had to get this fish back in the water as soon as possible. I set him gently in, and “whack” a flip of the tail to my face and this big boy had a little retribution.

I sat there for a moment breaking down my gear, just taking it all in.

As I walked (maybe even skipped a little, wait did I just write that?) back to the Urban Fly Mobile, I was starting to enjoy this, as Dan says

“Addiction called Urban Night Fishin”!

I’ve been over to Heartwell a couple of times over the last week or so, with an hour or two to fish in between work and other commitments. From this experience I can tell you two things; the Sunsets in Southern California are amazing and the Bass are switching from the Spawn to attack mode.

The other day I strolled up from the parking lot to find a few of the regulars fishing the lake, along with a couple of guys I had never seen before. I did a quick walk around scoping for beding fish, and keeping an eye out for roaming Bluegill.

After spotting quite a few Panfish in the shallows and a few Males still guarding fry, I decided to throw a size 8 Minnow imitation with a 5x leader, since the fish are still a little skiddish from being fished so hard.

After a couple of casts I had a decent 1 1/2 Pound Male off a bed and a couple of Juvies sitting on structure.

I decide to move over to the other side of the lake and started talking to Juan (a regular Conventional Guy at the Lake), when I heard the all too familiar grunt of a Bass Guy setting the hook on a baitcaster. So we walked over to see what all the commotion was about, and the guy was hooting and hollering about being stuck on something (running back and forth trying to get his lure free).

We both noticed he was pulling in on a lot of line, and then it dawned on us that he had a Carp on the other end.

I sat there watching him as he struggled to bring the fish to the surface, realizing he was going to need my net. After about 15 minutes the mammoth beast was in the net (well only half of it would fit) and he had just caught about a 15 pound carp.

Not super long, but one of the thickest ones that I have ever seen, and with the yank of his lure he had foul hooking the fish in its fin. After a couple of glory shots the behemoth was back in the water, none the worse and I think that was the most excitement I’ve has watching a Conventional guy catch a fish!

Let me start off by saying that I do know “El Dorado” does not mean Panfish in Spanish (I was trying to be witty). But anyway I made it over to El Dorado Park Lakes the other day for my long overdue reunion with the El Do Panfish that seem to love my flies.

I don’t know what it is? I go to lakes all over So Cal (and even other states) and usually catch all kinds of Bass. Yet it seems that the ones at El Dorado just want nothing to do with me.  Good thing this is UrbanFlyVentures and we don’t shy away from catching all species of fish, so I downsized and the magnets (I mean flies) started bringing in the fish.

Now I’ve caught Bluegills that were so tiny, they made me question why & how in the world they got caught on a fly bigger than their mouth. But the saucers here can be large and in charge!

The fly of the day seemed to be a size 14 Mysis Shrimp from The Trout Spot, and the fish were just falling all over it. It seemed like the fly barely even had time to hit the water before bang, and I had another fish on.

After about 2 hours I had literally pulled in about 50 fish (and 5 species at that)!

Those are the kind of days that seem to make me addicted to Urban Fly Fishing. You feel like you can walk up to any portion of the lake (it doesn’t matter what fly you have on) and catch fish all day long, until your arm hurts so bad from casting you just decide to go home.

I need days like that, especially coming out of the Winter (or as I like to call it the yearly fishing Armageddon)!

Well and wouldn’t you know it, I even stumbled across a couple of little Largemouth along the way, not big (trust me the big bass are in there) but a Bass is a Bass is a Bass!

Now, it’s not like we haven’t tried. Over the last several weekends my fishing buddy, Sean and I have hit assorted local waters both separately and together with little to show for our efforts.

This Sunday however, the dry streak finally broke in a most unexpected way. Sean was down for the count with some kind of intestinal bug and I had several things to attend to all day Saturday and most of Sunday morning. But late Sunday afternoon while out on some errands with my beautiful bride she just happened to mention that she wouldn’t object too much if we happened to stop by one of the local lakes and perhaps…fished a little. (Sorry guys, she’s all mine).

Anyway, after bringing the car back into the proper lane and apologizing to the guy in the silver SUV who now had Starbucks all over the inside of his windshield, I made a quick adjustment to our itinerary and had us over at Legg Lake in no time at all.

The fact that we immediately found a parking space right near the start of the path leading to my favorite spot only served to confirm, in my mind, that I had chosen wisely.

It wasn’t until I opened the back of our vehicle that I realized that I had only one fly rod in the car and since my wife had made it fairly clear that she was willing to go fishing on the condition that she could practice her fly casting, it seemed like an obvious conclusion that I wasn’t going to be.

Fortunately, long time readers will recall, I vowed way back in July during our trip to Connecticut that I would ALWAYS have a plan “B”.  Sure enough, tucked down under a couple of duffels sat an unremarkable black case in which I just happened to have my trusty Penfishingrods.com collapsible Goliath model rod and matching reel. (For which I paid full price and do not receive endorsement reimbursement for mentioning, by way of full disclosure).

It was a beautiful moment.

So, after rigging the 5-weight up with an olive wooly bugger for the Mrs. we headed down to the water. When we got down to the lake it was blatantly clear that the burn I mentioned earlier was an epidemic. I hadn’t seen so many fishermen at Legg for weeks.

These guys were fishing hard. Most had multiple rigs with dark colored plastic worms and oversized swimbaits dominating the menu. One guy had a backpack set up with at least six baitcasting poles pointing heaven ward. From a distance he looked like a walking cell tower. The atmosphere was cordial but intense.

We picked a spot where I had success catching everything from Bluegill to Carp to Bass to Trout. I reviewed some technique with my wife and stepped a few yards away with the Penrod and a tiny single-hooked trout-patterned lure. She worked on her backcast while I gently shouted encouragement and suggestions her way (keyword: Gently. Think domestic tranquility. Also remember I don’t like our couch as a sleeping platform).

All the while I just sort of plinked around with my rig. After one particularly well executed cast on the fly rod I was praising my Beloved when I felt the telltale twitch of a hit on the little lure.

I set the hook and the battle was on.

As is made abundantly clear on their website, the key to success with a Penrod is maintaining a loose drag and being patient.

My wife noticed the splashing fish but not that I was tied on to it. She excitedly pointed at it and suggested that I cast toward all the commotion. I gently explained that I was actually the reason the fish was acting so strangely.

Now, I’m not gonna lie to you and say that my little protracted battle was nowhere near as exciting as if I had been on a fly rod because frankly, it’s been a looong winter and I was just so happy to actually have a sizeable fish on that I could have been using a broomstick and wouldn’t have cared. So Purists, say what you will — I was fishin’!

Long story short, I’ll let the photo do the talking. It looks like it is gonna be a great Spring and Summer.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

Follow Up

Bass Spawning Habits North American Fishing Club.

Yesterday I awoke to my alarm screaming in my ear. Apparently I had forgotten how exited I was supposed to about going fly fishing. I rolled out of bed, threw on the “Urban Gear”, and drove pver to the nearest coffee joint. After downing the Joe and realizing how overcast it looked, I was starting to second guess getting out of my warm comfortable bed.

I arrived at the Park, pulled out the Okuma 5 weight, and placed my polarized sunglasses on top my head. As I rigged up I looked around the lake to see only one Conventional Bass Fisherman and a couple of people walking their dogs. As I approached the edge of the water and stripped out my line, I looked down to see a puff of dirt on the water. As it cleared I realized I was standing directly over a Bass Bed.

Could they already be spawning? Is the Water really warm enough?

Well apparently it was. As I walked around the lake I spotted over 20 more beds, and about 30 Bass! I snipped off my Woolly Bugger and Tied on a GullEy Worm Bead head, and started working the beds with Fly Version of the Conventional Flip and Pitch.

4 Bass later I was thinking to myself, did this really just happen? Had I really just stumbled on the beginning of a spawn at the perfect time?

Oh yes I had, and This is Urban Fly Venturing at it’s finest!

Not that anyone really had to make much of an effort to hear a Chicago tune back then since they got a lot of airtime on the radio.

In any event, I can’t say that I was a diehard fan like him. I was struggling just to pick up the nuances of pre-algebra so it seemed like a waste of brain power to memorize concert dates and useless trivia about the kinds of foods various band member liked and so on and so on. Rather, I remained just an ordinary kid who liked some of their songs and would usually sing along to the ones I liked  — provided certain young ladies weren’t around.

Anyway, one of the Chicago songs that I liked (and still do) was, “Saturday in the Park”.

Now, I am just old enough to remember going to some of the parks around L.A. and seeing the balloon venders walking around with, what seemed like, hundreds of bright, helium balloons swaying in the breeze and I am also just old enough to remember the organ grinder guys standing near the merry-go-rounds cranking their tinny sounding hand organs and “singing Italian songs” while their little dressed up monkeys did tricks and then approached you with a tin cup to collect loose change.

I can also remember family outings in the park when we would by ice cream from the man selling it out of a little rolling cart and I remember playing baseball, rolling down the grassy hills just for fun and watching old men argue over Bocce ball and horseshoes. I can even remember rowing around one or two of the lakes – lakes that I now fish – in a rented rowboat with my Dad.

I guess you could say I like that old Chicago song, ‘cause I lived it, even if only for a brief (but happy) period in my young life.

So, you can probably already guess my serendipitous delight, when my fishing buddy, Sean and I encountered a “Saturday in the Park” scenario the other day when we shot over to Heartwell Park in Long Beach to fish the little pond there.

We both had had a very busy week and the weekend was fast slipping away. We both had also wanted to get in some late season fly fishin’ before the start of another equally busy week however morning obligations which then turned into a leisurely lunch with our beautiful brides meant we had to pick a place really close if we were going to get in any time at all on the water before dark.

Heartwell seemed like the obvious choice – not just because of where we were but also because my annual pass to El Dorado Park had just expired.

Sean had scoped Heartwell Park out a couple of weekends ago but despite the fact that I drive by it all the time, I had never actually been there. Upon arriving at the park, I was immediately (and nostalgically) charmed by the well-tended little pond, the trees, the thoughtfully placed benches and the meandering paths. As we rigged our fly rods up and walked towards the little pond, the lowering sun cast long shadows across the wide expanses of grass and also turned the pond water a rosy pink color. I noticed couples of all ages and description sauntering arm in arm along the paths around us talking and laughing. I noticed a young man playing his guitar off in the distance and a couple of kids dancing to the music in their heads. I also noticed a veritable smorgasbord of dog breeds parading past with their owners in tow as we worked our way around the concrete bank. It was a scene that I hadn’t seen in a long time — a real celebration.

Charmed as I was, I didn’t forget the purpose of our little expedition and I managed to hook onto a small Bass on my third or fourth cast while Sean tied on to a couple of sunfish straight away. We each continued pulling in small fish while curious families stopped to watch for a moment or two but then went back to whatever game or activity it was that they were involved in and left us to our fishing.

Eventually, a gentleman did approach Sean and, as fishermen are prone to do, they got to talking. They back and forthed about different places they had each fished and different techniques the had each used and then this generous stranger shared a little history about the pond we were standing at that he had garnered from watching it being drained and cleaned a few years ago.

He wished us well and continued with his late afternoon stroll. We immediately positioned ourselves to take advantage of this new-found intel and within moments Sean had hooked on to yet another fish. I was several yards away, working a corner under a large tree but when he threw his net on the ground, (sort of our unofficial signal for help), I laid my rod down and scooted over to where he was successfully bringing in a fat and sassy twelve-inch largemouth Bass who had fallen for the tried and try black wooly bugger pulled along at a fairly quick clip in short strips of line.

Now, with all of the excitement this fish generated from the two of us and with all the subsequent flash from Sean’s camera lighting up the twilight like fireworks you might have thought our afternoon in the park “was the fourth of July”.

Can you dig it?

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

Let me just start out by saying that I love Fly Fishing for Bass. They can be as picky as Trout,  and as ferocious as a pike launching after it’s prey. They are the reason why I started Fly Fishing, and the species I target the most. Growing up in Southern California means that my childhood was filled with warm memories of Bass Fishing just about anywhere I could(including the local golf courses).

So, it was not much of a leap to start out targeting Bass when I picked up the Fly Rod. A couple of Woolly Buggers and some 5x and I was hitting the local park as soon as the sun started over the horizon.

Moving on from my love affair with Bass and yet staying on the same subject. Last Saturday I decided to head up to Peck Road Park, a water reclamation center that I have heard has great Bass Fishing. I got off the 605 and on to the side streets, pulled into the parking lot with a morning drizzle coming down on my Okuma fishing hat. I reached for the 5 weight and the 4x and off I went, in search of hopefully Bass and anything else that was willing to take a fly.

I was extremely disappointed right off the bat. I hit the shallow end of the lake with no luck in what looked like 5- 10 text book Bass Spots. As I moved over to the deeper end of the lake, I started seeing fish cruising the water. The nibbles started and the fishing was in full force. I started pulling out Bass on almost every cast. Small little guys (maybe only 10-14 inches long). But hey now, Bass are Bass no matter what size (and any fish is better than a skunk).

As I made my way around to the other side of the lake, I noticed what looked like an orange road hazard cone at every hole. It would suddenly disappear as I made my decent onto the shore line. It was not until about the 5th spot that I realized it was a great Carnival Prize (Goldfish) sipping the roots along the shoreline. At the next section I ripped out about 50 feet of line and threw down a cast only to have the fish take the fly and turn for the deep water with a fury vengeance. I set the hook and snap, my Prize Goldfish had made a jailbreak.

Things like that just have a way of breaking your little fishing heart. I went home with dreams of showing off my Monster Goldfish in the next LA County fair crushed, and a realization that I should be fishing any water reclaimation center I can get my hands on.

This week has been crazy thus far. Work is picking up; we’re getting all of our stuff packed to move; family issues are running rampant, and I needed to get out and fish. Fly Fishing is the one thing in my life that can take my mind off of anything. As soon as I pick up the rod I step into a different world, and nothing but catching fish and enjoying nature matters.

I arrived at the park and the water was flat. The temperature was starting to rise and I could see the shad hitting the surface, as Little Bass chased them around the lake. I’m not sure how the little Shad got there and how they sustain every year, but there they are! (I have netted a few and caught a couple on little dry flies).

I tied on a small white Flash-A-Bugger with a trailing White Mysis Shrimp Imitation. My imitations of the Shad seem to drive the Largemouth Bass wild every time. I throw a cast as far out into the middle of the lake as I can, and start an extremely fast twiching retrieve.

Now this tactic only seems to work for me in the late Summer through late Fall, the rest of the year I can cast until my arm falls off (usually without one hit). I usually will catch a small Bass on about every 5-10 casts and on good days I feel bites on every cast.

At first I thought, well it must be the flash fooling the fish. So I tried other colors, Black, Olive, Purple, Yellow, Rust, with only a few bites. Then I thought, well maybe it’s the color, and I tied on the same white Woolly Bugger and Mysis Shrimp without any flash tied in. Guess what? NO BITES! Okay so now I am thoroughly convinced it is the color and the flash imitating one of these little shad running for it’s life.

On this day the Bass were relatively small anywhere from 5-12 Inches, but I have caught big Bass on this rig.

I especially remember one morning being out just after the sun had come up. I tied up my rig, cast into the center of the lake , and started stripping vigorously. Just as I was about to pick up my fly and recast, a huge Bass came flying out of the water attacking my fly like a Great White Shark after a seal. He was hooked and the fight began. I chased the bass around the lake for about 10 minutes and when he finally was close enough to lip I bent down hands shaking, and with one more shake of his giant head my fly came loose and hit me square in the forehead. I pulled the fly of my skin to find that he had totally bent out the hook and by the looks of the Bass he was pushing 8-10 pounds (that is one big park lake Bass)!

Hopefully next time I get a monster like that there will be a photo to follow, and smiles for days!

I arrived not really knowing what to expect. I had not fished with either of them before, and was not really sure what they were hoping to gain from the trip. Did they just want to talk to me? Did they want some fishing advise? Or was there some other motive?

Always excited to meet someone new and gain some fishing insight. I pulled up and they were waiting for me anxiously. I said “hi”, and they quickly asked “you bring any Poppers”. “I advised as a matter of fact, I brought just about every fly I own,  I wasn’t sure what species or tactic you guys were after”. The brother advised that he wanted to show me some cool tactics he had learned for all flies in the popper category: poppers, chuggers, sliders, etc. All in exchange for a little info on a few tactics for Carp in streams.

A fair deal I thought and we got right down to it. We fished a total of about two and a half hours, and I was amazed at how many fish we caught in that time span. Usually when I’m getting a lesson catching fish isn’t really involved. But wow! Did I ever walk away with a new sense of confidence on how to fish these flies.

I was asked to keep the names anonymous for reasons I am really not sure, but a big “THANK YOU” to John Doe non the less!

So talk to people, get involved in a forum, and you never know what valuable information you might gain!

Just landed back in the Mainland last night from our trip to Hawaii. It was an amazing vacation filled with time for family, site seeing, and even some time out on the water with my fly rod.

The trip was mainly for my wife to visit her Grandparents and her Dad, and for me to visit my Grandparents. In between visit however we did manage to do some site seeing like visiting Iolani Palace and Snorkeling in Hanauma Bay.

Before I left on my trip to the islands, I got into contact with one of our site followers Chris who knows the island and the fish on it extremely well. The weather patterns have been a little strange there for the last few weeks and the Saltwater bit has been slow. So, we decided that it would be best to hit up th local  Nuuanu Stream in the morning and get out on the flats in the afternoon when the tide was coming in.

The morning started off interesting with me missing the cutoff sign for the stream, and getting lost. I found my way back to the road to find my host waiting for me on the side of the road to flag me over to my parking destination. We talked for a few minutes and he briefed me on the terrain and the equipment to use.

The fishing was amazing. We both managed a few Smallmouth Bass, I think I caught about 15 (since he gave me all the good holes to fish) within a hour or two. The hiking was a little strenuous in the rain with us (mainly me) slipping and falling all over the stream, but the results were well worth it.

I want to give a big Mahalo to Chris for showing me this little stretch of paradise!

The local weather conditions and temperatures are such that Fish & Game is stocking both catfish and trout at many of the local urban lakes. This influx of fish is stirring up all kinds of fishing activity. For most of us brownliners that’s about as close to winning the lottery as it gets.

A quick stop at or even a drive-by past many of the local waters will easily confirm this and will attest to the fact that while we may not be a lot of things, we urban anglers are apparently quite literate, at least as far as fishing news is concerned and we apparently follow the stocking schedules the way blue-haired heiresses consult astrological charts — that is, frequently and faithfully.

This past week, for example, Sean and I managed to connect for about an hour and a half between appointments to squeeze in some fly-fishin’. We expected to find a couple of guys soaking bait but instead the lake we choose to hit was packed with a horde of fellow anglers catching everything from Bass to Trout to Catfish to Crappie on just about every kind of rig imaginable.

It was, as is often said in fishing circles, “wide open” and the local angling community responded accordingly and enthusiastically.

We found some decent and promising looking shoreline and I began tossing Sean’s variation of a bead head wooly bugger that I call “Fenner’s Phat Fly”. It’s olive green and black, has a little bit of flash in it (appropriately “ghetto” enough for the urban fly fishing environment) and it has been catching me a whole boatload of fish for the last three weeks. Sure, it is getting a little ratty looking and I’ve had to re-bend and re-sharpen the hook after snagging it in a bush and what not but, I gotta say, I’m lovin’ this fly.

Anyway, it worked it’s magic again and I landed a couple of Bass in short order. While I was playing one Bass, Sean hooked up to a Trout and a bait fisherman a few yards away landed a catfish – all within the space of about five minutes. Like I said, wide open.

Perhaps because of the frequency and relative ease of actually catching fish or maybe due to the density of fisherfolk or possibly even because of the crisp freshness of the air but whatever the reason, there seemed to be an overall congeniality at this lake that went beyond the norm. Don’t get me wrong, SoCal anglers are almost always cordial even if we don’t speak the same native tongue, which is highly likely since, according to linguistics experts, there are something like 224 different languages spoken in SoCal, not counting variations in dialect. This just seemed to go beyond mere courtesy and I ended up in several conversations including one that led to an invite down to the casting pond at Recreation Park in Long Beach from a member of the Long Beach Casting Club.

The LB Casting Club has night sessions and informal casting clinics every Tuesday and Thursday in addition to a whole bunch of other activities throughout the year ranging from rod-building clinics to multi-day excursions. I’ll have to check my calendar and go check it out. We will be sure to post the outcome when we do.

Anyway, as I made my way around the lake, I got pointers on the best fly lines, the best flies, the best fly rods to use on urban lakes and so on and so on which was rather amusing since Sean and I were the only ones actually fly fishing. Still it was all good-natured and sincere and considering that I was consistently bringing in a few decent fish under an amazing sunset, it was a pretty good day.

With darkness settling in and a whole bunch more catfish anglers arriving on the scene, Sean and I decided to pack it in and head off to our next appointment. As long as we kept the duck muck off our shoes, no one at our next meeting would even have to know that we had been happily fly fishing just minutes earlier.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’

Case in point: I recently wrote that much of what we do in fly-fishing is to look for identifiable patterns that we can imitate or exploit.

Well, as soon as that declaration was in print — stuff happened.

Not that I’m complaining. To the contrary, I ended up having a good morning…  a really good morning. Sure, it included a breakfast burrito with a little crow in it, but it was still a good morning and besides, I was able to spit out most of the feathers before they caused any permanent damage.

You see, Mondays are generally our “office and errand” day. Normally, I’m up and immediately at the computer or fixing the stuff that needs fixing or out the door with “to-do” list, checkbook, dirty laundry, stack of mail and an enormous cup-of-coffee-to-make-it-all-possible in hand.

But this last Monday, thanks in part to the time change, I awoke with the first rays of the sun peeking over… well, the neighbor’s house — but you know what I mean.  Anyway, I awoke to a beautiful, clear and sunny sky.

It was one of those mornings that seem to happen every morning in the movies unless it is a horror film, which I never watch anyway. It was simply too good of a morning to start off in front of the computer, no matter how fresh or tasty the coffee or how urgent the e-mail messages.

So I quickly readied up, kissed my still sleeping wife and headed off to La Mirada Park.

Sure enough, there were numerous early morning walkers, a knot of laughing, joking older gentlemen occupying a couple of shaded benches set back on a short rise, a couple of maintenance workers, but no fisher-folk.

I rigged up a new carp fly that I recently purchased from Mad River Outfitters  and began some “research”.

Within five minutes, I was rewarded with a Largemouth Bass followed, in short order, by several more Bass. Sure, they were on the small size, but they beat out the boatload of waiting-to-be-opened spam e-mails from a whole crew of totally honest attorneys in Nigeria representing the multi-million dollar estates of recently and tragically deceased relatives I never knew I had.

I continued a slow, leisurely pace around the lake pulling in small Bass about every five minutes.

About half way around the lake, as I was stripping in the fly with short, fast pulls, my rod doubled over.

That doesn’t happen often enough, so it feels good just putting it in writing. In fact, I’ll write it again: My rod doubled over instead of the normal gentle twitching that indicates a Trout or Panfish or even the short Bass I was catching on the other end of the line.

My first thought was Carp. After all, I did have a carp fly on the end of my tippet and there are numerous large Carp in the lake but… something didn’t add up.  There was no line-eating, blazing fast run, no wild thrashing, no splashing, just a hard, steady, consistent pull.

My next thought was turtle. I hate snagging turtles. We used to work at a vet hospital that was licensed to see wildlife and frequently an angler would bring in a turtle that he or she had snagged or hooked. It was always a huge pain to try and remove the hook or untangle the line from a ticked off, biting, peeing and snapping turtle. The soft-shelled turtles were the worse. They have these incredibly long necks, nasty beaks and even nastier dispositions that make handling them difficult at best and dangerous at worst.

So, I groaned and hoped that it wouldn’t be a turtle and I wouldn’t lose my new fly to some hissing, whizzing soft shell.

Still my rod stayed doubled over.

Whatever was at the other end was moving in a slow zig-zag pattern and it was getting tired. Since I only had a 7x tippet I wanted to be very careful. (I know, I know, I should have been using a 4x or so but I really had only intended to play with the carp fly before switching over to something smaller. It just started working so darn well.)

Anyway, I glanced at my watch and decided to time this little tug of war. At eight and half minutes, I finally saw the head of my opponent – a catfish! And a decent size one at that.

At twelve minutes plus change, I was able to land a ten and half inch cat AND get my fly back.

Needless to say, it has been a lot of fun telling some of my other fishin’ buddies that I landed a catfish on a fly. Most of these guys are the powerbait and mackerel strips type of catfish anglers so the looks on their faces have been priceless.

Of course, they instantly remind me that it is not the normal “pattern” for cats to hit flies.

To which I reply, “Good thing fish don’t follow web blogs, eh?”

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

Southern fish experiencing identity crises

By Celia Rivenbark

Next time Bubba and Billy Bob  go fishing, they might discover the fish more or less moseys onto the hook, languishes on the line and then passively lays there in the cooler smoothing its scales instead of flailing.

Scientists have discovered estrogen in the water is making fish, particularly large-mouthed bass in the South, less aggressive. Turns out 70 to 90 percent of the bass in ponds across the Southeast have both male and female sex characteristics.

Which goes a long way toward explaining why some of the time they want to pound beers with the guys at BW3′s and the rest of the time they get giddy about the semi-annual shoe sale at Dillard’s .

This new revelation could result in a recall of that horrid wall plaque with the singing bass on it. Instead of singing “Take Me to the River” perhaps some show tunes would be in order. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The bigger worry here is where all this estrogen is coming from and why is it so much more prevalent in the Southeast? In Alaska’s   Yukon River , for instance, fish are completely free of the intersex condition, preferring to wear lumberjack plaid shirts for the boys and something slightly slutty from  Forever 21  for the girls. Well, almost.

Scientists say this gender-bending may hamper the ability of fish to reproduce. With so many male fish taking on female characteristics, the fish are in a sort of sexual limbo, sadly disinterested in procreation.

Oh, if only deer, squirrels and Kardashians would acquire this particular affliction. I’m just kidding. I don’t really have anything against squirrels. Or deer.

Scientists also say there is no harm to the consumer in eating intersex fish. It’s not as if you’re eating those 24-eyed fish swimming around the nuke pond on “The Simpsons.” The absolute worst thing that would happen is that, if you’re a boy, well, your “bidness” will fall off. So what?

Having spent my formative years fishing in country ponds and catching more than a few large- and small-mouthed bass myself, I think this is going to make for some depressing trips in the future. The fun is in the fight! If the fish simply yawns in my direction and suggests a light breading of panko crumbs with a modest pinot on the side, there’s no real sport in that.

Of course this is serious business and I’m sure more than a few of you will write to say this is an ecological nightmare and they wish my “bidness” would fall off, too. In the meantime, stop flushing your birth control pills (?!) and give our Southern bass a chance to get their groove back. Are we good?

Taken From: http://www.jewishworldreview.com/1009/rivenbark.php3