Tuesday morning, April 5, 2005, dawned crystal clear, with mild spring temps and no trace of a breeze. I got a relatively late start – I left the house at 8:30AM – which would cost me some potential fishing opportunities, as I would determine later. I was not as stringent about my start time as I usually am because, frankly, I had concerns about the water levels; I was looking at this trip more as a recon than an actual “go get ‘em” all-day fishing blow-out.
Approximately one hour later, blessed by very light traffic, I was at the trailhead, a mere 40+ miles from my San Fernando Valley home. I hopped on my bike and began the 5-mile up-and-down ride to the stream. The sky was absolutely cloudless, a gin-clear shade of brilliant blue, lighter on the horizons and noticeably darker directly above. The hills were alive with wildflowers and animal life; I spotted more California quail this day than I have ever seen in my 15+ years of backpacking combined – they were EVERYWHERE, exploding with their characteristic “fwump-fwump-fwump” sound from seemingly every bush and meadow. Also seen were several raptors, red-tailed hawks, ducks, herons, and the prize: an osprey, lakeside, with a 10” trout in its talons (a good omen, I told myself -- repeatedly). The wildflowers were uniformly excellent, displaying vibrant colors everywhere, but predominantly shades of yellow against the lime-green grassy hillsides. I noted morning glory, indian paintbrush, ceanothus, mustard, lupine (purple and pink varieties), yellow and orange poppy, Matilija poppy, chamise, monkey flower, and another dozen unidentifiable species. A wondrous springtime display.
The bike ride went remarkably fast, alternating between gliding downhill and walking the bike uphill; I would guess I was at the target stream by 10:30AM at the latest. Incidentally, the road (closed to the general public but open to hikers and bikers) showed noticeable damage from the winter storms, with many side-streams having deposited mud and rocks onto the road surface; there was a work crew clearing a section that I had to squeeze around a couple of times, causing me to raise my caution level as the occasional truck would roar by me, choking me in clouds of dust.
Once at the stream, I took a short break, then rigged up and hit the first hole, which a friend refers to as the “F.U. Hole” because of its proximity to an abandoned campground (I guess he imagined young couples lustfully entwined on the sandy shores of this significant pool). Not surprisingly, the stream was easily three to four times it’s “normal” size; the hole was still there, but was more of a long, deep run rather than the sharp turn backed by a cliff that I had witnessed in years past. The water was running extremely high, deep, and generally clear; the shallows were very clear, while the deeper runs turned a mysterious shade of milky-green that gave me chills. I spent a good half-hour working the pool, its in-flowing riffles, and the long out-flow, with absolutely no results other than snagging something under the surface (an event which would plague me all day, in fact). Not a good sign, but you know what they say about bad days fishing beating good days working – and I was most certainly enjoying the sunshine, the stream, and the scenery, the lack of fish be damned.
Knowing that there were at least two miles of workable water upstream, I broke down my rig, grabbed the bike, and started off upstream. It wasn’t long until the former road wandered into an area that I can only describe as a battle zone. Where once lay a meadow with a dirt track through it, was now a vast boulder field, stretching from canyon wall to canyon wall, yards deep and strewn with all manner of debris: tree trunks, a splintered telephone pole wrapped in barbed wire, a twisted chunk of a former culvert pipe, rocks of all sizes everywhere. It was obvious that, during the peak of the storms, the stream had easily been twenty feet higher than it was now. Unreal, yet all-too-real, like nature almost always is. I had to walk the bike through this difficult stretch, but I pressed on for several hundred yards until I was faced with the first stream crossing.
Houston, we have a problem.
The stream crossing – usually accomplished by splashing through while riding the bike, maybe six feet wide and a few inches deep – was now easily 40 feet wide and at least three feet deep in the middle section. I was instantly reminded of the Kern River below the Johnsondale Bridge in, say, mid-August of a normal year. The stream was now a moderately-sized Sierra river, and, as I studied the crossing over and over, I realized that I would be much better off if I avoided attempting a crossing. Being alone and at least a few miles from help (other than the road crew, I didn’t see a soul all day), I felt that the river level was high enough to warrant serious concern. There was NO WAY I could ride the bike across – I’d stall in the fast-moving water before I was a quarter of the way through – and, if I crossed on foot, not only would I most likely get soaked to the waist, there was an all-too-real possibility that I could be swept downstream. I doubt I would’ve been killed trying to cross, but a combination of instinct and common sense told me to play it safe.
Looking up-canyon, all I could see was more of the same: boulder-strewn fields from wall-to-wall. Must’ve been one hell of a winter.
Last year, at this very crossing (on the upstream side) was a nice cliff-walled pool that looked more like a pond – still, deep waters ringed by willows and choked with cattails. I have a fond memory of a 16” rainbow EXPLODING on my artificial during a beautiful dusk (I eventually landed, revived and released her), a memory I will take to my grave. Now, the pool was still there (although three times the size), but all of the vegetation was GONE. No more willows, no more cattails, just a nice open hole. I suspect I may have been on one of the private in holdings in the area, but I could find no posted signs such as I’d seen in the past – I assume they, too, were washed away by the storms – and I worked this pool and surrounding environs for a solid hour, with absolutely no results.
And what happened to the streamside willows that had literally choked the stream in years past? Stripped of their branches and bark, bent over to the downstream side, they looked like so many large toothpicks fastened to the rocky soil, ready to pick the teeth of some mammoth creature. I grabbed one and tried to pull it out; no way, these things were still firmly rooted and, no doubt, will make a full return to form in the near future, providing cover, shade, and insects for the jewels that inhabit these waters.
Since I had had zero luck with both of the big pools I had fished, I decided to focus on my technique a bit and settled into a nice groove working a wider, more riffle-y 100-yard section of the stream. Pulling a fish out from the pocket water behind a boulder always turns me on, so, in studying the stream this fine day, I decided that, perhaps, the pockets were the most likely holding spots. Sure enough, after working a particularly sweet-looking boulder a few times with my absolute brightest artificial, I drew a follow from what was, perhaps, an 8” trout. No, I didn’t hook up, but I took the sighting as a huge personal victory. Okay, you old-timers can stop laughing at me now.
Another hour of fishing resulted in no more sightings or strikes, so I decided to head back to the campground area and have lunch. As I ate, I pondered the fact that I was hooking up on the bottom more often than I usually do. I postulated that, under the surface, the bottom of the stream must be littered with new debris just as it was above the surface, hence the more frequent snags. I also pondered the fact that the stream floor, where I could see it, was beautifully graveled and very clean, looking like PERFECT spawning grounds for the near-term future. In fact, the whole “newness” of the stream brought a smile to my face as I came to the realization that, perhaps, this would be a transition year for most (if not all) of my beloved local streams, a year when the prior resident trout population may have been significantly thinned by the incredibly violent waters of the past winter, but that, over the next couple of years, would rebound to levels such as those I experienced in the early 1990’s, before the drought that followed 1998’s El Nino event. It was that drought which directly led to the algae-clogged runs, silted-over areas, cattail-infested pools, and impenetrable brush that we’ve all experienced in the past. Folks, let me tell you: this stream as been SCOURED from top-to-bottom; it’s going to take some time to recover but, when it does, the conditions will be perfect for the trout.
After lunch, I rigged up once again and worked some nice highly-oxygenated pools below an Arizona crossing leading to an abandoned section of campground. I am almost certain that I drew a couple of back-to-back, very aggressive strikes from one of these pools, but, alas, no hook-ups were achieved, and I was left feeling a little less like laughing.
As the sunlight started casting afternoon shadows, I decided to call it a day, regretting the fact that I hadn’t gotten on the stream earlier in the morning. All day long, the sun had burned brightly – beautifully! – but, due to the recent floods obliterating the vegetation alongside the stream, rendered the vast majority of the stream as exposed habitat for our vulnerable friends. Other than the deep pools, there was very little streamside cover for the fish -- much less so than in prior years. This newly-created exposure is, perhaps, one reason that the fish were seemingly harder to locate – they’ve had to resort to what little remaining streamside cover exists for safety. I would say that the vast majority of the surface of the stream was completely exposed to the sun throughout the time I was there. Perhaps dawn or late dusk finds the fish venturing into more open water? It was a thought that left me with plans to return again, soon, to find out.
Insects you ask? Well, the area was crawling with 'em, from fat black ants to lady bugs, and all kinds of assorted flying things, including the infamous
biting blackflies that the area is known for. I also witnessed an astonishing array of butterflies and moths, as well as heard a swarm of bees. A few quick rock-flips in the shallows revealed no larval-type evidence, at least to my most definitely not-knowledgeable eyes.
After a beautiful late-afternoon bike ride, whereby I was caressed with warm and gentle breezes scented with orange blossoms from orchards many miles away, I reached the car and had an uneventful, blessedly quick drive home. All in all, it was a fantastic day, even though no jewels were brought to hand. The main thing I gained was a newfound respect for the power of nature, and for the utter uniqueness of Southern California streams – no two alike, but each with similarities and differences that can keep an active imagination engaged for a lifetime.
Pictures to follow later this week/early next week (yes, I am still using an customer_request_form camera, my Olympus XA which I bought in 1981!!!).
The only questions left are: where to, and when?
P.S. If anyone hasn't figured out this not-too-secret but harder-than-average-to-reach location, send me a PM and I might divulge a detail or two.
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