I will tell about one failure, last Saturday. I was feeling the jones, and wanted to throw flies at bluegill. Since it gets dark around 4:40 in San Diego these days, I decided to forgo the tube, waders and all that time it takes to get into and out of them, and just walk the shore at Upper Otay and get casts where I could. I think Upper Otay is something like 20 acres at full capacity, which I'd guess is a little higher than right now. There are some places to cast from on the shore, but they are few, and with fly gear, it's tricky.
I guess I got to the lower parking lot around 1 p.m.. Saturday was a really nice day; sunny, a light, white haze in the air that really punctuated that autumn had come. At my house it was kind of chilly, so I put on a fleece shirt, but once I started fishing I realized it was overkill for the weather 16 miles south east of my house. I was sweating head to toe by my first casting spot.
I'm not going to get into every detail. I'm going to leave out the family of geocachers standing behind me, while I was casting from my knees a yard from the water, saying aloud that there's someone fishing right where their GPS was telling them their trinket was. Also, the huge white dog named Gordo trotting towards me while its family implored it to come. Don't worry they said in accented English, he just wanted to smell me. He veered away at the last moment, probably repulsed by the stench of fear.
I was also wearing some extremely bright orange trail runners which I wanted to dirty up a little, so they wouldn't be so embarrassing to wear whilst I walked around the neighborhood. Now the right one is sufficiently filthy, from slipping off a board made from a 1 x 6, into a mud puddle. The left one could still use work.
I did a clockwise walk around the lake. Which means most of the spots I'd never fished from shore didn't happen until about half way through the walk. Just about at that point, I ran into a teenage boy who decided to bum rush my spot while I was changing flies. While all sorts of threats and comments, I'd never say, ran through my head he went back to from where he'd come. I fished the spot a little longer, for nothing, and continued on my way. That's when I saw he had 4 other buddies with them, and together they were occupying most of the good spots on this part of the lake. I trudged on past, nodding and half smiling, even though I knew they were poaching the lake, and continued on to parts of the trail I'd never walked before. Once I got around the part of the trail that ended the "out" portion of the trail, and started the "back" portion, it got steep, much bushier, and mostly off-camber.
I found access to section deep in the "Canyon Arm" of the lake I'd only been near once even in my float tube. By this time I had a damsel fly nymph on - the one I'd been tying on when the kid horned in on my spot. The clearing was decent, but back casting was a pipe dream so it'd be roll casting only. There were submerged branches, tulles, and a weed line. It looked fishy, and though the arm was pretty narrow, the kids couldn't reach it with their spinning rods from the other side. I had to fish from a near squatting position, and to even get my fly in the water to roll cast, I had to bow-and-arrow the fly into the water (Once I even just threw the fly, tippet, leader, and a few feet of fly line into the water with my hand). I nearly slid down the muddy bank into the water a few times. My right foot, the one that went into the puddle earlier, was sliding around in its shoe uncomfortably.
After a couple casts, a few snags, and a sliding a couple feet nearer the water, I got my first bite while fishing Upper Otay from shore. Clearly it was a small bluegill, and it promptly swam into the branches I was initially so happy to see, and came unbuttoned. Though frustrating it was also encouraging. I knew they were there, what they'd take, and where'd they go when they took it. Sadly I lost the fly on a snag shortly after that, and being it was getting closer to sunset, and there were a lot of spots to fish, I headed off.
This is where things went pear-shaped. It was a bit of a haul, up the steep, leafy bank to get back to the trail. By the time I scrambled back up to the trail, I was pretty out of breath, and after a minute or two of hiking along the trail, I rolled my right ankle, the downhill foot. It was pretty painful, but more than that it was scary. I was a long way from either nearby road, and had it been worse, I would have had to yell for those kids to help me. Being already out of breath, a little scared about how bad things nearly turned, and had a moment where I kind of felt like Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond. I stood there for a second or two, catching my breath, and gathering my thoughts. I could catch glimpses of the kids through the trees, and hear they were talking quietly. They'd heard me scrambling up the hill, and being that they were poaching, were probably a little wary of what I was doing across the arm from them.
My ankle was a little sore from the torque, but not so bad it hurt to walk, so I continued on my way, looking for clearish spots from which to cast. I don't have much experience with that type of fishing, and I was having a hard time getting any distance on casts, roll or otherwise. Near constant snagging was getting my blood up, and I tramped past a few good spots, to get nearer the dam before sunset.
I got to a a rock outcropping shortly after grunting my way through a barb-wire fence, and noticed there was surface feeding going on. Actually, near-surface feeding. I estimated I'd be able to get some casts off if I was careful, and I did. I was able to get a small, black woolly bugger a decent distance a few times, but not quite to where the feeding was happening. Finally, maddeningly, I stuck the bugger in a eucalyptus tree. Disgusted, I reeled my line all the way onto my reel and finished the hike over the dam and back to my car. A decent adventure, a frustrating fishing trip, but another learning experience. I'll get better at casting in tight spots, walking with a wet sock on precarious trails, and not getting angry when I put another fly in another tree.
That all brings me to today. That wasn't supposed to be so long, but it goes to illustrate the way my trips have gone lately. Next time, I'll walk the lake counter clockwise, the better spots are on the near, east side of the lake. My ankle has been clicking the past few days.
Today, I put together my saltwater 6 weight, and decided to fish a spot I frequent in Coronado. I saw a couple guys on garybulla.com had done okay there, and I wanted a break from not catching bluegill.
When I got to the beach and was getting my rod out of my car I realized I'd put a 9-weight floating line on my 6-weight rod. Without a fly it's not a huge deal. With a weighted, hairy clouser it can be a bit of a bear. I almost brought my 6-weight large mouth bass combo, because it's a cannon. It can throw big, wind-resistant, deer-hair bass bugs a country mile and accurately. But I didn't want to introduce it to salt water. Which I'm glad for now. The rig I took got some abuse.
The tide lately is pretty heavy, but it turned upside down a month or so ago and is now outgoing for the bulk of the daylight hours. That's not ideal, incoming is better, but the swings have been good, and that usually works in the angler's favor. When I got to the water, the tide was about halfway through the outward tide, and was already about as low as I've ever fished it. I had a good feeling. I saw terns plopping into the bay after bait fish, which is a great sign. If you see birds chasing fish, you want them to be terns. There were small fish jumping out of the water occasionally, presumably escaping from predators. It was "fishy." I initially tied on a light blue and white, yak-hair clouser. It seemed the appropriate fly, given the bait fish action. Unfortunately, it was hard to cast on the mismatched line and rod. Especially given the length of the yak hair fly. I switched to a small, shrimpy-looking fly. It was much easier to cast, though not ideal. I was able to get it where I wanted. The long, straight length of day-glo orange floating line made me optimistic. I kept a sharp eye on that line, thinking if anything so much as brushed it, it wouldn't be very difficult to see that line lurch.
The sky was similar to the other day at Upper Otay, but more white haze. The sun was already getting low, the sage and chaparral cast long shadows down the wide beach. Willets and whimbrels picked at the muddy flat for whatever they eat. Occasionally changing hunting grounds in mixed flocks. Because I'd drastically overdressed on two recent trips to Upper Otay, I toned it down a bit today. A t-shirt over a SPF shirt, and long johns under a pair of synthetic convertible pants. I didn't plan on wading, maybe ankle deep at most, so I just put on wading booties.
Soon enough a marine layer moved in, fast and thick. The sun was a defined, pale white disk, behind the clouds, and the temperature dropped quickly. I'd already been fishing for an hour or so and my previous optimism was waning, though the change in light quality is often a sign of better fishing. I walked down the beach to a point I've had luck fishing on occasion, hoping the varied bottom there might bring about a feeding situation on the big, out-swinging tide. The sky had darkened considerably and the wind was starting to pick up. I switched to a dark fly. A black and brown clouser. I worked it slow along a steep edge for a while, hoping to entice a spotty that might be holding tight to structure. In frustration I made a few longish casts into the deeper, open water, and stripped the fly quickly near the surface. I haven't caught a fish in three trips, and the thought of enduring the cold and wind to be skunked again was getting me down. I hadn't twisted an ankle, or snagged any flies, but the lack of adversity may have made it all the more depressing. Everything seemed to say the fish were ripe, but none were taking. I was not relishing the long slog back to the car in the cold wind, having not caught a fish.
I made another frustrated cast into the open water, and on the first strip the line came tight. Being so high in the water column, I knew it was not the basic, abundant spotty. It suggested, hopefully, a yellow fin croaker, a short fin corvina, or possibly a bonefish. This guy ran hard, and pulled hard, but I turned my rod to my side and turned it into the cove. I let him run a little to wear him out, and ran up the steep bank so I could pull him onto the sand. I saw him in shallow water, and though he looked like a yellow fin croaker, I saw no yellow. I thought maybe, I had a corbina, but no one lets themselves think that in the bay side. Once I got the croaker onto the sand the yellow fins became apparent. I took a few pictures, took the clouser out of it's lip, and put him back into the bay. Of course, as usual, even after two hours of not so much as a bite, one fish can keep you on a cold windy point hoping for that second fish. After I snagged my fly on, of all things, a rod holder some meat soaker left on the beach, I reeled in and walked as briskly as I could back to my car, only stopping to run my reel under some fresh water in a drinking fountain.
Being Monday, I happily dealt with rush-hour traffic, and grilled a burger and had a Full Sail Wassail as celebration when I got home.
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