Summer Catches

    I've unfortunately been really busy juggling school, cross-country, and surfing to write a blog post. But I have not stopped fishing. Over the summer I caught upwards of one-hundred bass between ten and eighteen inches using Roboworms and Senko's on # 1 hooks at Boronda Lake. The bite started around mid April and is still going strong at late September. During our annual trip to Yosemite I landed several beautiful brook, brown, and rainbow trout. However, my father stole the show by catching a monster brown trout on a #22 mosquito in the Merced River. Scroll to the bottom of the page and check it out if you haven't already.
 
    Ironically the most exciting fishing trip occurred no more than half-a-mile from my backyard. I walked to where the many "creeks" meet the bay and fished with a fly rod for carp. I could see dozens in the water, but they always managed to elude me. One day I finally managed to land one by crouching low, sneaking up to the fish, and casting a large crayfish fly a couple feet in front of it. The carp inched forward and took my fly, only to sprint away as I set the hook. The drag on my trout reel screamed for nearly ten minutes as I ran up and down the bank, trying to tire the carp out. After a long and tiring fight the carp finally gave up, and my dad crammed it into the net. I would say the carp is about twelve pounds. My dad thinks it's around ten. You guys decide (but I think it's twelve pounds).

    You may not see as many, or you may not see any blog posts from me in the coming months. I started this blog nearly three years ago as a summer writing project my dad forced me to do. Since then I have poured dozens of stories and experiences into it, and somehow managed to keep it going. I have had around 10,000 people visit this site, an unbelievable number. To all those who read my first blog three years ago, I'm sorry because the writing was pretty bad. However, I would like to thank everybody who took the time to read those first few entries, and give their support. I intend to update this blog as often as possible, with as many fish as possible. After all, I am a student, a runner, and a surfer, but deep down, I'm a twelve year old kid obsessed with the feel of a fish on the end of my line.

Just look at the bigger bass (senko, # 1 hooks)

The 2014 summer season was highly productive.  Some of the highlights:

• Average of 3 bass per sessions, sometime up to 5 to 7 bass of a good size.  The bass were primarily taking plastic worms rigged wacky.  We also had dozens of bass on the fly rod using a bluegill fly
• Carp on fly rod using the crayfish pattern
• 70 trout in one session in the Yosemite high country, the majority on a fly rod using small dry flies.  Non-stop action.
• Nice brown trout on a small dry fly in the Merced River inside of Yosemite Valley, by the bridge near Yosemite Lodge
• 20 bluegill at West Lake in Santa Cruz on a beadhead nymph

Dozens of bass like this caught over the summer
(roboworm / senko #1 hooks)

Dad makes a rare appearance, catching brown trout on dry fly

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Braving the Cold at Del Valle and Shadow Cliffs

Del Valle sunrise

The Wind coming in at Shadow Cliffs

My dad and I have accompanied Chang throughout his entire fishing career. I was there when he caught his first fish, I netted his first bass, and instructed him on how to catch his first trout. Now the man has grown into a fine fisherman, and accompanies us on a few trout hunts every year.  As the sun climbed shakily over the surrounding grass covered hills three fisherman began hiking into the Narrows of Del Valle Reservoir. The air was a biting 28 degrees without wind chill and heavy frost covered the ground. Those three fisherman freezing on the wet banks of Del Valle Reservoir were me, my father, and our friend Chang. We were fishing a traditional sliding egg sinker rig with powerbait on the end. My dad had a bubble bobber rig and Kastmaster rigged up on a different pole. We were ready to catch three full limits of chunky rainbow trout.

A surprise largemouth bass at Shadow Cliffs

However, the fish and the weather had other thoughts. After two hours not one of us had a single bite. Trout fisherman know that this can be a typical day, so I settled into my chair, pulled up my hood and began to wait. Suddenly Chang made the day saving decision and demanded that we instead fish at Shadow Cliffs. Through consistent pressure from Chang, my dad and I reluctantly packed up our gear and headed for the car fishless.

My dad bundling up against the wind

The first thing I noticed when I got out of the car at Shadow Cliffs was the numbing temperature. Shivering I set up my rig and laid out my chair. Everyone around me was hunched inside their coats and talking about the one fish that had been caught over an hour ago. And then the wind began to pick up, with 20-30 mph gusts whipping through the canyon. The anglers around me began to shiver a little harder and their teeth began to chatter. Then the clouds came over the sun, plunging the temperature back down to the depressing temperature of 28 degrees. I began to lose feeling in my hands and feet even though I was wearing gloves and heavy boots. Hypothermia was causing my body to centralize blood around my core. Gritting my teeth I sunk deeper into my ski jacket. I still had no trout to show for my suffering. Six hours later people were leaving the lake with blue faces and no fish. Chang had long ago disappeared and my dad and I were the only ones left standing on the metal dock. Dead birds lined the shoreline and my stringer lay sadly in my bag. And then Chang sprinted onto the dock screaming about two trout that he had caught. My dad and I looked at each other.

The final reward

Thirty seconds later we had conquered an adjacent dock by pushing the other people to the side and setting up our poles in the middle. Since my dad had a two rod stamp, we cast a total of three pre-rigged poles into the water and nodded to the stunned anglers around us. In the meantime Chang was displaying his limit of five trout and dancing on the dock singing, "There is a new Troutmaster!" Nine hours after we had started fishing the bite had begun to pick up. With three rods I began to rapidly gain on Chang. With every fish that either of us caught we held it up to the other, smirked, and placed it on the stringer. Finally the sun began to plummet from the horizon and the temperature plunged. Smiling we placed our fourteen trout onto the dock and began to pack up our gear. While many other anglers would have left hours before, Chang's instinct and our persistence led us to the fish.
When I was a kid, the first fish that I understood were the rainbow trout. I would spend hours pouring over books and visualizing in my head how the trout would interact with the changing conditions of the lake. And yet as well as I think I understand these fish they continue to surprise and challenge me. Trout have taught me patience and self discipline. This trip tested my control and revealed to me that persistence can be the path to success. As the chirp of the crickets called out and the honks of migrating geese echoed around the reservoir, the falling sun illuminated the silhouettes of three fishermen jumping on the dock and singing, "WE ARE THE NEW TROUTMASTERS!"

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Rockfish, Lingcod, and Crab abound at the Farallon Islands

Squinting from the sunlight as I hold up two decent sized rockfish

By now waking up at four in the morning had become a routine for me. I packed my rod, reel, lingcod jigs, and food the night before and tried to get some sleep before the morning drive to Francisco's house. My thoughts revolved around giant lingcod as we drove to the Emeryville Sport fishing dock. As we boarded the New Seeker I was trembling with excitement. I kept telling myself this was going to be the day I landed a legal sized lingcod. I had the proper gear, the right lure, the knowledge, and Francisco, who I consider to be the lingcod master. The Golden Gate Bridge, which had at one point captivated me passed by the boat without a second glance. The sickening roll of the boat as the bow plowed through the ocean waves did not affect me. The two hour ride to the Farallons felt like torture as I fingered the treble hook of my lingcod bar. Finally the islands appeared on the horizon and the fisherman began to zip up their waders and thread their hooks. It was lingcod time.

The crabs piling up

I started with the generic shrimp fly, knowing I should get some rockfish in the bag before I began the real hunt. As soon as the fly touched bottom the bite began and within minutes two blue rockfish were sitting at the bottom of the sack. By the end of the hour I had reached my limit with a few small ones to boot. It was time to attach my lingcod gear. Rigging a 16 ounce bar I quickly dropped the lure 150 feet to the bottom. Jigging the bar up and down I felt a strong tug. Excited I pulled up a little harder. And then the lure stopped. I had snagged the rocky bottom and doomed my twenty dollar bar. Swearing, I broke off the lure and rigged the shrimp fly back onto my line. However within minutes something big grabbed the fly. I thought it was a rockfish... until the rod bowed and the line sung from the powerful reel. Leaning my rod against the rail I gently began to reel the lingcod towards the boat. Suddenly my 85 lb. braid snapped without a warning. After much rod pounding and screaming I inspected my rod guide. The inside was chipped, creating a sharp edge that had sawed through my braid. If I wanted to catch a lingcod I was going to need to borrow another rod. I pleaded with the deckhand, and he generously lent a spare rod that the captain had been working to repair. Gratefully I got back to fishing the only shrimp fly I had left. However I soon realized that the reel was not quite fixed. The handle was loose, the drag was broken, and several gears protruded from the reel in various areas. To make matters worse, a lingcod grabbed onto my line.

The Golden Gate Bridge on our return trip

And so the fight began, a strenuous and painful process of rising a large fish from 160 foot depths. My hands were bleeding from where the gears had sliced them and my palms had developed blisters from the salt chaffed handle. I was breathing hard, and the captain wanted to move the boat. Every fisherman was waiting for me to bring my fish in. Twenty minutes later the fish was within gaffing range. The deckhand expertly positioned the gaff under the fish... and missed the lingcod. My heart stopped as he nicked the line. With sudden speed the deckhand repositioned the gaff and pierced my prize fish. The lingcod came aboard, a massive 18 pound beast. Jumping around the deck, I probably looked like a little kid. I didn't care. I had caught my lingcod.

THE LINGCOD

The rest of the day blurred by. I lost the jackpot by half a pound, received a full limit of crabs and journeyed back to San Francisco. The odds had been against me. I had been using a shrimp fly, a broken reel, and old line. And yet I had done it. I savored every spray of salt water that came over the side of the boat. I marvelled at the imposing Golden Gate Bridge. My hands raw and bloody I excitedly told my story to anyone who would listen the entire way home.

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Fishing for Rockfish off the Coast

Some of the afternoon rockfish

It was eight-thirty in the morning, nearly four hours since I had woken up to make the journey to Emeryville marina. My eyes were heavy as we boarded the New Huck Finn at six-thirty which was bound for the Farallon Islands, a rock-fisherman's paradise. But before we were even past the Golden Gate Bridge that captain announced that conditions were too rough to make the run to the islands. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized that we would be fishing elsewhere. But two hours later I was standing at the bow of the boat, fishing rod in hand squinting my eyes against the fierce wind and ocean spray. The rotting smell of fish mixed with the fresh morning air turning it stale. We were fishing inside Drakes Bay, and the beautiful rocky coast of Point Reyes was still visible, yet the sight of shore sunk my hopes even lower.

The early morning rockfish

Out of all the times I have gone rock fishing I have only fished near the coast once. The action was tough at best, and I ended up with eight tiny rockfish that I felt I bad about keeping. After that experience I was reluctant to fish near the coast again. But there I was, miles from the harbor so I dropped my line down to the shallow bottom of the ocean. The depth of the water was barely sixty feet. Skeptical, I kept my finger on the line settling in for a long wait. And then the line tightened, the rod bent towards the water and my heart shot into my mouth. After a short but satisfying tussle I had my first two rockfish of the day. People began to pull in rockfish all around me with a few shouts of, "LINGCOD!!!" around the boat. The day had begun.
As the hours flew by and the gurney sack around my feet began to fill with rockfish, I felt the stress of the past few weeks begin to fade away. Starting high school has been more difficult than I had anticipated, but riding the boat out into the Pacific provided me with a chance to escape to a more peaceful environment. My mind was transported elsewhere by the throbbing run of a rockfish coupled with the steady ache of my arm.

Group shot, from left: Tom, Jeffry, Francisco, Me, Stanley

I ended the day with over twenty blue, yellow, and copper rockfish, each one averaging around two- three pounds. I used the standard shrimp fly, with a fifteen-ounce lingcod jig on the bottom as a sinker / lure. My good fishing friend Francisco and his brother landed several large rockfish and a total of three legal lingcod with eight ounce jigs. Francisco is a great guy who gives up his time to take me along on these rock fishing trips. Without him I would be left at my house with nothing to do. Unfortunately I did not land any lingcod but I intend to nab the big one next time during the crab combo trip in November.
The New Huck Finn blazed across the water with the wind and waves at it's back, seagulls squawking as they dived at the rockfish corpses being tossed off the back. Inside the cabin people discussed their biggest fish over a drink. Outside a teenager leaned on the rail watching the coastline recede into the distance a giddy smile lighting up his face.

Coming back from a day of fishing

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Summer Fishing Report #1: Bass Fishing Overview for Foothills Park

Running at my summer camp

My last post from Foothills Park was during the pre-spawn bite in mid-April. After the crazy pre-spawn bite at Lake Boronda the anglers of Foothills park experienced a lull in the fishing. The spawning bass were far and few between, the ones that were easily fooled had already been caught. After the spawn the large-mouth retreated into deep water where I couldn't reach them. My dad and I managed to pick up a few here and there on plastic crayfish and #10 wooly buggers, but for the most part fishing was fairly spotty. Since then my father and I have been hitting the post-spawn bass hard. However, between the months of July and August we experienced some great fishing at Boronda Lake.
The bite started after the heatwave that hit the bay area in mid-July. I was attending a summer camp in the high sierras, but my dad decided to give the lake a shot. When I returned from my week-long camp he recounted the muggy nights, temperatures near the 95 degree mark, and the dozens of bass he had landed. I immediately demanded that we drive to the lake. After arriving my dad hopped out of the car, sauntered down to the dock and began to cast into the lake with his fly rod. He began to land twelve-inch bass on almost every cast.

A fourteen-inch bass (roboworm)

The rest of July passed much like that day, with four to five bass devouring our lures just as the sun slunk below the grass covered hills. My dad landed most of our ten to twelve inch bass using a #8-10 sliding popper and a #12 bluegill special. He would stand out on the docks and whip his five-weight fly rod back and forth before placing the six pound leader gently on the water. I stayed with conventional equipment using a spinning rod spooled with fifteen pound braid. My lure of choice was an arrons magic roboworm, rigged up with my fathers "Oda Rig". This technique was responsible for landing many of our bass in the fourteen to sixteen size range. Between the two of us we landed nearly seventy bass in about a month. Most were between ten and sixteen inches, but my dad fought a seven pound bass right to the dock, only to have it shake the hook when I attempted to net it. In addition to the action earlier in the year, this season was our most productive expedition yet.

Another bass landed on the roboworm

However the action died as soon as it started. The stifling hot nights faded and gave way to chilly autumn winds and early nights this week. And just like that, the bass stopped their evening feeding frenzy. This is the dynamic change that fisherman face every year. Although the bass fishing is tapering down here at the Foothills I will continue to pursue other species in different locations. Maybe hunting wild trout in a shallow brook, or braving the salty spray of a rock-fishing boat, but I always intend to continue fishing. However the end of this bass season marks something a little different for me this year. I begin high school in two weeks, and there is a lot of change I will have to go through. It may be the end of my childhood, a time where I have to start planning ahead in how my decisions will affect me later in life. Through it all I intend to keep going forward and fish as much as much as time allows.
    --KidFishRelease

Boronda lake

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May Lake: High Country Backpacking Trip

Brook trout at the small creek

It has been nearly a year of waiting, but summer has finally returned. This means that I am able to journey to the granite cliffs of Yosemite high country with my dad. We decided to fish at May Lake, a small placid piece of water located just a mile-and-a-half walk from the road. Despite being inside Yosemite where thousands of tourists enter every day, surprisingly few people fish May Lake. However my father is unusually susceptible to altitude sickness, making May Lake the perfect place for us to camp and fish.

As many fisherman have come to learn the worst thing about going fishing is the drive. My dad woke me up at an early 4 A.M. and pushed me into his Subaru 4WD station wagon. I then spent the next five hours trying not to throw up over the interior of his car. W

Instead of going directly to May Lake, we took a detour to rest and fish at a secret spot.  We went down a dirt road,  ascended winding paths, took stomach wrenching turns, and hurtled down steep hills. When the dusty Subaru finally stopped several miles from any major trailhead I quickly opened the door and burst into a thick cloud of mosquitos. For some reason high-country mosquitos love my blood and within seconds the bloodsucking insects were on my face, hands , and neck. Swatting them away, I tore through my pack looking for my mosquito netting and shirt. Groaning, I realized I had left the gear at home. The trip was not getting off to a very good start. 

My dad with a brook trout from the creek

To make matters worse my dad was getting comfortable eating his lunch inside the car. It would be a while until we moved to another location to begin our hike up to May Lake. I decided to make the best of the situation and go fishing at a tiny creek I spotted near our car. Donning a raincoat and stealing my fathers fly rod I strode into the trees. When I arrived I found that the creek was barely three feet wide, hardly the place you would expect to find trout. Sighing I cast a #16 olive wooly bugger into the lazy current of a shallow pool. Suddenly trout rocketed out from under the banks to attack my fly. Smiling I landed the first brook trout of the day. 

Over the course of an hour I caught twelve brook trout ranging from six to twelve inches. Eventually my dad came down to check the action and caught three himself. The highlight of the hour was when I spotted an unusually large pool. To approach the trout I needed to crawl on my stomach, inching forward until I could cast into the pool. When my fly hit the water a twelve-inch brook trout devoured my fly and disappeared back under the bank. Setting the hook, an epic battle commenced. I held the rod and tried to avoid letting the brook trout get under the numerous trees, undercut banks, or stumps. Eventually I maneuvered the trout to a sloping bank and landed it. The fishing at this creek was excellent, with fifteen trout landed in under an hour. But my father and I still hadn't started our trip to the fabled May Lake.

Nightime fishing at May Lake

We moved to the trailhead to access May Lake and began our hike.  It was late afternoon when we finally reached the top of the mountain. The hike up to May Lake requires an elevation gain of nearly a thousand feet in a mile. This made my dad weak, and I struggled up the mountain carrying nearly all of our gear. I set up the tent near the lake grabbed my spinning rod and declared I was going fishing. I had four rods set up. They were all fitted with ultralight spinning reels spooled with four pound maxima green. One was rigged as a bait fishing pole with a sliding egg sinker rig, a #10 hook, and white power eggs. The second pole was also a bait pole, but was armed with orange power eggs. My third pole was outfitted with a silver Kastmaster. And the last pole was the fly rod complete with floating line, a ten foot leader, and a #16 mosquito. As soon as the bait poles touched the water the line shot out and the rods bent with the promise of trout. I landed fish after fish, keeping three for dinner and releasing the rest. My dad and I enjoyed a hearty dinner of fried brook trout and beef stew that night. I fished again after dinner and caught seven wild trout ranging from ten to twelve inches, all on the Kastmaster. Then the mosquitos came out and I was driven into the tent, pursued by their insistent buzzing. We landed twenty-eight trout that day.

Mosquito protection

The following day passed much like the first. I continued to land trout after trout, each one averaging about twelve inches. I was enjoying some of the most consistent trout fishing of my life. As evening approached I was hovering on the cusp of catching fifty trout in one trip. There were fourty-seven trout that had already been released, I only needed to catch three to reach my goal. But to catch the last three I knew I was going to need to fish in the heart of the mosquito swarm. To prepare against the bloodsuckers I put on a thick fleece jacket. My dad then helped tie a T-shirt around my head and wrapped my hands with wool socks. Mosquito repellent was applied thickly on patches of skin beneath my cloth armor.

Brook trout caught on fly rod + 50th fish

By eight P.M. the mosquitos were out, but so were the brook trout. I had to use my fly rod to catch the trout that were feeding on the mosquitos that buzzed above the water. By 8:30 P.M. I had already landed two trout. I just needed one more brook trout to fulfill my goal. My eyes struggled to locate my tiny dry fly among the cloud of real insects that bit the skin around my forehead. Then a brook trout breached the surface of the water, engulfing my fly. I set the hook and battled the trout to the log I was standing on. As I unhooked the brook trout by the fading light and released it back into the lake, I realized that I could recall each and every fish and battle. Riddled by mosquito bites that had somehow found their way through my shirt, I turned my back on the lake and returned to camp.

Sunset at May Lake

Score:
18 fish on flies
10 fish on lures
23 fish on bait

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Pre-Spawn Crazy Bass Bite

First Bass of the season (4 1/2 pound)

The larger sample of Week 2 bass

Last week I injured my hip while playing soccer. Since then I have unfortunately been unable to play any sports, resulting in a severe case of boredom. After slogging through a week of school, my dad offered to take me bass fishing at nearby Foothills Park. Fishing: Preparation for Life and Explosive Big Bass Action are two other posts that I have written that sum up what Boronda Lake is like. It's a meager shallow pond where foliage grows in abundance along the bottom. And yet, it can be home to some of the best bass fishing in the area to those know know it's secrets......

The smaller of Week 2 bass

Many mice inhabit the reeds

4th and 5th bass of the season (14 - 16 in)

Largest bass of my life (25 in)

Unfortunately, after six years of fishing the pond, I am still a budding Boronda angler. But to minimize my inadequate experience, I try to maximize every possible advantage. This means using a float tube to probe the backside of tules where no angler can fish, being on the water as the sun sets below the horizon, and using the bait that other people are catching with. The float tube is a major edge over other fisherman. Bass feel safe in places they have never been

caught in before, and since anglers cannot reach the backside of tules and structure in the middle of the lake, they are more willing to bite in those areas. So last week, I kicked my way around Boronda lake, trying to see if I could hook into a pre-spawn bass.

I fished Boronda three days in a row, then hit it twice the following week with a  #4 bait-holder hook pinning a blue senko rigged wacky on 8lb. test. So what did I catch? Well on the first day, I pulled in a four-and-a-half pound bass as the somber light of a dying sun turned the numerous mosquitos into aurora dust. Elated by my catch I went the following day as well, and landed three largemouth bass, one right after the other under the starry sky. One of the bass weighed in at five pounds (don't worry I released all of them). The other two averaged about fourteen to sixteen inches, and I lost another one about the same size. But my dad suddenly encroached on my spot and tussled another five pound brute to the net. After some speculation, I realized his fish was bigger. In order to maintain my pride I was going to need to pull in an even heftier beast.

Intense stare-down with  a deer

And so I pleaded with him to take me the following day. But the bass suddenly went on lockdown due to the fact that five of their brethren had already been caught in the same relative location. As the moon rose to a luminescent peak above and I was forced to evade the occasional ranger patrol,  I wallowed in despair. For I knew my father was going to take the title for largest bass. Confident that we were going to get skunked that night, my dad dragged his float tube to shore and walked to the car. I was left alone in darkness so complete I could hardly see the handle of my reel. I cast my Senko half-heartely into a dense clump of weeds and let it sit. And suddenly the water erupted with the thrash of a colossal bass. My reel began to overheat and malfunction as the bass towed me around the maze of reeds. Struggles with bass are brief and vicious, but soon I had the tremendous head of the monster at my net. And then it breached the surface, and the hook pulled loose from the jaw. I watched it flop...... straight into the net. Luckily, the fish landed in my outstretched net, and I was able to land it. Regardless, my father was shocked when he returned to check on me. I don't know how heavy the bass was, but I would guess it was around 7-8lbs. It was 25 inches long, and plump with numerous sunfish. To date it is the biggest bass I have ever landed.

2nd and 3rd bass (5 pounders)

I visited the lake the following week, and my father and I pulled in a combined total of three bass on day one. However I managed to land only one on day two. All four fish were average, 12 - 14 inch bass. The time of the immense giants was over, leaving in their wake only memories and photographs. But the reason I was able to fish that many days in a row was because of my hip injury. Originally I had thought it would have been a negative thing, and there were some consequences. I could not play in my soccer game or participate in the opening week of track and field. Conversely, I experienced one of the best fishing trips of my life and landed the largest bass of my short career. This has lead me to believe that life is always in the gray area. There are positive points, but there will always be negative points. You will always have to make compromises, but if you recognize the positive side of things, one can lead a much happier life

Fish total: 10 bass, four in the five pound range
Tackle: 8 lb test, #4 bait-holder hook, blue Senko rigged wacky, bait-cast reel
Air Temperature: 59 - 65 degrees

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