| western watershed romance |
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She was the only reservoir I’d never met in the
wonderfully re-wilded watershed who’d suffered such degradation and
desecration from the Gold Rush gougers. Past Labor Day, into autumn,
and no one else there – only me. At least that’s what would’ve been the
judgment of a dumb, human-only perspective. Far more life was there, of
course – duh – and,
hopefully, the one I’d come for: the disregarded brown bullhead. They
don’t get the press like salmonids or green basses do in the
fisherman’s world, nor political fishes such as salmonids or Delta
smelt do in the California “science” world. They should – they’re
valuable, too. I’d failed with the lumbering, lovable Luddite fish
twice this year in the Feather’s watershed, so I needed restitution –
felt that during the Indian summer we were ensconced in, this
watershed, so dear to my soul, would reconcile us.
I rolled down dirt roads, searching for an outlaw campsite, scanning
the water, recollecting my past successes with brown bulls, and though
photographs don’t show it, I’d many: Gregory, Hughes, Mountain Meadows,
and, of course, Arrowhead - mountain waters, like this one - albeit
never in autumn, just late spring, just summer. They like rather
shallow and flat areas with fine substrate but with some cover they can
snuggle into during the diamond day. And corners for corralling. Such a
spot I felt I might’ve viewed from the main drag, so I ditched my ride
and hiked down an old, abandoned side road for a closer look. A touch
too shallow, a touch too exposed, but, down-reservoir, better – deeper,
muck beginning about 10 feet out, nearby rubble for daytime slumber,
and a point forming two corners. A half-hour before sunset and bullhead
awakening. I returned to the CR-V for my gear then hurried back to the
reservoir, sticking a branch in the ground as my sign to assist my
ailing sense of direction for my route back, which would be during
black night – to respect the bulls, I had to be there when moonlight
wasn’t.
Although the solid environment
looked correct, my big fear was the liquid: water temperature. In
Arrowhead, brownies wouldn’t awake until 61℉, and I feared, being high
in elevation and fully into autumn, that the reservoir was gonna be
colder. That’d switch me over to trout – not a bad thing, just the less
desirable, partly because I’d caught far more trout of all flavors in
far more waterways than bulls. Less growth. But when I pulled my
thermometer out of the water, the Indian summer had saved: 63℉. Greater
possibility – I rigged for bullheads.
Surrounded by the calming tremble of dying aspen leaves, shadow chasing
the sunlight away from the glassy water surface, autumn’s winnowing
light gilded ever more as I cast out my stubby, barbless, worm-laden
sliding-sinker rigs on both sides of the point, with the wrigglers
inflated so they’d rise a few inches above bottom (easier for a clean
bullhead take since the worm couldn’t snake under rock or into
plants/muck, which the bulls would then have to dig into). As soon as
the light left me, I chilled immediately and had to throw on a jacket.
The trout welcomed it, with two rising, and I feared I’d erred again,
like at Davis, at Frenchman. But the mainline on one rod moved, the
slack evaporated, the rod bent, and I’d clearly a fish interested in my
offering. Take seemed too quick for a bull, however, and I said to
myself, “Trout – but I’ll take it,” as I lifted the rod and set. The
rod hooped, signaling a good fish, which darted to and fro, like a
trout, but the head shakes weren’t right - whump-whump head shakes,
which are indicative of catfishes. I finessed the fish in, who now
disturbed the water’s surface, and to my surprise – and elation – trout
it wasn’t, but a big, stout brown bullhead. Set up the camera, ripped
off a few good frames, killed and bled her, then got the rod back out
there, quick. To get three would complete reconciliation.
And I’d a chance just after I’d re-cast, but I grabbed the rod too
soon, the fish felt it, and dumped. Mistake – they typically need
several moments to engulf the bait, and they will dump if they feel too
much resistance. But quickly a third take, I didn’t touch the rod and
let it load, and I again had a big, clean brown bull in the net. Flung
the rig back out there, dusk almost night, the line tightened, I
waited, the rod curved, and carefully, anxiously, achingly, I lifted,
set, drew in a fish, feeling the whump-whump, and then, there, in my
net: chocolate. A third big brown bully – completion.
Been 13 years since I’d been in such a state with that fish.
I’d originally planned to stop fishing and bail if I’d caught three –
unlike my younger days, I now lack the ability for all-night grinds.
But that she’d been so generous, and given this my last chance for
bulls this year, I chose to stay for another hour and hope for a fourth
fish, who, unless hooked dangerously, I’d release. But the feasting had
ended, and I caught no more, a shorter feeding spree than in summer’s
warmer water – likely the bulls had already filled up for their slower
autumn metabolism. So I packed up and then weaved through black night,
holding tight to the forest edge, peering for my stick landmark,
fearing that I’d blaze past it, but somehow I found it, reached the
CR-V without a misstep, and then slept untroubled by nightmares.
The next morning, I chose the eastern curve back home along Tahoe, a
leisurely drive, maddening at times because of the tourists – even on a
post-Labor Day weekday – slowing to near stop to gaze at the tranquil
big azure. I couldn’t get really angry, however, ‘cause I craned my
head, too. Passed a few stands of aspen in pure autumn dress, such gold
waving in the soft, warm breeze. Once on the main drag and falling down
the west side of the great range, the traffic dissipated to near
nothingness, and I reached home in a soothing, graceful afternoon.
Filleted the fish – beautiful fillets, lovely pinkish rose - and opened
their guts, finding their breakfast, our dinner, had consisted of
crawdads – not the trash-eaters they’re often blighted as by the
typical Euro-merican fisherman. Cleaned and stowed my gear, and then
reposed on my couch in autumn’s golden evening light, but in my soul,
still in dusk’s violet when the chocolate brown bulls came so kindly to
hand.