Lingcod Fishing in Half Moon Bay

Giant lingcod, threatening whales and an old friend are subjects of this post. Blood and heartbreak are prevalent themes. Still interested? Then read on.

As the 21-foot Boston Whaler crested sharply down the backside of the wave, I tried to quell a rising sense of vulnerability. Unfortunately, the size of the vessel was the least of my worries. The GPS computer on the boat would turn on and off, leaving us stranded in the middle of the ocean, praying for the computer to reconnect. Pervasive fog surrounded the boat on all sides, giving a sense of isolation. However, these factors only added to the building excitement as the boat neared the GPS coordinate named “lingcod_2”.

But how did I end up on that small boat in the middle of the ocean? I was contacted the day before the trip by an old friend named Francisco. You can check out my other adventures with him here: Rockfish, Lingcod, and Crab abound at the Farallon Islands, Rock-Fishing Cruise: The Farallon Islands, Fishing for Rockfish off the coast. The bottom line is that Francisco helped me foster my passion for fishing during my youth, and is one of the most influential people in my life. So when he invited me fishing for the first time in nearly two years I jumped at the chance. Never mind that it was only with two other people I had never met before in an area that I had never gone out in. I was just excited for the chance to go fishing again.

Back on the boat I dropped my double shrimp fly rig down to the bottom of the ocean. Seconds later, a fish began dancing on the end of my light bass pole. After reeling up through 150 feet of water, I was greeted with two healthy yellows. Placing the smaller one on the top hook I dropped the poor fish down to his inevitable doom. Hopefully, that yellow was going to catch me a lingcod.

The 13 pound lingcod

In hindsight this was a terrible idea. I had 170 feet of line on my bass pole and I was dropping it into 150-155 feet of water with a live yellow rockfish on my hook. But when the tip of the light rod was pulled sharply towards the water I instantly realized my mistake. The lingcod pulled out twenty feet of line before I was able to stop it. I watched in horror at the knot where the braid attached to the metal spool of my reel. With my rod between my legs, left hand gripping the line and right hand cranking furiously I was able to recover zero feet of line. So began the stalemate where neither boy nor lingcod was willing to give an inch. Luckily for me, the lingcod gave in first. After a grueling battle that literally spanned the depth of the ocean, the lingcod was within sight. The net scooped down, the head entered the mesh and seconds later a thirteen pound ling was flopping helplessly on the deck.

The twelve lingcod

Up until this point I had only caught three lingcod in my entire life. Francisco congratulated me as I shakily traded in my bass rod for a heavier blank and a reel with more line capacity. The same shrimp fly rig was attached and another live yellow rockfish was placed onto the top hook. Down went the poor fellow. A couple minutes later the rod was bent over double again.

And once again I had another lingcod at my feet. As I reached behind the gill to pick it up the lingcod thrashed, raking the gill plate across my fingers. Blood instantly welled up across the thin but deep cuts. Pulling on gloves I simply placed it into the fishbox. Putting another rockfish on the line, I dropped the rig down again. And once again I had another lingcod on within a few minutes.

By the time the third lingcod hit the deck, Francisco and his friends were beginning to figure out that live bait was working well. After a quick redistribution of the bait we were all fishing rockfish, and all getting hits. Unfortunately the lingcod were hitchhiking off the rockfish. This meant that they were not actually hooked, and instead were holding onto the back of the rockfish with their razor sharp teeth and refusing to let go. But when they saw the surface they often got scared, releasing their prey and darting back into the azure depths. Luckily for me, I seemed to be getting the lingcod on the trailer hook, giving me a higher catch rate. Eventually Francisco caught three, while his friends caught three total. Believe it or not I caught six lingcod all over 25 inches during the trip. After we limited out on lings we made a couple of drifts, picking up a rockfish or two on every pass. After four hours of fishing, we decided to call it a day and head back.

We ended the day with around 37 rockfish and 12 hefty lingcod. This trip to Half Moon Bay turned out to be the best fishing in my life.

Read More

Yellowstone Fishing

The Old Faithful Geyser 

As I trudge through the calf deep mud and bison excrement, I hold my fly rod high above the muck with one hand. With the other I thumb the orange safety clip of my bear spray, listening for a rustle or a growl to warn me of an imminent attack. As I approach the river, a cloud of steam obscures the surface. Then, a sudden gust of wind lifts the steam and I see a dozen of twelve-inch trout sipping insects beneath the surface of the water. Wait.... Bison excrement, bear spray and crystal clear water full of trout? Where am I?!

Well, I took a trip Yellowstone National Park with my family. And the river I am about to fish is the famed Firehole River, one of the most prestigious dry-fly rivers in the world. Complete with underground hot springs and abundant insect hatches, trout grow fast here. But can I catch these wary fish after nearly a year since my last fly-fishing excursion?

Back at the river I slide onto my knees and instantly feel the moisture from the grass seep through the water-resistant pants. Holding the rod low to the ground I inch my way towards the river bank. I can see the trout swirling, flashing and darting just under the water’s surface. Unhooking my caddis dry fly, I make a sloppy cast towards the head of a slow-moving pool. The fish are not impressed with my presentation and swim away. Frustrated, but not discouraged I move down to another slot.

Here the water is faster, and the trout hopefully less wary. After applying flotant, I cast my fly just beyond the fast moving water. It drifts into the flow and suddenly a large brown trout erupts out of the water in pursuit of the fly. I swing the rod and miss the hookset. Dang it….

A 13-inch brown trout

This scene repeats itself over and over. A perfectly placed cast results in a hit, but no fish. Finally, I find a pool where the water moves fast, but slowly enough where I can easily keep track of my fly. I cast, make a perfect drift and… BAM! It’s on! It jumps a good foot out of the air, writhing back and forth in fury, to no avail. I bring it to shore, snap a few pictures and release it back into the river.

I landed around 23 trout in four days but only two were rainbows

It is a special moment seeing your catch swim away towards its slot in the river. In Yellowstone, this moment is compounded by the natural beauty that surrounds you. And now, for the first time, I can experience it in isolation. This was the first trip where I was left alone. Not even my parents accompanied me on this journey. As a result of my age, they have decided to entrust me with new responsibility. So now my fishing experiences include just me, my fly and the fish dancing on the end of my line. And I have rarely been more happy.

Read More

Bass Boy (Teen) Returns

At the age of 16, I cannot really consider myself a kid anymore. I would like to think of myself as an adult, but I also know that is not true. All I know is that I am a boy with an unprecedented amount of freedom and new responsibility. What has stayed the same is my love for the outdoors, for fishing and for life as a whole.

With that, let us get to the fishing. Many books detail the life of the young teen who has his special bass lake. In this lake dwell copious amounts of five pound plus bass. Well I have found that lake. Unfortunately, my friends have threatened to whip me to death with 16 ounce lead balls if I reveal where this lake is. So just rest easily knowing that this lake exists, there are fish in it and I have been catching those fish.

Imagine the lonely plastic crawfish, silently sinking into the water after a perfectly placed cast. A three pound largemouth-bass locates this weighted plastic and makes a mad dash towards the rapidly descending figure. With it’s mouth wide open, the bass smashes into the bait and violently jerks the braided line. On shore I can be heard screaming “FISH ON!”

There have been hot summer nights when this occurs ten to twelve times, and me and a couple of friends can walk home along the mile-long dirt trail with face splitting grins. And we have not been skunked yet, so I guess every hike back to the cars has been a happy one.

You can fish frogs, jerkbaits, swimbaits, crayfish imitations, or even mice imitations. The lake is a canvas for which one can apply any style of fishing they want. However, catching the bass is not the most important factor in the trip. Me and my friend Dylan have guided many people in catching their first bass, and had many friendly competitions. Introducing people into a lifestyle which has given me many wrist-wrenching moments is the greatest reward.

I have trudged back many times as the sun set and the animals of the night came out to feed. The memories of my latest bass replay over in my head. The cool breeze of evening dries my sweat. Everything around me is at once silent, powerful and beautiful. At these times I am reminded of a kid who loved to fish and wanted to spread his joy to others. I hope I can release some of my joy to you.

A double on large-mouth bass. Notice whose fish is bigger. 

Read More

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

Read More

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!"

Read More

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.

Read More

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

Read More