Hard Coe 2012 Pt. III

 

Mile follows mile and I can feel morale slipping. The cloud cover has long burned away and tree shade is just a faint memory. With the sun at its zenith, the shadows shrink and cower tightly under its progenitors, providing no sanctuary for our parched party.

Desperate to keep our spirits high, I run ahead, yelling, "I think it's just around this corner!" And each time, the disappointment is even greater than the last.

Eventually, even my enthusiasm was spent and my heart yearned for the moment I would touch the water. Indeed, Anza was apt when, on his expedition through the area in 1776, he wrote:

 

"...If we traveled along the bottom, there were many stones and much water. When one or the other became impassable, we turned to the slopes, down which we almost slid... To this place... we have given the name of Sierra del Chasco (Mountain of Deception) because of its difficult passage... which nobody had anticipated."

Anza was no fool. Although the scenery appeared idyllic and docile, the going was deceitfully tough.

We all struggled on, our bags seemingly getting heavier with each step, while our backs ached more and more by the minute. We took frequent breaks, each no more than fifteen minutes. I think ten minutes is the optimal amount of time for a break. It gives your muscles a rest, but does not let the "lazies" slip into your legs.

Soon enough I reach a familiar marker. "Coit Lake 1.2 mi" is etched onto a vertical post. Okay guys, for reals this time. We're almost there. Like some coy bitch, the last mile or so is the most brutal. A grueling hike up and over a ridge, before traversing sharply down a steep incline. Any avid hiker knows that it's the downhill that really gets ya. By the time I get my first glimpse of the water, my right knee is killin' me and I'm limping down the hill. My anticipation finally got its outlet and a flood of exhilaration shot through me. Gimped knee be damned, I could almost touch the water. I start a mad hobble-skip down, slipping and sliding on the loose, rocky dirt. I make small leaps through the air, slowing myself on impact and bouncing up into another leap. I keep my knees bent, but slightly rigid as I swing with my hips to hop and pivot. Pain be damned. I was too close.

The Five Pack wallowing in the lap of victory having arrived at Kelly Lake.
That's right, bitches; that is a float tube, large and in charge.

Reaching the bottom, I toss off my pack onto a log and rush down another steep slope to the water's edge. Clear, but stained. A light brown. There is vegetation, but it looks dead and is sparce. I don't even make out any fish. This is not good. I talked up a lot of hype for this trip. A lot. If things don't pan out then my reputation as a more svelt, modern day, Asian-equivalent Grisly Adams may be tarnished.

Being the first one down, I immediately get started to hopefully figure out the fish before the rest of the crew get down. I brought with me four sets:

Berkley Tactix 5'6" ultralight with a Abu Garcia Cardinal 101 (2# Berkley Trilene 100% FC)

W&M Skeet Micro Spin Rod 6'10" Finesse Tube Jig with a Abu Garcia Orra S Spinning Reel

(4# Maxima Ultragreen Line)

Falcon Bucoo Micro Guide Casting Rod 7' Medium with a Abu Garcia Pro Max Casting Reel (left)

(20# Power Pro Spectra Braided Line Vermillion Red)

Shimano 6' ultralight noodle rod that I've since lost and am really pissed at. It had the tiniest reel

(2# P-Line CXX Moss Green)

One by one the group trickles in. I start out with a 4" YUM F2 Dinger (Wtrmn Seed) wacky-style on an 1# Owner Wacky Hook modified with my own custom wire weedguard on the Falcon rod. I make a first cast out trying to parallel a tule line to my left. I get about twenty yards. It takes about a five count to stop. I figure it just sitting on some weeds. I let it sit on the bottom. I give it a four count. I give the rod a couple of short six inch hops. With controlled slack, I ease the worm back to the bottom. Now a three count. Five hops. Back down. I continue this about five more before I feel that I am out of the strike zone and wind in. I make a side arm roll-cast. I aim closer to the tules and try to get in as tight as I can. Bingo. The lure collides with the tule stalk as it enters the water. 1... 2... 3...4.. tic. I wind in and give it a quick snap. Fish on! I can feel right away it's a dink. I bounce it out of the water and give it a peck on the head. I turn to my companions, "The game is on gentlemen."

I proceed to hand out rods and give pointers on how to fish. They all make their way to the water and start putting those tips into play. In the meantime, I have pumped up my Creek Company U-Boat float tube. I also packed out a hand pump, fins, and Caddis neoprene waders.

Being the only person who can use a baitcasting reel, I continue with the Falcon combo. I kick out around the bend and travel up a cove. I make fan casts towards likely hide outs and unfortunately do not pick up very many.
 





While throwing at a sunken tree, I get snagged up and break off. I start to kick back over to camp. I find the Pack standing on the bank throwing a new rig that FishTrick had researched. A simple bobber and jig rig.

 

It's an Arkie Brand 1/16th oz leadhead with a Sexee Shad Tail plastic.
Below is some footage of how he worked it.

 

I ask to get the Shimano noodle rod as I continue to film the action.

  

 

I float off and hug the west bank, staying near the tules. The bite picks up and I hook a fish every few casts.

 

 

 

It starts to get pretty chilly in the shade so I kick off towards the sunnier north shore. I float on the outside edges of the tules and flip a float-n-fly rig on the Shimano rod. The sunny north shore is where the action is at and soon I am hooking up with beautiful palm-sized on nearly every cast. I use the flipping technique.

 

First, I hold my hand so that I am gripping the foregrip of the rod. Some rods don't have a foregrip. I just hold the rod directly ahead (moving towards the tip) of the reel.

 

Then I extend my pink down and place it on the spool to hold down the line and prevent it from unwinding. This is a trick that I learned from Bill Murphy's book, In Pursuit of Giant Bass, (one of my favorites) used in another technique called "stitching." 

 

Then I pull out about three to four feet of line with my left hand while leaving about four feet hanging off of my tip. That leaves me with about ten feet of line to play with so I will not be engaging the reel anymore.

 

Then, with my rod hand extended up and out to about my head level, I lower just the tip by folding down down my wrist and create a pendulum motion to gain momentum. If timed correctly (once the float has hit the apex of its backswing, you lift the rod tip, again, making sure to only use your wrist and not your arm), the float will swing out and you can precisely "place" the lure where you want it. It takes some practice to learn to coordinate your two hands, but it's a very useful technique.

 

I try to put the lure right at the edge of the stem of the tules as they enter the water. I do my best to minimize splash and I let the lure sink. I takes a couple of seconds to sink down, you can usually tell because the bobber will drift towards the lure until stops which means it's above the fly. I let the nymph sit for a couple of seconds and then give it a few of the slightest twitches. Then I let it sit again. This whole time, my left hand is still holding my hand and is moved up next to the rod so that the line I was holding is extended into the water. If I don't get an bites, I reach back with my left hand, pulling the line with it and I raise my right hand and lift my tip with my wrist. Rinse. Repeat.

 

Often, the fish just nip at your fly. If the fish doesn't take it whole-heartedly then I just leave the fly be. Once I see bobber dive under, I let go of the line with my left hand and grab the handle. Then it's just a matter of lifting the rod tip to remove any slack and leaning away from the fish. A jerk set is not usually necessary. If you miss the fish, just flip the fly back in and often the fish will strike again!

Crystal Rivers Bead Head Zug Bug

Mr. Crappie Pear Rattlin' float

Here's an example of the beautiful palm-sized 'Gills I was catching. 

 



The original plan was to move on and settle at Coit Lake, however, as we were fishing, we were passed over by several groups of hikers and I figured that they'd take all the good camping spots at Coit so it was decided to spend the night at Kelly and hike to Coit the next day.

 

Eventually the sun gets low enough in the sky to signal that I need to start preparing my sleeping spot. I find a spot around the bend, tightly tucked against the bluff. There's a log to sit on and we our far out of the way of passing visitors. There's even a fire pit and against my better judgement, we start a fire. I must admit, I did enjoy having the fire and it was hard to put into words the satisfaction of biting into a hot, juicy Kielbasa after a long, hard day of strenuous hiking.

 

I must say, fires are not allowed in Henry Coe and eventually we were caught and ticketed. Don't make the same mistake. You can, however, use gas stoves.

 



 

After eating and getting my sleeping quarters prepped, I layered up and headed back out to fish. Most of the others had gone to sleep, but I continue fishing late into the night. There are surprisingly few mosquitos and I fish relatively undisturbed. I use my Skeet Reese rod and throw a Lucky Craft G-Splash Popper in American Shad color. I get a decent bite and hook up with a dozen or so fish using a medium-slow pop-pause-pop-pop retrieve. By eleven o'clock, the bite slows to down crawl and so I retired to get an early start for tomorrow. I snuggle into my sleeping bag and turn towards the dying embers, it's faint glow warming my face, and close my eyes. I fall asleep surrounded by the sounds of nature...

Hard Coe 2012 Pt. II

Ant drops us off at the entrance of the trailhead. We unpack our gear and sit tight while he drives back to the park the jeep then walks the two miles back to the trailhead. He's a good sport. Becoming restless, we kill some time by traversing the dusty bank and going down to the stream below us. The water is trickling stream, only a foot wide at some points, opening up to a pool about fifty feet long by twenty five feet wide. It is very clear with a slight green stain. There are no signs of catchable fish, although we do spot some tiny mosquito fish.

I light up the blunt I had been carrying. It's pretty well rolled if I do say so myself. It makes its round. Then another. And another. That feeling returns. I am at a precipice of something great. Of a great accomplishment.

The weather is cool. Actually a little too cool. I had taken off and packed my extra layers knowing that I will be sweating soon, but sitting and waiting in the shade has me uncomfortably chilled. I know that soon, I will be begging for the cloud cover and so I am anxious because we are losing optimal hiking weather.

Soon Ant is back and we prepare to embark. FishTrick suggests we take the Anza trail, noting that it will be less steep with more tree cover. Trusting his judgement, I agree and so we make a left at the first fork instead of a right.

The hiking starts off rough. Having spent so much time fishing and not hiking, I could really feel the toll that that fact was having on my stamina. By hour's end, I was not anticipating another two and a half to three hours of this.

FishTrick is right and our route is pretty cool with decent tree cover. Something that I'm sure was appreciated by the Coe First-timers, although, ironically they probably did not appreciate it, having not yet felt their backs blistered by the brutal open sky. There were many breaks taken and as the day wore on and the sun crept higher and higher into the sky, the number of breaks only increased.

For the time being, I take the lead as we progress further and further into the undergrowth. A rustle. I glance over and catch a brief glimpse of a blur shuffle into the foliage.

"Guys! Check it out!

The rest of the troupe catches up. We sit silently for a moment before several wild turkeys emerge from the growth. Wild turkeys are known to be very territorial. They watch us, more wary than scared. We use the time to catch our breaths then move on our way.

We all continue, on and on, as the trail winds through forest thickets, across babbling creeks, and along sheer slope cliffs before depositing us past the tree line, on an abrupt incline, surrounded by an endless field of tall, dry grass and a breath-taking view of the surrounding valley. We all stop and put down our pack. Our backs and shoulders ache. Our shirts are drenched from perspiration.






I take the opportunity to pack a bowl in my pipe. I light up and release the smoky breath into the air. The wind literally rips it from my lips and in an instant it is gone. I pass it to the left. I am met with shakes or the heads or flicks of the wrist. Fine. More for me, I guess. I remind everyone to make sure to stay hydrated. And again we're off.





Only a few minutes later, we are greeted by the remains of an abandoned ranch. Old and dilapidated, it gave off an eerie feeling. All that remains are the wooden posts of what appear to have been a horse pen. Like a treacherous Siren, the sprawled wood partially hidden by the tall grass almost beckons one to come and frolic within it's innocent enclosures. However, a closer look at the grass stalks reveals their true nature. There were already frolickers abound, concealed in the vegetation.

Ticks.


Definitely not the kind of place you want
to come across lost and alone one night.

Now that the trail is bordered on either side by long grass we needed to start being tick-smart. We each keep a vigilant eye on each other as we walk in line. Every twenty minutes or so, we stop and spot check one another, wary of ticks looking for their next meal.


Blacklegged Tick: Vector for the dreaded Lyme Disease

Our cautiousness pays off, as one tick after another is identified and removed. They are quickly disposed of with a quick flick of a finger.

However, ticks are a shifty lot and despite the due diligence and persistent tick-checks, a lone intruder managed to infiltrate our ranks. While hiking, FishTrick let out a yelp and it was soon discovered that a tick had bit him on the waist.

Luckily, it didn't have a chance to bore in and FishTrick sent it back form whence it came with an OK KO.

Then on we continue...

May 11th - 13th; Pt. II: Where Frogs Fear to Tread

It's now a little over one o'clock in the morning. I slowly cruise through a residential neighborhood. I cringe at the sounds of dogs barking, alerting the world to my presence. I make a pass. The hole looks secure. No signs of danger. Not yet, anyway. I turn down another street and find a car to park behind. It makes my car seem less suspicious, I imagine. I quickly shove a burger and fries down my gut. I eat in the dark as to not draw any attention. Then I grab my rods and am silently traveling down the brightly lit street. I make it around a bend and a gate comes into view. Using my "agility-based" build to my advantage, I easily slip between the gate doors. I am packing very lightly, carrying only a pack stuffed with various soft plastic lures (Five inch Yamasenkos, four inch YUM Dingers, four inch YUM tubes, and four inch Fat Ikas) and two rods.



Mean Green
Kistler Micro Mag Casting Rod 7' Heavy.....
Shimano Curado 201E Casting Reel
fifty# PowerPro Super 8 Slick (Aqua Green)







True Blue
St. Croix Legend Tournament Cast Rod 7'1" Med Hvy Fast
Daiwa Tierra Baitcasting Reel
twenty# PowerPro Super 8 Slick (Marine Blue)
eight# Berkley Trilene 100% Fluorocarbon Clear (leader)

5" Senko (Black/Blue Flk) + 2/0 Owner TwistLock Light Hook

I make my way through the grass and over the hill, disappearing behind a sand pit. From there it's just a short way to the lake. This place is a particular burn as it's private property. I must be extra vigilant of cops and security, as well as the FLIR capable police choppers that patrol overhead. This is ninja fishing at its finest. I plan to make it a quick run. A couple of hours at most. I want be in, catch a few frog fish and be out before anyone can react to my presence. I won't let down my guard. "I will be invisible," I tell myself. No mistakes.

Spro Dean Rojas Bronzeye Frog 65 (Midnight Walker)

As I approach the lake, the water is perfectly still. Directly in front of me is the middle of the lake; I can make out several aerators softly bubbling in the distance; to my right is a small bridge. A layer of matted algae (Filamentous Algae aka "pond scum," "lake moss," "snotgrass") covers the water from the bank out to about seven feet. I lay down True Blue and make a short side-arm cast with a frog to the bridge. I try to minimize splashdown as to not spook the fish.

Pause.... walk........ walk-walk.... walk... walk-walk-walk.....walk....walk..... walk-walk-walk....

I walk the frog quickly across the surface. I know the water is shallow by the bridge and so am confident that a shallow fish should be pretty active and would more likely react to a quick moving lure.

Nothing.

I make another cast. And then another. The opposite bank that the bridge connects to creates a short channel before making a bend and opening up the central part of the lake. Along its banks too is a border of algae. About ten uneventful casts in, I make a long cast to the outer edge of the snotgrass line. As I walk the frog parallel to the weedline, my expectations of a strike are high. As I exit the weedline and enter the open water between the channel, my expectations are lower, but still expectant. As the frog leaves the open water and returns back to the snotgrass on my bank, my expectations are to prepare for another cast. Just as I enter a small pocket at the edge of the algae, I get a light strike. Startled, I pause for a moment before I continue to walk the frog. About three twitches later... BLAM!

I see the explosion. I hear the splash. I feel the tug. And I swing. All I end up hooking up are my jeans as the lure shoots out of the water and into my leg. Well at least I'm getting closer to figure out the pattern. I make some pitches several feet past my bank's snotgrass line and walking it in without luck. I make another long cast. Suddenly, behind me, to my eight o'clock, I hear a voice.

"How you doing tonight?"

Awww fuck! I think it's the authorities and I'm dicked. I slowly turn to my left and see two guys, dressed in hoodies and holding rods. Whew, I think. Lucked out this time.

"Uhhhh kinda slow. Only one bite so far."

"Cool." One guys says. They walk up the water and cast out.

Shit, these  guys are going to fish in front of me, I better move now to get ahead of them. I quickly wind in and walk over to where the two guys are, right next to where I put down True Blue.

"What are you guys throwing?" They are using a couple of spinning get'ups. "Worms?"

"Yeah. My friends throwing a little craw that he's been killing them on."

"Little Texas-rigged craw?"

"Yeah."

"Nice."

I continue on southbound on the east shore. About forty feet down, I pass a little hole in the algae that just looks too perfect. Having a rod in each hand, I had to just do a one-handed flip into the hole. I basically just gently place the frog on the opposite edge of the hole. Paused for a couple of seconds and then twitched it. BOOM! A fish erupts on the lure and I swing up with my arm. I can't wind the fish in so I lose it as it explodes out of the water and shakes me off. Fuck. I won't make that mistake again.

I hurry south, where I feel more confident. I pass what seems to be some sort of device that heats up sulfur and pumps it into the water. Perhaps that's what those aerated bubbles are? I approach a small cove that tangents the pumphouse. I hide True Blood behind some trees. I wanna do some Mean Green damage for a bit. The weather could not be more perfect. There is heavy cloud cover, which holds in the heat. The temperature is a mild sixty eight degrees. I am only wearing a softshell over a light fleece jacket and I am perfectly comfortable. There is still no wind and the water is glassy. It is going to be good fishing.

I start making short pitches to the outter algae edge. On one of the pitches, the frog lands and I give it a twitch. Less than a second later, a fish explodes on the lure! I lower my rod tip, wind in, and swing! I hit meat. It jumps once. It jumps twice. On it's third jump it lands on top of the moss and gets buried into it. I winch it in and it feels like three pounds. I get soon get, what appears to be a big pile of muck, to the bank. I grab a handful of scum and lob it back into the water. Free of it's constraints, the bass begins to buck and thrash. I scoop it up and attempt to unhook it. The fish is a nice buck-fifty, but it swallowed my frog like it was a five pounder. My fingers get pretty roughed up as they are pressed up the fish's vomerine teeth while trying to leverage the frog out of its throat. I finally manage to undo the hooks and toss the fish back in the water. Ordinarily, I try to gently place a fish back into the water, but this time, the algae was so thick, I thought I should help the Serpent by-pass the barrier by chucking it over the moss.

I continue to fish, using a variety of patterns. When I could, I would make long cast trying to parallel the outer algae edge and work the lure back maximizing time in the strike zone. Otherwise, I would pitch the frog a foot or two beyond the edge and just give a few walks back to the mat, before winding in and pitching to another spot. Once in a while, I even made long casts into open water along points, but those were never too productive. What was interesting was that when I caught fish, it was always in a short flurry. Maybe two or three fish in a ten foot bank space in ten to fifteen minutes. Then I would have no action for the next two hundred feet, even though it didn't look obviously different than the productive bank. I'd move down some more, then another flurry.

The time nears three o'clock - the Dark Hour. My allotted time is coming to an end and I must make a decision. Stay and continue fishing the golf course (CC) and risk helicopters and patrol drive-bys, as well as nosy neighbors and an earlier curfew, or head out and hit up the no fishing-access pond (CN), using up valuable time and risking looking for a new bite, but experiencing beautiful surroundings and longer safe fishing period. Why would I go looking for another bite, when I already found one right in front of me? I've decided.

I keep walking around the east shore and I keep getting action. The average fish being about a buck and the biggest, pushing a buck seventy-five. Nothing huge, but the consistency makes it a great night of fishing. As the night grows longer, my list of "frog bites to get" grows shorter. Cast, pause, one twitch, bite: check. Pitch to moss, immediate blow-up: check. Cast, walk along the edge, boil: check. Hopping frog over moss, miss, twitch, blow-up: check. In terms of variety and quantity of action, this is the best night of topwater frog fishing I've ever had.

5" Senko (BBF) + 2/0 TwistLock Hook Texposed

Before I know it, it's almost four in the morning and soon there will be activity on the course. The workers will be out preparing for the new day and I will need to make myself scarce. I make my way back around to retrieve True Blue, still hidden behind a tree. I switch rods and cast out towards an aerator, on the end, a five inch Yamasenko (tex-posed, fly lined, black blue flake [BBF]). It hits the water and I count it down as it sinks. Before it even hits the bottom... tic. I do the deed and swing. During the fight, the fish jumps and I see my Senko flying off out of it's mouth and into the water, never to be seen again. I let the fish go after a little peck on it head. I reach into my pocket and randomly grab a worm. It's another five inch Senko, but this time watermelon black and red flake (WBRF). I thread it on the hook spring and leave the hook slightly exposed on the top. Another cast towards the aerator. It hits the bottom and I let it soak for a moment. Then lift, drop, lift, drop. I work the worm all the way back in. Hmm. Let's try that again. Another cast. Then another. Five casts later and I am still empty handed.

I decide to switch colors. I grab a handful of worms and pick out another BBF to thread on. A cast to the aerator. Again, before the lure hits the bottom, I get a pick up. Wind in, release, and another cast. This time it hits the bottom. One second... two seconds... thr... I get a bite. As I am bringing the fish in, I see the headlights of golf carts in the distance. Shit. I crouch down and quickly hook the fish. I let it go and swing around to pick up Mean Green. I make a beeline towards the gate.

I make it to the far end of the lake, nearest to the gate, and where I started fishing. I figure I can get in one more cast. Another long cast into open water. About a second after the Senko hits the water, I feel my line pulling away from me. I give a hard set. Perhaps too hard. With a *bink* my line snaps (surprisingly at the braid and not the leader). Oh well. I guess that's a sign. I wind in my loose line and head towards the gate. I silently slip out and am out of danger. I look at my watch... four thirty seven am.  It's too late for the CN, so I decide to go fish the gray light at the El Dorado Ranger Lake. Specifically, the east bank shallows full of stubble. Hopefully, there will be some cruisers looking for an easy meal and I want to be the one to give it to them. I'll fish until eight, then head out to my car to meet up with a new fishing buddy to work ED during the day.

I lean back my seat and stretch out my back. My back aches and my shoulders are cramped and I'm physically exhausted, but I couldn't be happier. I just had an amazing session and the knowledge that it's not even close to over yet, gives me the energy to push on. I soon pull off into the street, El Do bound and hungry for more...

May 11th - 13th; Pt. I: Seaworthy Surprise

It's Friday night. I am comtemplating whether I should just rest tonight or should I start my fishing early. It's already nearing ten. It'll take about forty five minutes to get to Long Beach. I am trying to figure out my time line... high tide is at around nine. I could get to the PCH bridge (WB) by elevenish, so I'd have a decent amount of tide left. Hmmm, fish there for a bit until it gets late enough to check out the golf course. Fish there a couple of hours and then head over to the no fishing-access pond until five, five thirty before heading to El Dorado to fish the grey light. Sounds like a plan.

Ten thirty seven pm. I roll into the parking lot of a nearby hotel. The parking lot is packed as usual for a weekend night. It is always a strange mix of young twenty, thirty somethings and then fifty, sixty somethings. I am not quite sure what they are doing there hanging out and socializing in the parking lot.

I get out and grab my saltwater set up, the seven foot MH Falcon and Lew's MG spooled with ten# Vicious fluorocarbon. On the end is a Arkie brand 1/4 tube insert head with a YUM three inch ribbed grub (redshad).

1/4 Arkie Tube Insert + YUM 3" ribbed grub (redshad)

It's a slow night of fishing. It's over an hour in before I get my first nibble. I was doing a slow roll when I felt a tic. I wound down and set, but came up empty handed. The grub had not been pulled down. Perhaps it was not a bite at all, but it felt like one. I continue throwing the grub for another thirty minutes before I get another pick up. This time I was working the grub more on the bottom with double jerks, about eight to twelve inches high and pauses between one to five seconds. During a pause, I feel a single tic and set the hook. Fish on!

I slowly work it in, being careful to not lose it on the rocks. I get it to the gate and have to literally hand over hand lift it with my line. A svelt, one and a quarter pounder. I've read that you shouldn't touch a fish with dry hands, and in Homer Circle's book, he recommends not touching the fish at all. So I always try to lip the fish or just hold onto the lure. This time, the fish was small enough and the lure sticking out enough to hold the fish by the lure. I hold it with one hand and reach into my pocket with my other to grab my phone. With a thrash of its body, the fish slips out of my hand and snaps my line, sending both fish and lure plummeting into the water below. Oh well, there goes that.

2" Storm WildEye Live Crappie

I crouch next to the slip's communal laundry/bathhouse facing a light to tie on something new. I stay low and keep a constant eye out, lest the Marina Police sneak up on me. I decide to try something new and tie on a Storm WildEye Live Crappie swimbait. It's a two inch panfish profile swimbait. It looks a lot like the little perch fry that I see darting in and out of the rocks. I remove the bottom treble hook to mitigate snags. I make about ten casts without any action. On one of my casts, I overshoot and land on the bank rocks. I give it a little tug and find that I'm stuck. Fuck! Now I have to climb down this gate bridge and walk along the rocky bank to retrieve my lure. I give a couple more shakes and the lure pops out. W00t! I wind it in and run my line through my fingers. It's got some decent fray-age. I figure I should retie, but I am lazy and I don't want to be vulnerable to the cops and I should be heading out anyway. I make the decision to not re-tie. I think to myself, "Will I regret this? I could probably handle another average sized spotty and even if I break off, I am most interested in whether I got a bite anyway. What could I possibly regret?" I'm convinced. I throw a few more times to the lane south of the gate. Nothing. I turn around and face north. I hug a lamp post to my left, which lies at the corner of the gate. To my right is the gate and the rocky bank. Directly in front of my lies open water. To my left is the lamp post, the water and the boat slips. I make a long cast out towards open water, which lies nestled between the boat slips and the bank.

In the dark, it can be hard to see your lure when casting, which can sometimes lead to backlashes, as the lure hits the water without adequate slowing of the spool with one's thumb. This was one of those times. The lure slowly drifts down to the bottom and is deadsticked while I work out the slight backlash in my spool. I pull out enough line to clear the tangle and with the index finger and thumb of my left hand pinching the line tightly I start to wind in the slack.

As I wind in I come to realize that my line is pulling away from me at a brisk pace. Instinctively, I swing my body to the left. The line goes tight and, still in my fingers, cuts into my flesh. I only notice for a moment before all my attention is back on what's on the end of my line. I can tell right away that this is no spotty.

Before I can even start to wind in the line goes limp. Nooooooo! Did it break? Of all the times! I violently curse at myself as I start to wind in furiously. Something doesn't feel right... maybe I didn't break off, maybe it's coming back right at m... Something in the water catches my eye and I glimpse down. Holy shit! I am dumbfounded for a few seconds as my brain tries to comprehend what I am seeing in front of me. It's a huge BAT RAY! It swims by me and enters a small cove created by the gate bridge meeting the dock. It busts a U-turn and starts to swim back towards the open water. This whole time I am winding in as fast as I can. Just as it turns, I catch up to the slack. The ray barrels past me and my drag starts to slip. The ray isn't peeling out, but is going at a constant clip. It just keeps taking line. I don't even think it knows it's hooked. Every few seconds I thumb down on the spool and my rod just starts to load up and I'm forced to release it. I takes line for a minute straight. I look down at my reel. I am about to be spooled. There's nothing I can do. I have no control over this Serpent. I decide that I'll just have to break off if I don't want to lose two hundred yards of fluorocarbon in the sea. I point my rod straight at the water and thumb down firmly. There's no dramatic snap. Just a soft *bink* and it's off. It must have cut my line on a rock because the break looked really clean.
 

CGI rendering of the scene (birds' eyeview)

Holy fuck! I shake my head. HOLY FUCK! I scream out loud. My adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My hands are shaking. That was by far the biggest thing I've ever hooked up on. It must have been at least fifty pounds. Where's a prostitute when you need one, 'cause I needed something to do with the massive erection I got?!

I look down at my watch. Twelve fifty five. Perfect timing. I start walking out to my car, which lies on the other side of the bridge. As I approch the bridge, the man who dwells underneath it stands right on the border of the darkness that lies beneath the bridge, directly in my way. I walk up to him. We make eye contact. He grimaces. Sorry bro, I'm high as a kite and not even you can bring me down! I shoot him a grin and throw up my hand in the universal sign of "gimme a high five, brotha!" He looks at me, obviously confused, and hesitantly lifts his hand and gives me a high five. "All right, now you have a good night, brother!" I say as I continue by him.

I get into my car and I am still giddy with excitement. I back my car up and head out to the street. I make my way to the golf course, ready for the next part of my adventure.

Hard Coe 2012 - Pt. I

Fourteen years in the making. That is how this particular adventure begins. The group of friends I've had since middle school had always talked about having some great camping trip sometime in the near future. Soon weeks became months and months became years and then years became decades. Days of limitless potential slowly faded into days of routine mediocrity. We trudged on with our lives and the thought of that grand trip was shelved as one of those "things you'll do at some point."

However, the inner cave man within us had not died. Deep within, lay a dormant ember waiting to be fueled and by the luck of the Gods, we caught a wind and our fires erupted. It was decided that we shall make the dream a reality and go on a backpacking trip. We quickly established a plan and our anticipation was palpable. Our plan: a three day, three night backpacking junket through the Henry Coe State Park wilderness. We planned to drive through the entire night, after work, and start hiking early in the morning in order to minimize time spent walking through the hottest part of the day.

The trip really starts at a Denny's in the town of Gilroy. It is here where we devour as many surplus calories as we can force down before we begin our sojourn free of civilization. Exhausted from a lack of sleep and gluttonous feasting, we muster our strength and prepare for the difficult task before us.

Our route commences at Coyote Hollows. It is the area in which one parks one's vehicle and pays for camping fees. We roll in, like a two-car parade, kicking up a storm of dust. It's six dollars per vehicle per night and five dollars per person per night. We all shove our money in the envelope and drop it in the slot. We're all set. Now we need to get to the trailhead about two miles away. We could just walk the two miles to the trailhead with our packs, but I have a better idea. We throw all of our gear into the Jeep. It can't fit all five of us and our gear so we do the only logical thing... we hold onto the frame and ride that bitch like its mutherfucking "campaign mode."

The ride is blisteringly cold. With our hand occupied holding onto the Jeep, we are at the wind's mercy. Our only choice is to grit our teeth and bear it. But the wind turns out to be a good thing. It rejuvenates my body and invigorates my spirits. The gravity of the moment starts to kick in and I realize that I'm finally there. That we're finally there. This dream is a reality and it's only just begun...