Tag: Los Angeles River

The fisherman's life

Why the (cigar) ritual rules

What’s fly fishing without ritual?

First off, another question: what’s the difference between habit, custom, superstition and the above?

Habit is ordinary, so thinking of a habit — always listening to the KNX traffic report “on the fives,” for example, before driving to work — nope, boring.

Custom might be a tad better, but a custom to me means something still ordinary, yet transcending a smidge: For example, last Thanksgiving when Uncle Arthur came over he sat in the first chair to the right of the host, so this year it’s the same. In fact, it’s customary.

Come on! Where's that billy goat when fans really need him?

Superstition is way off from ritual. Think pro sports of any kind. Think of the Cubbies and the curse of the billy goat that keeps them from winning a World Series; or that Jets receiver Jerrico Cotchery downs a yummy bowl of savory clam chowder before he plays the game.

Nope, if superstition invaded the sport of fly fishing, we’d all keep our lucky fly on the bedpost before waking at dawn, turning twice in a circle before putting our LEFT foot into our waders first, and … you get the idea.

But ritual, yes, that’s where the fun begins.

Ritual means that you’re out of the habit. Ritual means as well that a new custom might just be born today on the water. And, further, ritual allows you to put all your superstitious nonsense behind. Go ahead, get into your waders with your right foot, for cryin’ out loud.

And, ritual means lighting up a fine smoke after releasing the first fish of the day.

Of course, the Surgeon General, your dentist, the blood-pressure gal at Kaiser and just about everyone else will tell you that smoking cigars is a terribly bad thing. I remember a chance visit to an old-time cigar shop in Vancouver, Canada. Yes, you can buy as many overpriced Cubans as you want in this perfectly restored cigar mecca, but don’t try to light up using the dual-tipped turn-of-the-century cigar “fountain” in the middle of the room. It’s illegal and the gas has been shut off.

Anyway, if the occasional smoke is going to do me in, so be it. And, because it is occasional, I’m going to smoke what I like. And what I like is deep, dark and moody: the Ashton VSG. In fact, can I say I make a habit of buying this same cigar?

Fine smokes belong in a liga privada of their own.

So, it was with some surprise when the fellow at Fair Oaks Cigars recommended a newcomer, the Liga Privada, which isn’t a Dominican, but hails from Nicaragua.

“It’s made by the Acid guys,” he said. Those would be the makers of the heinous flavored smoke.

Next chance I got, I lit up, following the appropriate ritual, of course. It’s a beautiful smoke. Not as heavy as the Ashton, not as much bite, but still very long on powerful flavor. Sweet.

The price is about equal, around $15.

Save your pennies (I do), and …

See you on the water, Jim Burns

Spots

‘There aren’t any fish up here’

Oh, to be footloose, with fly rod in hand, in the San Gabriel Mountains. No tedious drive to the Owens River; no heart-thumping commute to the Kern. Yesterday, the January temperature was in the middle-50s, so my son, Will, and I decided to avenge our recent skunk on the L.A. River by visiting a cousin, literally 10 minutes from my wife’s office in Arcadia.

Beautiful canyons such as this one dot the San Gabriel Mountains.

As we made our way from the sparsely used parking lot, hikers on the trail looking at our fly rods stopped to utter either a statement, or a question. Either,

“There aren’t any fish up here.”

Or,

“Are there fish up here?”

The answer to both, is a simple, “ye-hah!”
It was a wonderful home coming. Whereas, stalking the elusive golden bonefish is still something I’m fine tuning, I’ve fished the San Gabes for years. And, basically you’ve got your teeny-weeny trout — mostly — then once in a while the fish gods throw in something to make it really exciting.

Will and I brought a Sage SP 3 weight and a Winston Ibis 4 weight, both really nice stream rods, well-suited to the area’s steep canyon walls and narrow, faster-running waters. We’d strung up 6x tippets, and kept it simple with hi-viz Parachute Adams 18s.

Two sweet rainbows took the same pattern fly at the same time.

“Gotten any strikes?” I asked Will, while munching on a Fresh & Easy Italian sandwich.

He looked at me as if four casts didn’t warrant a gentle prod from the old man. Yet, on his fifth cast, there appeared the strike that I so often get from this hole.

He pulled up a small rainbow, and that set the afternoon’s tone, even as it clouded over, got windy-nasty and the near-freezing water chilled my fingers beyond my So. Cal. comfort zone.

I could have gone on like that for a long while, reading the stream, then having smaller fish take the fly, over and over again.

But, like I said, the fish gods can be unpredictable. And so, as we both cast into the biggest hole, I hooked up, watching the rod tip bend with a gift larger than most in this shimmering water.

“Hey!” I called out to Will above the noise of cascading water, just in time to see his Winston’s tiptop bend as if it were staring into the misty pool to see what had come onto the line.

Father-son hook up; same time; two ‘bows of the “keep ‘n’ eat” variety. We looked at each other with astonished eyes, with satisfied grins, with ripples of 20 years of past trips moving between us. Fly-fishing can move beyond the simple joys of the sport and play easily in the profound. It can keep fathers and sons together through rocky teen years and beyond.

Our new friends got their photo-op, then we returned them to frigid waters.

Crazy fun.

Check out the colors on these trout, which we quickly returned to the stream.

Will wanted to stay for one more fish, and, sure enough, he hooked up again within a few minutes. As he pulled this one out, suddenly cries issued from above. I looked up by the waterfall to see four young people waving, taking pictures, shouting, as Will smiled. I thought the crowd overly enthusiastic for a stranger’s accomplishment.

As they left, Will came over to me and said, again in amazement, “Those are four other students from my program!”

What are the chances?

Would you believe me if I told you that after we hiked to the trail’s top, away from the water, I picked a lady bug from Will’s arm?

See you on the water, Jim Burns

Ecology, Worth a thousand words...

Speaking of astacology

I never thought I’d see one of these critters on the river, but there he was this afternoon, feeling all full of himself, putting his mini-lobster claws up in a defensive posture.

Crayfish, crawdaddy or mudbug, whatever you like to call them, they're alive and well in the L.A. River.

What’s also truly wonderful about seeing crawdaddies in the river is that most species can’t tolerate polluted water. That means that sweet smell of treated water must be more than just a scent. True, we’d all be much better off without the toxic runoff that spills through the basin, but seeing these tiny creatures just adds to the hope — and to nature’s mystery — as a multitude of birds, and several different species of fish, continue to make the river their home.

If you haven’t been down to the river lately, make it a New Year’s resolution to go often. It’s a wonderful, free experience in the heart of our city.

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Ecology, Equipment

Batter up: Carp clubbing takes river to new low

Here’s a winter’s tale that should prove cautionary and more.

We decided not to visually bust this guy for carp clubbing. He's the one who got away -- for now.

My son and I went out last week for some fishing on the city’s river. As we were leaving the water, we came upon a couple of friendly gents who intimately knew the area. Both had on caps; both had on backpacks; both had good senses of humor; and one should have been arrested:

“You don’t need that rod to catch carp down here,” said the one.

How could you not ask?

“What you need? You need a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, that’s what you need — a bat!”

He then went on to tell us that he and a friend “caught” three white plastic bucketfuls of carp in an hour, and lugged them to a nearby Korean buyer who paid cash. He said that the next day — Sunday — he went by  the buyer’s church and there was a big fish grill, making everyone happy.

“I don’t have a lot to do besides hanging out and drinking beer. Imagine, me in that water with my pants rolled up,” he said with a grin. “Nope, you don’t need that. You need a baseball bat.”

We all nodded like it was the funniest thing we’d ever heard, but by the time I got home, I wasn’t laughing anymore.

I called a marine biologist with the California Deptartment of Fish and Game to get her perspective.

“There’s nothing legal about anything you just told me,” Carrie Wilson said.

She went on to detail the wrongdoing:

“First off, taking with a baseball bat is not a legal take,” she said. “And a carp is still a California fish. That means you have to abide by fishing regulations.”

Those regs include owning a fishing license (you can buy one online this year), as well as having a commercial fish seller’s license.

Then there was the matter of the baseball bat. According to Wilson, a bow and arrow is a legal method of fishing in some areas of California, and spearing might also be allowed, she wasn’t sure. But whacking fish with a baseball bat? Positively ghetto in the worst sense.

Finally, even though the FoLAR’s 2008 Los Angeles River Fish found low levels of toxicity in fish analyzed for the report, serving up a heaping plateful of river carp is insidious. Think of your guests, man!

So if you see anyone yelling, “batter up,” and then swinging for the fences, call the Griffith Park Rangers.

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Spots, Worth a thousand words...

Pass the Dijon
It's 94 pounds of carpilicious fun for lucky Brit Paul Roberts, who caught the purported world's largest mirror carp near Dijon, France. (Credit Y&M Media)

Christmas came early for Brit Paul Roberts. According to the Daily Mail, the bloke from Dorset snapped up the world’s biggest (caught) carp at Le Graviers, near Dijon, France. That’s big as in 94 pounds, so big it has a name on the local waters, “The Scarred Fish.”

To make the story even better, Roberts, a boat builder, witnessed his friend, Richard Middleton, pull in a brown fish, weighing 83 pounds only the night before.

That made the two buddies a double-threat — all in only 48 hours.

“As I was reeling it in, I saw what fish it was and then my legs turned to jelly,” Roberts told the Daily Mail.

But a quick bit of Internet reporting reveals that in June the same fish was caught at the same lake as — a 99-pounder! Maybe we should blame the Lap Band. Or the Daily Mail should get a better scale.

If it weren’t raining as I write, I’d grab my rod.

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Ecology, Events

Quick Mends

Yes, once again under the “shameless promotion” category, this time KCET Departures Story Share allowed me to tell my tale about fly fishing on the river.

Even if you can't see the river, these bird-loving signs point the way.

Question: is all black the best look for a happy, early afternoon interview?

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Equipment, Quick mends

Quick mends

I’m writing this while listening to Clay Dyer, a professional bass fisherman, who doesn’t have any limbs. Never heard of this guy, but found his video when I was researching C.A.S.T. for Kids. Turns out that this truly amazing fisherman is also the group’s spokesman. It’s based in Renton, Wash.

Children get a taste of the reel life through the Dan Hernandez Youth Foundation. (Photo courtesy Dan Hernandez Youth Foundation)

Closer to home, check out  the Daniel Hernandez Youth Foundation. Another professional fisherman, Hernandez started  “Meet Me at the Lake” to help under-served children get their first fishing experience.

Question: When are flyfishers going to start doing something like this  on our river? If you’ve been following these posts, you’ll remember I met a couple of kids a few weeks ago, and we all had fun fishing for carp.

At least we know that the equipment is there. Bob Milne explains the ins and outs of the Redington Crosswater Youth Outfit in an informative post.

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Events

Inspiration in the bike lane
Councilman Tom LaBonge makes a point at Saturday's event.

Anybody out there ready for the odd bit of good news?

We all should be, what with the continuing recession/depression, unemployment that won’t go down, unending Afghanistan… And it is getting closer to Christmas.

So, from the thank-goodness-for-small-favors-and-the-occasional-infusion-of-political-will department came a ribbon cutting Saturday along the banks of the Los Angeles River: the eight-mile stretch of freshly paved and dutifully yellow-lined Elysian Valley asphalt is now officially open for rubber, both tire tread and Nike sole.

It’s always  hard to get an accurate crowd count, and the cops left before we could ask them (peace has its advantages), but approximately 200 people listened — and cheered — as Los Angeles councilmembers Eric Garcetti, Tom LaBonge, and Lupe Vella, representing councilman Ed Reyes, talked up the accomplishment under Saturday’s threatening early afternoon skies.

Well over one hundred people attended the opening of the Elysian Park extension of the river bikeway and pedestrian path.

“The dream moves a step closer to reality,” Garcetti said, referring to eventually creating a bike path that will run the entire 51 miles of the river, from the Sepulveda Basin in the San Fernando Valley to Long Beach. Flanked by the L.A. River Keepers, teens who advise those along the river not to trash it and pick it up when ne’er do wells do, it was a day in which public and private cooperation inspired even the most cynical.

Scott Wilson, founder of North East Trees, listened as Ron Olive, of the Dept. of Public Works, told onlookers the project took 10 years to realize. And L.A River Expeditions founder George Wolfe beamed when Vella said “We want nonmotorized kayak access next year.”

Amen.

Flyfishers should be happy because the new access and traffic cuts the threat of meeting people you really don’t want to meet while carping under the 2 freeway. In the past, this area had a bad rep.

Jesus with buddies Eric Garcetti and Tom LaBonge

Finally, a young man named Jesus rode his new, donated bike alongside Garcetti and LaBonge, southward toward the future. The only thing missing was a donated fly rod for Jesus to strap onto his shiny silver ride.

See you on the river, Jim Burns

Events

KCET Story Share is tomorrow!

This from KCET producer Justin Cram:

The KCET Departures StoryShare event is this Saturday, Dec. 4, from 10 a.m. – 2 p.m. at Crystal Park in Elysian Valley.

The event coincides with the opening celebration for the Elysian Valley Pedestrian/Bike Path.

Even if you can't see the river, these bird-loving signs point the way.

Crystal Park is located off of Crystal Street, South of where Fletcher crosses over the LA River and North of Riverside drive. Parking is street only and Crystal Street will be closed for the event. For more information on parking, traveling to the
event, and location, please go to kcet.org/storyshare

You do not need an appointment to participate in the StoryShare event, simply arrive to the event between 10am and 2pm and locate the KCET Departures booth. You will be able to tell your story on camera, or if you prefer, as audio only.

For those of you who have already sent in a teaser of your story, we have begun to publish these on the KCET StoryShare site as some of you cannot make it the event. Feel free to contact me via email if you would like to adjust or add to your story on
the site.

See you on the river (tomorrow!), Jim Burns

Spots

The Skunk
Mirror, mirror on the water, tell us carp are where they outter (be).

I met Mario and his friend as they rode their bikes under the Hyperion Bridge. When he called to me, at first I felt unnerved. Then, looking around, I felt foolish to think that this bright-faced boy might be up to no good.

“Fly fishing?” he asked with a knowing smile.

“Got a good spot?” I answered in return.

And off we went, two kids who might have been Tom and Huck from earlier days, and an older gentleman, two on bikes, one on sneakers, plying the waters of the Glendale Narrows.

Shortly, we came to Mario’s spot, which is one well known to the bait guys. In fact, we watched from the other side of a long island as one of them hooked up.

“Nice fish,” I shouted cupping my hands against the wind and background noise.

“That’s a minnow,” his friend called back. “You should see the big ones.”

Indeed.

As we wheeled and walked to a spot I knew, I told the boys to keep a sharp eye out for fish. Now that they’d seen a carp, they realized I wasn’t just telling them tall fish tales. And, sure enough, we spotted a bonnie golden bonefish as he pushed up a concrete step, the swift water parted by his muscular body and slashing tail.

“Whoa,” said the friend.

“Told ya,” the old guy answered back.

Then, I cast, cast, moved my indicator, cast, fooled with my weight, cast. Not a strike.

Soon, the boys got bored, which Mario said happened, but that it was worth it because of the thrill of the catch. They wanted to cross to the other side, so that we’d be closer to where the bait guys were hooking up. The thought of wading in that cold, questionable water didn’t thrill me, and we parted company, as they decided to stay on our side of the river, and go home for sandwiches.

“When you usually here?” Mario asked.

“Fridays,” I answered. The three of us shook hands, and then shook our heads in agreement, that we would meet again one of these Fridays, and, possibly, Mario would bring his dad along.

Being skunked is a quiet ticket to unhappiness and frustration, unless you meet some new buddies during the process.

I fished out the day without a strike, yet as I walked back to the car, empty-handed, I thought about my two new friends. Fishing, after all, isn’t always about catching … If I’d seen them on the sidewalk, in the mall, or in a restaurant, I doubt we would have ever said a word. Yet here, in our defiled river, we three strangers became just a tad better acquainted than when we arrived.

See you on the river, Jim Burns