But this was different. I have seen a few Trout stocked in Urban Lakes rising, but these Bows were going nuts. I tied on a Stimulator hands shaking with probably the worst knot I have ever tied, wanting nothing more at that moment then to get a fly in the water.

First Cast the Stimulator hit the water and a 1 1/2 pound fish hit the surface like it was the only food  he had ever seen. The pounce was so reckless, the fly didn’t even get in it’s mouth. At this point my knees were shaking and I swung out a roll cast to the same spot and same result only with a fish on the other end of the line. It fought really good for a hatchery raised trout (especially since the recent stockings have producing really weak fish).

3rd cast same result, another fish in the net. Could I be dreaming? Three casts and 2 fish at a Park Lake at the end of the season. What was going on? I didn’t want to find out so I kept  casting and the Rainbows kept coming.

As the sun set I realized that I had been there for about 2 hours and I had caught over 20 fish. Like I said there are just some day where you get flat out lucky. I sat down on the bench on the other side of the park and watched as the sun set on one of the most amazing Trout days I have ever had, and it wasn’t on a Lake, River, or Stream it was at an Urban Park about 10 minutes from my house.

“Now That’s Urban Fly Fishing”

Sometimes fishing doesn’t go the way you want it to and the catching becomes more like searching and coming up empty. So after a while and only 2 fish caught I decided to take a few pictures of the beautiful sunset.

I hear from so many people things like “Why would you want to fish at a Park Lake?” or “You Fly Fish around the corner from your house, that can’t be very pretty?”

Well take a look at these pictures and tell me that a Park Lake can’t be as beautiful as a stream in the hills of Montana. Beauty is in the perspective and my mine says that fishing in the city holds a mystique all it’s own. Try it sometime and see if it doesn’t get into your blood.

Since I started “Brownlining“, I don’t remember looking at a body of water without thinking “I know I could pull a fish out of there“.

If nothing else, fishing is about patterns. We obsessed anglers spend serious amounts of time seeking to figure out movement patterns, feeding patterns, breeding patterns and behavioral patterns. We watch and try to understand weather patterns, and lunar patterns and tidal patterns. We pour over articles on hydrological flow patterns and sedimentation patterns. We follow trends in equipment and materials to better grasp those patterns. We study solar patterns and wind patterns and insect life cycle patterns.

If we are smart, we establish a pattern of making notes and keeping records and filing away bits and pieces of information in the recesses of our minds. And if we are careful, we acquire a pattern of consistently catching fish. Otherwise, we just establish a pattern for wasting time while beating the surface of water.

In this regard, we are very much like any other predator in pursuit of prey: the Mountain Lion waiting silently along the well-worn deer trail leading down to the stream, the spider sitting in the middle of its web carefully placed to intersect hapless moths as they shuttle along well established flight paths just beneath the canopy, the red-tailed hawk circling the open areas between buildings where they have the best opportunity to catch the field mice scurrying along their trails from burrow to burrow.

Likewise, it is no secret that in the urban fishing environment, the objects of our obsession living in these heavily pressured lakes and streams quickly learn our patterns and respond accordingly. Normally voracious Bass will seriously slow down their normal eating habits and watch hundreds of dollars worth of lures pass by every weekend.

Carp at many SoCal urban lakes will practically go into some Zen-like state and sit tight all day Saturday and Sunday only to cautiously go active again on Monday.

The long and short of it is we are all trying to figure out the other guy’s patterns so we can claim a pattern of success.

Now of all the patterns I try to monitor, the one pattern I rather dislike is the annual change from Daylight Savings Time. Perhaps if I had a herd of cows that I needed to milk at some sick hour of the morning and needed the light or if my field plow didn’t have headlights I might feel differently but this time change nonsense really bugs me. It disrupts my pattern…or as one of our formerly hippie clients likes to say, “it harshes my mellow”.

Apparently, I am not alone in this irritation.

This year the time change falls on Halloween. I haven’t looked far enough ahead to know if that is how it is going to stay or if it is going to move around yet again but for now it falls on Halloween. Not that I’m big into the Halloween thing but our church hosts an alternative event to trick or treating every year so I will be busy most of Saturday afternoon and evening.

Anyway, my fishin’ buddy, Sean must have felt the same sense of annoyance with the time change as he text messaged yesterday to ask if I wanted to get in one last late afternoon of fishing before the time change. The annoyance part was communicated with the closing comment, “stinkin’ time change”.

Since both of our lovely brides were going to be attending an all girl event with singing and squealing and hugging and such, I was only too happy to respond with a yes.

We headed over to Cerritos Regional Park where we knew we wouldn’t get chased out at sunset and where the path around the lake is actually lighted – in case the fishing turned out to be really good and we ended up staying past dark.

The sun was sinking fast so we wasted no time in getting on the water. We were rewarded with immediate hits by some young-of-the-year bass and some bluegill. We quickly figured out that the most productive pattern was to cast parallel to the edge of the pond and strip in line fairly quickly.

I headed off to the left and Sean headed to the right. I had a few more hits but Sean seemed to have found the pocket and got several hits on his dropper nymph.

As it got darker, we both switched over to krystal buggers. Sean again found the ball of fish and pulled in quite a few decent panfish. Again, he figured out that the pattern for these particular fish was for them to hit hard and then move, en masse, along the bank. He was able to follow them as they moved and scored many more strikes.

Now, I’m not a huge fan of fly fishin’ in the dark – I can barely see the hook eye as it is, and my pattern has been to pack up and go home when I can’t see my hands anymore but this was a great way to send off the last remaining afternoon of DST. We both concluded that having a lighted park relatively close to home was the perfect remedy to the “dark by 5:00 blues”.

We decided on the spot that we will make it our pattern to return to this little park during the short days of winter and count our blessings that we don’t have to hang up the fly rods until the Spring thaw.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

 However you look at it, the Dog Days have always been associated with heat, sweat, and insanity.

 So, now that we have that little detail cleared up, you will understand what I’m talking about when I say that Sean and I got to experience our own little taste of the Dog Days this past weekend as we headed out to Cerritos Regional County Park for what we thought would be a couple of hours of Urban fly lining.

 As it turned out, we picked one of the hottest days of the year, so far, to walk around a nearly shadeless lake while battling a stiff, hot, westerly breeze only to come up completely skunked…as in zip, zero, nada. If you don’t think that is enough to drive either of us to the point of insanity, you just haven’t been following this site long enough.

 Anyway, It’s not as though the location was bad—especially compared to some of the places we usually fish. I never once felt the urge to check for my back up weapon. Cerritos Regional Park is a nice, tidy, well designed family park in the middle of a nice, tidy suburb just a few miles southeast of downtown L.A.. It has plenty of sturdy, clean picnic tables and open spaces where families can barbeque and kids can play pick up games of football and tag and the like while the grownups lounge on fold-up chairs under insta-shelter canopies. The grass is mostly green and well maintained and everything just… looks good…”All Ozzie and Harriet”, as we used to say in the ‘hood.

 But as anyone who has fished for more than a week will attest, looks ain’t everything. Turns out we just could not catch a break.

 We tried wooly buggers, nymphs, dry/nymph combos, poppers, mild profanity and outright bribery but nothing worked.

 I once read somewhere that the Romans would sacrifice a small, brown dog at the start of the Dog Days in a futile attempt to ward of the maladies associated with the season. There was a middle-aged couple strolling the perimeter of the lake with a tan Chihuahua but they simply wouldn’t part with the little mutant.

 We called it an early day and took our wives for pizza instead.