What I mean by comfort fishing is getting out to one of  your Honey Holes. A place where no matter what the conditions, you are going to catch something!

Lately the Winter Fishing Blues have got me dreaming of big bedding Largemouth Bass, although I don’t mind catching a Rainbow Trout or two as evident in my last post Timing is Everything.

 Micropterus salmoides of the Black Bass family is defintely the species closest to my Fly Fishing Heart.

Being the stubborn person that I am, I’ve been hitting the local Park Lakes in hopes of sneaking in a couple of fish before early spring.

However the fishing has been slow, and the couple of Bass that I’ve been able to get on the other end of the line are on let’s just say the “Small Side”.

So what is an Urban Bass Fly Fishing Fanatic to do?

I’ll tell you what I’m to do, head to a little stream Honey Hole in Northern Orange County that produces Green Sunfish all year long.

Okay they’re not Largemouth Bass, but they look similar and they are a ton of fun to catch.

I arrived at my Honey Hole dusting off my 3 weight and pulling out an assortment of Trout Flies.

A little size 16 Caddis with a dropper 18 Red Copper John tied on and I was off to the races. I’m talking fish, after fish, after fish!

After about an hour. I had pulled in over 40 Greenies and I decided I had all the comfort I needed.

Refreshed, I drove away already drifting off into thoughts of what the spring Bass Fishing of 2012 will have to offer.

I know the fish I caught were small, and most people want to see us catching some huge 10 pound Largemouth Bass out of Castaic Lake with Larry Kurosaki in the front of the boat.

Trust me, so would I!

But that’s just not us. We are just a couple of regular guys that love Fly Fishing, and love to catch fish no matter how big or small.

It’s just about the Urban Fly Venturing, a Disease Worth Catching!

It’s that time of year. Fall is upon us. All of the sudden I need an extra cup of coffee to get up in the morning, and somehow I’ve gone from 24 to 65 years old within a matter of days. 

The shorter days mean less light, and less light means less time to fish. The only reason that I don’t fish at night during the cold season, is just as the name suggests it’s COLD!

Having been born and raised here in So Cal, I’m basically a wimp if the weather drops below 50 degrees.

But, I digress.

The point is that the warmwater species will start hunkering down. Their metabolisms will slow, they will pass up my flies, and I will start spending way too much time clean and organizing my fly gear.

Basically, the point is that I try to make the most of the time I have left. I’ve been hitting the closest body of water before work, after work, and just about any other 30 minute session that I can squeeze in.

This time on the water has really tested my skills as an angler. The fish have gotten selective, but under the right conditions the payoff can be nice.

I have literally caught more big “er” Sunfish in the last couple of weeks, than I have the whole rest of the year. I guess the little guys just can’t muster the energy to make a dash at my fly.

So don’t give in to your instincts and turn into a bear that hibernates the cold weather away. Or maybe even turn into a Fly Guy that only gets out when you can catch the Blueline. The local puddles still have a lot to offer, even on those cold and windy days.

The Brownline might be slowing down, but sometimes a little change in pace is all that we need to get our mind back in the game!

Urban Fly Venturing, a Disease Worth Catching!

So, imagine my frustration when I pulled up to my chosen destination only to be confronted by two hundred or so high-school age cross-country runners as well as dozens and dozens of orange safety cones, yellow tape and a half dozen coaches barking orders and blowing chrome whistles.

Now, any normal person would have stayed in the car and headed over to the nearest regional park which was only about fifteen minutes away.

But the operative words here were: “squeeze” and “normal”.

I did not want to sacrifice even another fifteen minutes battling more SoCal commuter traffic than I had just taken on and I did not want to spend five dollars on admission to a place I was only going to be at for an hour or two at most.

So, I assessed.

I assessed and then modified my game plan so that, one way or another, I could fish.

From what I could discern from the layout of orange cones, the designated course for the runners appeared to follow the entire perimeter of the small body of water I had targeted and then seemed to disappear off into the surrounding hills before re-entering the park and looping around the lake again.

I figured that would mean a few moments of heavy foot traffic and then some relative peace followed by a steady stream of runners as the pack thinned and spread out according to the runner’s abilities and strategies.

Because of the proximity of the course to the water’s edge, I also figured out pretty quickly that fly-rodding was probably not gonna work so well. I already lose enough flies in bushes and low-hanging branches as it is, I didn’t particularly want to snag a lycra clad, eighty-five pound freshman in the middle of a race on the backcast.

So, I left my five–weight in the car and, instead, opted for my trusty Pen Rod Extreme with the MX-15 rear-drag spinning reel loaded with two-pound test.

I rigged up a tiny, clear bubble float with a size 16 treble suspended about eight-inches below it and baited the hook up with pink Powerbait crappie bits.

Then, with the rhythm of heavy breathing and running shoes pounding the dirt behind me, I start pulling out Bluegill like they were goin’ out of style.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly the most serene setting for fishin’…OK, it was anything but serene, but it sure was fun thanks to my day-saving, handy-dandy ultralight Pen Rod Extreme.

About an hour later, as the final runners wheezed across the finish line, I released the last of several dozen decent sized fish that, surprisingly, found pink crappie bits… irresistible.

So, while dozens of young people roamed post-race around the park looking pretty much worse for the wear — spittin’ and groaning and holding their sides and all, I gathered up my gear and felt pretty darn good considering the unexpected change in plans.

Like I said, it’s all about squeezing recreation into those free moments.

I love this addiction called urban “ultralight” fishin’.

I’ve been waiting, and waiting, and waiting!

Okay let me back up a little here. I’ve been fishing in the San Gabriel Mountains since I was a little kid, and one of the places that I used to love to hike up to was Crystal Lake. The lake has been on lock down since late 2005 due to fires, then rain, then road damage, and now it’s open.

This place holds a special place in my heart. It’s where I caught my first Largemouth Bass as a young boy, and has always made me feel so far away from everything going on in the world.

So enough reminiscing, the point I’m trying to make is that I finally had the chance to make it back up there a couple of weeks ago.

I arrived early in the morning and the parking lot was still closed. So I parked on the side of the road, put my Adventure Pass in the rear view mirror, picked up my Okuma 9′ 5 weight and off I went to relive my childhood.

After about a 1/4 mile uphill hike,  I arrived heart racing to see if it still looked the same. As I turned the corner it was like 14 years just rolled back, and there I was 10 years old with fishing gear in hand.

After a couple minutes I remembered that I was there to fish. I tied on a size 12 Beadhead Olive Flash-A-Bugger and after about three casts I was on a fish. I set the hook, the fish fought for a second, and then it came off.

I stood there in shock were there still Bass in here? Plus it fought like a really good one. I sharpened my hook and made sure I had completely mashed down the barb. After my next cast, another hit and another fish off.

I repeated this process about 5 more times with 2 more flies. What was going on? Do these fish have holes in their mouths?

By this time the sun had started to come up, and I decided to switch to a Hopper Dropper Rig.

One cast and I had a decent sized Green Sunfish in hand. This thing fought like a fish 3 times it’s size, and I couldn’t believe the girth for the length of the fish. Well at least the fish were healthy and abundant.

After about 5 Small Bass, 15 Green Sunfish and 1 missed Catfish, I decided to call it a day. People were starting to show up with their dogs and kids. Throwing rocks in the water and scaring away all the fish.

I packed up my rod and reel and started to head out, and as I turned the corner I heard a rustling in the trees and decided to investigate!

There was a small Pack (that’s probably not the right word) of deer, eating acorns (the deer were eating the acorns not the other way around) and moving toward the lake to get a drink of water.

What a day. I am so excited to see this little Lake in such great condition and please if any of you make it up there, pick up your trash and practice catch and release only!

I want nothing more than if I have children, for them to someday be able to enjoy this great little piece of my childhood.

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!

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’.

Fall (Autumn) call it what you may, it remains my arch nemesis. What kind of season is this? We have to fall back on time, and lose so many precious daylight hours. But the worst is the wind (let’s just say that I would never be able to survive in Chicago). I despise it, loath it, and I hate it with a passion!

Not wanting to sucumb to my internal instics and put all of my fishing gear away for the season. I headed out this last Saturday morning to get in a little Urban Park Fly Fishing. The whole drive to the park I just kept thinking to myself that I cannot stand the wind and trying to convince myself to head back home and hit the snooze button for a few hours. But, I am a Fly Fisherman at the deepest portions of my heart and the urge to fish won over.

Let’s just say that I’m glad that I listened to that little Fishing Voice in my head.

The Green Sunfish showed up in full action, and I got to hone a new Fly Fishing Skill. The Sunfish get weary about this time of year, and the littlest movement or shadow of any kind spooks the living daylights out of them. So you have to fish the hole under the concrete bank that they hide in, and then set that hook as soon as they poke their head out for a peak.

I tied on my “Fenner Bugger Special” a small heavily weighted Woolly Bugger that works a lot like a bass jig to lure my quarry out of hiding, and lure them out I did. Within about 2 hours I had caught more than I could count, and lost even more than that.

So, I guess the moral of the story is for me to stop being such a baby about the wind, and get out there to do some fall fishin. But, I’m just sayin the wind sucks.

I’m so glad I grew up, and have spent so much of my life in Southern California. Just a couple of months of this crappy weather and it’s back to good ol’ Sunny So Cal.

My fishing buddy Dan and I recently set aside a saturday to explore Laguna Niguel Lake. I’m not sure why neither of us had ever made it there before. The temptation to explore was overwhelming and off we went.

We arrived Early at about 8:00 a.m. The clouds were thick and the lake was flat. There were only a few fishermen out on the lake and I had the feeling that it would be a good day.

We arrived with the full intention of Shore Fishing, but when we caught a view of the sign reading “All day boat rental $25″ plans changed. Now if you have been following our recent adventures, then you have probably realized that we are for lack of a better word “cheap”. We will usually avoid paying any kind of parking, entrance, other fees. Come to think of it, that’s probably why we had never been to this lake before.

But sometimes things change, and it was like the little boat tied up to the dock was calling our name. So the wallets opened and we loaded our stuff into the watercraft, ready to take on whatever this piece of water would throw our way.

I had heard many stories over the years that this Lake is a great Largemouth Bass Fishery, and was hoping to get at least one nice bucketmouth on the other end of the line. Well, the fish had other plans, and the day started out with just 2-3 bites and 0 fish landed. I was starting to smell a skunk.

As the temperature warmed, we made our way over to a cove on a shallow portion of the lake. We started to see a few Sunfish moving around and activity on the surface. That meant it was time for the Hopper/Dropper rig.

We made our way along the edge of the weed line, and all of the sudden my fly just disappeared. I set the hook and a fish was on the line. I pulled it out of the water to find a large Bluegill has smacked my Hopper and in all of the commotion a smaller one had taken the Dropper. This was my first double, and with closer inspection I realized the Bluegill I caught was a little monster.  

In California the Sunfish tend to be stunted due to overpopulation, and catching a Bluegill this size doesn’t happen very often.

After that catch the Bluegill came out fighting, and we started landing fish on every cast. They were small, but when the Bass aren’t biting it makes for a great time.

As the sun rose to it’s peak and the hottest portion of the day had arrived. We decided to call it quites, and away we went. It was a great experience. It was my first time fly fishing from a boat, and it was extremely rewarding.

I’m so glad that we decided to rent that boat!

There is often a very fine line between what something is called and what it actually is.

We call ourselves “urban” fly fishermen, for example, but that moniker is highly flexible and probably denotes a mindset rather than one hundred percent reality. The truth of the matter is that both Sean and I will readily explore a likely looking fishery whether it be urban, suburban, rural, wilderness, freshwater, saltwater or even perhaps runoff.

To be an “urban” fly fisherperson is more about opportunity than image.

Not that we are without a code of conduct. We won’t steal, trespass on private property or lie about what we caught – life is too short for that stuff and at the end of the day we will have to answer to a Higher Power and the Ultimate Fisher of Men.

That’s not to say we aren’t having a blast along the way though.

Case in point:  This past week my beautiful bride and I found ourselves in the lower end of Connecticut in honor of my nephew’s high school graduation.

If you know anything at all about the geography of lower Connecticut, you know that it is a convoluted, ragged, hodge podge of coastline, rivers, inlets, streams, ponds and islands all covered in intense, temperate-climate greenery that boggles the mind of a SoCal native more used to landscapes composed of subtle shades of brown and yellow (and concrete and garish multi-hued graffiti). Water is virtually everywhere and much of that water is filled with fish. In other words, I got off the plane and walked into a fishing paradise.

And, if you know anything about me from following this blog you might recall that I vowed after the Hawaii Trip that I would not travel to a fishing paradise ever again without some kind of fly rig stashed in the luggage.

So it should come as no surprise when I tell you that since Hawaii I have spent a considerable amount of time researching and planning and modifying and practicing and I did indeed have a little trick up my sleeve which I planned on using in that extremely narrow window of opportunity between family events, pre-arranged side trips and the plane ride home.

My secret weapon was/is a carefully modified collapsible PenRod Extreme fishing rod with a matching fly reel and 00-weight Sage floating line.

Google PenRod Extreme and you’ll get a better idea of what I’m talking about. In its original format the tip top of this little rod is too small in diameter to handle even 00 weight fly line so with a gulp and a decisive snip of the side cutters, I cut off the end and replaced it with a suitable fly rod tip top that I picked up at Bob Marriotts.

The disadvantage to this was that it slightly shortened the end section, voided the warranty in a heartbeat and no longer allowed the protective “pen cap” cover to fit properly. Undaunted, I modified an old plastic tackle pack to carry both rod and reel and a few basics and thus created an instant travel kit which easily fit into my luggage.

So naturally it wasn’t very long after making the cross country flight, then navigating the twisting, turning , horse-carriage width roads leading to my sister’s new house ‘til I convinced her that we needed to pick up some supplies from Trader Joe’s… which just happens to be conveniently located next to an Orvis store.

Now as much as I like TJ’s mango salsa and blue corn tortilla chips, I like new flies even better and the guys at the Orvis store were only too happy to oblige. However, lest you think them as purely mercenary, let it go on the record that they were quite helpful in dispensing vital local fly fishing info (one of the sales reps was president of the local TU chapter) as well as assisting me with a selection of weighted nymphs suitable for the local rivers.

When we returned from our little “supply run”, I dutifully went online to the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection and purchased a three-day license. Then armed with the info from the Orvis boys, I google-mapped the region, looking for promising target sites and plotted my strategy. I even printed out the appropriate maps and a satellite view of the area…hmmm, maybe I am more urban than I thought.

In any event and despite all my high-tech prep the one thing I failed to take into account was the weather. Sure enough, just as I was set to go out the door a fearsome thunderstorm broke out.

I hate thunderstorms. I’ve seen what lightning does to fishing rods and the folks on the other end of them.

Optimistically, I decided to drive over to the river anyway.

The rain fell harder, the thunder clapped louder, the river turned browner, my prospects looked slimmer…

An hour passed and all I had succeeded in doing was muddying up the rental car and soaking myself.

With family events pressing ever closer, I called it and headed back to my sister’s house.

You already know where this is headed.

One block from her house, the clouds broke, the rain stopped and the sun started to show. I pulled into her driveway and there was even a slight breeze blowing.

I put the car in park and thumped my head on the steering wheel. As I glanced in the rearview mirror to assess the size of the horizontal forehead bruise I had just given myself, I instead noticed that the breeze was actually pushing the thick scum layer toward the opposite end of the little pond (the little private pond)across the street from her house.

Dashing up the stairs and into the family room, I quickly ascertained that she did, in fact, have property rights and access rights to that same pond. Her “yes” still hung in the air in the time it took me to run back down the stairs, grab my gear and high-tail it across the road. I’m sure my entire family thought I lost my mind.

I quickly tied on one of my new nymphs and cast out only about twenty feet. Bam! Fish on. I landed a Bluegill. I cast again. Bam, another Bluegill. For the next hour, every cast brought in a Bluegill save one. The only fish I did not land was a small but respectable Bass that shook my fly in that classic way that Bass tail walk and shake their heads.

Like I said…a fishing paradise. And my little experimental, collapsible rod? It performed admirably.

Am I disappointed that I never made it to the river? Nah, my niece graduates in a couple of years and we’ll be back.

Remember, it’s all about opportunity.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

My beautiful bride caught her first fish on a fly.

Life is good.

We hadn’t planned on going flyfishing. In fact, we were just coming off a rather difficult week of appointments, surgeries and hard-to-manage cases and were both of the mind set that Sunday afternoon ought to be a little more on the mellow side.

However, as we were driving home from church, I casually mentioned that it was such a beautiful day that we ought not waste it by being indoors. I also casually mentioned that Craig Regional Park was a very peaceful and relaxing place with lots of trees and open spaces…and a wonderful little lake and stream.

I also casually mentioned that the new Sonic drive-in restaurant was nearby.

Ka-ching – done deal.

So, we ended up in Craig park and, wouldn’t you know it, I just happened to have not one but two fly rods in the back of the car.

The wind was a little too stiff for the novice fly-caster so we headed over to the little creek which is flanked by trees and is more protected.

Now, I’m only mildly bragging but the little Mrs. picked up the fundamentals of roll casting like the proverbial duck on a June bug. Before too long I moved several dozen yards upstream and essentially left her to her own devices so that she could develop her technique.

Before long, she yelped and, sure enough, there was the tell-tale twitching of the rod tip signaling a fish on. After a short battle, she landed the little Bluegill and lipped it like she’d done it a hundred times.

When I asked her how she knew to do that she said she learned it from all of the pictures on our web site.

Oh! I guess somebody is paying attention.

Anyway, she went on to land two more little ‘gills before things started to slow done.

We moved up and down the bank but could not find the fish anymore.

I fished a little more but she decided to call it a day and laid down in the grass to mull over her success and enjoy the long, warm rays of the afternoon sun.

Now, I am not exaggerating when I say there was the picture of heaven right there in that park that day; My bride, stretched out on the fresh green grass of Spring alongside a quaint babbling creek, highlighted by the golden rays of the sun, with her fly rod next to her…

…Dang, life is good.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

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’.

I think that after scoping this photo that I snapped of a small greenie I pulled out of a local pond just after sunset, I’m going to have to start a petition to get the name changed from Green Sunfish to Blue Sunfish. Check out the way the Street Lamp just reflects Blue all over this little guy. I’m gonna have to fish after sundown more often!

Just like the famous and infamous explorers seeking the treasure of El Dorado, my buddy, Sean, and I spend an inordinate amount of time pouring over maps and charts, haunting the musty aisles of used bookstores, investigating leads and tips and researching equipment to help us in our quest. 

Sometimes the payoff is better fishing than we imagined and the contentment of a hard fought victory is great, other times it is frustration, lost flies and bruised egos.

This past weekend we got to experience both as we headed over to El Dorado Park in Long Beach.

El Dorado Park sits on the east side of Long Beach, nestled between the 605 freeway and the San Gabriel River. It is an attractive park with lots of trees, a nature center and four interconnected lakes with a variety of fish and terrain to suit most every fishing style. The lay out of the park belays the fact that is surrounded by tens of thousand of people and homes and is a stone’s throw from a major shopping center. For the urban angler craving a little adventure and some possible excitement, it IS an El Dorado of sorts.

We hit the park about mid afternoon, just ahead of a cold front sliding down the West coast and bringing the promise of cooler temps and possibly real rain for the first time in months. Truth be told, there was a bit of a nip in the air, which almost made long sleeves inviting, almost.

The small horseshoe shaped lake near the entrance of the park is known Carp and Bass habitat so we opted to start there. Immediately, Sean began pulling in small panfish on his tried and true hopper-dropper rig.

I on the other hand, kept hanging up in the weeds and submerged brush.

We worked our way around the shoreline with Sean continuing to score hits on his dropper while I continued to foul up and break off flies.

About halfway around, we both started getting light hits on the dropper flies. I kept losing them but Sean managed to pull in a couple of Crappie – his first on the fly.  Needless to say, he felt like he had found the elusive treasure for this day’s particular quest.

I know one of the nicknames for Crappie is “papermouth”, now I know why. They took the fly with barely a ripple or tug and they were lost with anything more than a gentle set.

As we walked further around the lake, I continued to experience hang-ups and fouled lines and a myriad of trifling problems that all add up to a frustrating and non-productive day. Just about the time I seriously considered calling it quits, the lowering sun burst out from behind a band of clouds and washed the lake and trees in a golden-orange hue that was, quite simply, stunningly beautiful.

Now, I know that angling is all about catching fish. But just being there, at that moment and seeing the incredible, fleeting beauty of that lake and those trees awash in the rays of the setting sun was like looking upon a glimmering city of gold — like gazing upon the mythical El Dorado.

And as with many quests for riches and glory, while I did not capture the intended prize, I did walk away a richer man for the effort.

I love this addiction called urban fly fishin’.

The Panfish were also out, and the Bluegills were decent sized. All in all. it was a great morning of fishing and I can’t wait to get out and explore a few more of the Urban Park Lakes that I have on my list.

About 3:30 in the afternoon we headed off to La Mirada park to try our luck among the hard core catfish fisher-folk and the innumerable kids that were hurling enough lead at the lake to make it feel like a beach assault. We hop-scotched between the families feeding the predatory ducks, squeezing in just close enough so as not to appear too predatory ourselves but near enough to piggyback on the chum line being laid down by all the two and three year olds emptying their bags of cheetos into the lake. The wind was steady and made for a slight chop on the water,  which was good for stealth but bad for anything other than casts made to the East. Our slow but fruitless dance around the lake was interrupted only to give a short lakeside instructional session to a ten-year old who nearly stove in the back of my head with the cannonball he was using for weight.

We had just about decided to move to another lake when my 8 foot, 5-weight “dinked”.  I honestly thought I had snagged some algae but played in the line anyway. Sure enough, I had managed to hook up with quite possibly the smallest large mouth bass on the planet. Exhausted from the battle, I forgot to snap a photo but it wouldn’t have a mattered much anyway unless you use a hi-def,=2 0home-theater sized screen for a computer monitor. Still a fish is a fish and it boosted our spirits just to know that we could, in fact catch a fish in an urban lake even amid the barrage of live fire lead and rooster tails.

Knowing that retreat is an effective and honorable strategy, we opted to head over to Laguna Lake, which despite it’s name, is located in the middle of Fullerton — about fifteen minutes away. Now, old-timers who haven’t been there in the last three years or so will hear you say Laguna Lake and simply burst out laughing. Laguna lake recently underwent a multi-million dollar make over and it’s once again a decent place to fish. Prior to the fix up though, the place just stank. The water resembled hospital jello and you didn’t have to fish, you just had to walk along the shore and scoop up dead carcasses from underneath the ducks that lined the shore like day workers at Home Depot.

Now, it is a different story.The place is clean, the number of ducks is regulated, the water flows in a cleansing circular pattern thanks to a series of pumps and jets and there is plenty of space to make decent back casts around most of the lake. Plus you can park along the street for FREE. A good number of families were already set up along the shore mostly bait fishing.  We headed over to a clump of rushes that had produced for us in the past and we begin fishin’. Almost immediately we began pulling in small bluegills.  ; As we split off in different directions, we each continued to haul in bluegill after bluegill. At one point, my cell phone went off while I was playing a ‘gill and the ID indicated that Sean was calling me.  I answered, thinking something was wrong. “Dude, switch to a small dry. You won’t be sorry.” I did and I wasn’t. All told, when it finally got too dark to see what we were doing, we counted close to a hundred bluegills and green sunfish caught and released between the two of us.

And that is what you call serendipity.