The Fishing Report

PART I -- THE LAKES

Lake fishing has not been good to me this summer. My young friend who lives across the way here at J-Diamond took me fishing for my birthday in July. We rented a rowboat on Lake Sabrina at the head waters of Bishop Creek canyon. The oars were set for a man's shoulders, so we both had to hold the oars out of the oarlocks into the middle of the boat while rowing, and it was an awkward slog, although less so for her since she is in rock-climber good shape. We rowed to a rocky inlet and dropped anchor. An hour went by and we didn't hook any fish. We were floating crickets and I saw, with mine own eyes, a trout leap out of the water and flip OVER my floating cricket in a perfect little shining arch! Not even a nibble at my bait. Morgan did better, but at least three got away from her, slipping off the hook at boatside, once her knot came undone. Then we pulled up at a sandy shore to go pee. I tried to step out into shallow water, misjudged its depth, fell in and soaked my jeans. Later Morgan finally hung on to one trout big enough to eat, and I caught one too small and let it go. Then the line on my reel fouled in big loops, and by the time I unwound it, I was down to the splice with heavier line used to pack the reel. But the sporting goods store had used something like tennis racket wire -- I couldn't fish with it -- anyways it was time to go. When we reached the boat ramp, there was a guy sitting there at the edge of the water on a comfy chair under a huge sombrero, angling right off the beach and catching one every ten minutes -- innocently adding insult to injury. Nevertheless, it was a very pretty, fresh morning on the water and Morgan is delightful company.

I began driving up to Intake II, the next hydroelectric lake in the canyon down from Sabrina. First time there I snagged four foot-long inch fish on salmon eggs, so exactly alike I called them Clonefish -- musta been right after a plant. I took them home and fried them as usual, but they were inedible, tasting like butcher paper chewed in with freezer-burned cold cuts. After that all I did was scratch. One night Intake II was unexpectedly down about 3 feet, and I saw people leaving, shaking their heads and muttering "We can see 'em, but they ain't biting." Nor did they bite for me. The next time the water levels were normal but early on my line fouled badly and since it was just a patch from a leader spool, I didn't have enough to pull out the tangle. Disgraceful lack of preparedness on my part. 

So I Googled: "How to load line on a fishing reel" and got some instructions, bought some spooled line and loaded my reel myself. And I must have done it right, because since then I haven't had the looping problems I had with the "professional" load. Live and Learn by the light of community-minded information sharers on the Internet!

I also got skunked at Lake George, Rock Creek Lake (several times), and Convict Lake. I did hook two large trout at Intake II one day, but couldn't land 'em. I know they were large because they both leapt high into the air when hooked. One crashed down on my bobber tackle and weights, and broke the line, making off with my hook and leader; the other splashed lots while I brought it to shore, but thrashing around in the shoreline rocks it yanked the knot out--it slowly swam away with another hook, big fat thing, and I couldn't reach it with the net. So much for the lakes.

INTERMEZZO: 

Fish and Game declared August 8, 2012 to be a "Free Fishing Day" -- folks can fish in California without a license. A friend of mine took advantage of this dispensation and sent me the following report:

I did fish and what an experience that was. I was by myself since my companion was visiting relatives. I decided to go back to Lake George.  With no tackle except the hook and weights already on the pole, I decided I'd scavenge from the shoreline, which produced a few hooks and some weights. [note: the pole had been scavenged from an abandoned campsite at an earlier time, it is hot pink and black and from its labeling appears to have been a prize in a fundraiser for breast cancer] I also purchased night crawlers from the little shack there. I headed for the beach spot but it was occupied so I continued on the trail around to the back part of the lake, a private serene little spot, not including the loud talking that seems to echo over the lake. I cast my line in and settled in to look for tackle and then do some reading. Not long and I had some bites but not strong enough to do the "give a little slack and then a slight jerk" technique my brother taught. After the nibbles I reeled in and put on another worm.  About six worms later I caught my fish, an average size and since I had no tackle to take the hook out or cut the line I decided the best thing to do was get my mouth as close to the fishes, saving as much line as I could since I was on a budget, and bite the line off.  The fish lived in my little blue bucket for quite a while, which I felt very sorry for, of course.  An hour or so later some boys quickly walking past notified me of a bear that was over by where they were just fishing.  I thought "Oh yeah, a bear.  Yeah they're around the area.  I'll just sit here in my nice spot and not go over that way".  But then one of them said "Look it's on its way over this way!"  Of course I wasted no time in smashing everything into the bags I had and reeled my line in as fast as I could.  They offered to help carry some stuff which I of course accepted. We all took off at an even quicker pace around the lake and toward the parking lot.  We all made it safe and sound and the bear showed up about ten minutes later having cleared out all of the fisher people on one side of the lake.  After the excitement and everyone taking pictures I found out that the same bear had done this the day before also.  He/she is a fish snatcher.  I wasn't going to argue.  I almost left mine there for him/her but decided the hook might hurt the bear.  That's just me.  Lastly, my one average sized catch grew to four and the three I acquired were quite a bit larger than mine. I had tried to pawn my one fish off on a man I saw with a string of three because I didn't want to clean just one.  The man wanted to get rid of his fish so I consented to take them off his hands.  I did the dirty work and had trout for dinner.  So no swimming, but I would have, had I not been rescued.  I had a great day! 

PART II -- THE CANAL

Driving 4000 to 6000 feet higher in elevation to the lakes in summer gets me out of the heat but burns more gas than cruising to the Canal. Actually a North Fork of Bishop Creek, it is stocked by Fish and Game and runs parallel to Hanby and along the bottom edge of Shady Rest Trailer Paradise where I used to live before J-Diamond. Recently the DWP mowed its banks and now there's no thickets to tangle up the tackle, so this September I've been fishing the canal in the cooler evenings. The trough is semi-clogged with weeds and reeds: prime trout habitat, and these past few weeks I have seen lots more and bigger fish there than last year.  They slip out from hiding under the dark mats of weed and tread water, heads into the stream, then flit away, flickering like mossy shadows against tan patches of sand on the bottom. 

Drop the barbed and stinking dough-bait over by the reeds and try to wait patiently for the electric bobbling tug of a fish mouthing the blob. One hit is usually a miss, a continued pull and jerking means time to start reeling in the wriggling, leaping life form at the end of the line. A canal fish will zig-zag and zoom around down in the bottom of the canal, so that I can't see them while my line is zinging out of my reel; as it tires, it works to the surface and I try to pull it towards a place on the bank where I can get ahold of it. If I can hold it with one hand, I remove the hook and put it back in the water, if I need two hands, I take it home for dinner. I have caught many fish this fall in the Canal, at various points along its course -- it goes on for quite a while before turning into the Owens River. 

Probably the best time to fish the canal is early morning, but I have been going in the afternoon and evening. There is about an hour, the hour of the dogs, when off-leash pets bark at me, splash in the water and spook the fish, and head for my tackle box. I try to keep it closed so some dumb pup won't try to lick my hooks. Mostly it is quiet -- few townsfolk fish the canal, I think it is considered to be the low-status domain of kids and drunks -- "Oh, I wouldn't eat fish from the canal!" But the many fish I have cooked from the Canal all taste better than those fish I got from Intake II, and they are plumper and the tails and fins are long and scarf-like and unchewed. I always imagine I would like to sit by the canal and read as I wait for fish to bite, but I find I am restless and must walk up and down, constantly moving my bucket and tackle, chasing the most recent fish signs, casting and re-baiting far oftener than you're supposed to with dough-bait. But it seems to me that either the fish take the dough-bait almost as soon as it drops, or they ignore it; I get a bite right after the cast, or I stand around while my tackle gets tangled in the weeds. I have seen little floating foam spider "flies" for sale in the fishing section at Vons, maybe I should try dropping some of those on the eddies by the reeds.

Fish seem to favor hiding in a stand of reeds, or maybe reeds hide the fisherwoman. As evening deepens, fish leap at bugs hovering over the water, bats and birds swoop the bugs, and the bugs bite the fisherwoman. The fish splash down, usually just a gloop!, but big ones really smack the water and make waves. Part of the thrill of fishing at evening is the sudden irruption of a wriggling, robust life form out of the dark mass of the water, which is flowing along pretty quickly, its surface reflecting blue, then silver, then metal gray light from the sky. Cottonwoods stand dark against the lingering skylight above the Sierra silhouette to the west, and sometimes there is a cloudy, coral and magenta sunset, reflected in the stream. I fish until I cannot see my tackle, which is too late really, since the fish can't see the bugs either and stop leaping. One night I looked up to see that the only light in the night around me was coming from the crime lights at the back of the Vons and KMart shopping center. I had to drag my self away like a too-tired kid.

Camping in the Pine Flats

I have been escaping the August heat in Owens Valley by visiting with friends up in Mono County in a dispersed camping area I have nicknamed The Pine Flats, although it's actually flat only in places. We hiked up to a ridge that overlooks the former Alpers Trout Hatchery ponds and loops (now a ranch retreat). The headwaters of the Owens River collect in this area and flow through a "hidden" valley I had never seen before, mostly private ranching property, down into Long Valley and Lake Crowley.  

My fishing experience has been dismal recently, except for catching one brown trout in Pine Creek. Browns have golden fins and rich red dots along the sides--almost too pretty to eat, but also delicious. I am looking forward to autumn.

Cottonwood Snow and Owls

In early summer the cottonwoods set loose their namesake in drifting piles of seed fluff. At times it looks like blowing snow. Great shaggy popcorn balls of it hanging high in the big old green trees. Toss a lighted match and it will explode in a fireball. After the wonder of it, the nuisance; when the yard guys hose it down, it resembles old rags, which they rake into truckloads, as they did the yellow cottonwood leaves in autumn.

I painted a few small owls for a friend who wished to buy an owl picture from me. She likes Saw-whet Owls, and I assumed that meant she likes small, cute, harmless creatures, like toy poodles. But when I showed her the paintings below, she chose "Sinster Owl", saying "Oh yes, he looks vicious!  That's what owls are, they are ruthless, vicious hunters!"  Ya never know.

 Perky Saw-whet

 Sinister Saw-whet

Spooky Saw-whet

Barn Owlets

Summer evenings elsewhere

I have been musing over old photographs of mine taken of California hills on the other side of the Sierras; here are two paintings from that reverie. The road from Boonville hills in the Anderson Valley, the center tree and hillside from Point Pinole, Bay Area. Everywhere oat grass catching sunshine, flaring against the shadows.

Life at J Diamond Mobile Ranch has been too exciting lately--two trash fires in the residence area and a sewage backup due to underwear in the bilge pump. I hope for a return to easygoing boredom; always a good thing for painting when there's nothing else to demand the painter's attention.

Except home improvements: I have purchased a solar panel and multifarious widgets that render and modulate and parsify the power of sunshine into 12 volt battery storage and out again to another set of widgets that spins fans, brightens bulbs, and pulses sound through speakers and sunshine through cameras into computer screens. My shoulders ache from the tension of trying to understand 12volt electrical system, and even when it's late I can't leave off, I continue to fret among the pillows. Interesting, because no matter how difficult or frustrating my painting session becomes, I do not tense up about it; rather, painting seems to relieve bodily tension and I usually sleep well after painting. I slip into sleep easily, with colors and shapes swirling around in my mind, somewhat like floating.

More later....

Winter Into Spring

My new paintings this past winter-into-spring are of dusk and what I have come to call the "grottoes."  I feel they are deeper visions of mine and I have a sense of vulnerability in painting them. I feel they are archtypically feminine, as Marian visions often appear to young women and are thereafter  ensconced in grottoes, around springs in shallow caves, such as the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes in France. If male imagery can be defined as a phallic shape thrusting outward, surely the female icon could be that of an entrance into a secret garden, an oasis among the rocks, a hidden source of rest, nourishment, healing and preparation; a riparian nursery, curtained by thickets, a sanctuary for contemplation, for the intimacy and peace of prayer.

Art Show at the Black Sheep Cafe

This month I have 11 paintings hanging on the school-bus-yellow and fire-engine-red brick walls at the Black Sheep cafe in back of the bookstore on Main Street. Climber hangout, lotsa foreign accents, a new venue in Bishop. A young woman who works there (my J Diamond neighbor of the Thanksgiving Dinner last November) was my "in" to the proprietors, and I am grateful for her efforts. I have never hung art work in a coffee shoppe before -- this opens up possibilites for me in the area, such as eateries in Mammoth. Follow-up next blog to see if anything sells.

Red Neck Reaction to Lady Painter

Phil, one of my bowling team mates in the Bishop Road Runners League this past winter, when I tried to invite him to come to the artist reception at the cafe and see my paintings on the wall, replied: "What? Come to see your panties on the wall?"  Ironically, I suppose this remark could be taken as one expression of my exposition (above) on the feminine nature of grotto imagery, but I rather think he was reacting out of the standard issue red neck arrested development pattern, wherein males seem to hit a wall at the age of 13, splatter, and stick. Boys are naughty and Girls are nice, and even when they get older (we are in our 60s and 70s here) the women display mild disapproval (roll eyes, shake head, flick wrist like a little slap) in combination with complacent indulgence (smile broadly, flutter eyelashes) towards naughty male behavior. And people out here ask me, over and over again, "Why didn't you marry?" And my truthful answer is "I didn't want to be a wife, I wanted to be an artist." My answer is meaningless to them, they stare at me and shake their heads.  

I feel I have chosen rightly.

Winter Paintings, and Rothko

"... artists pick what already exists in the world, but what they do of course is to pick what corresponds to their own sense of truth."

— artist Sean Scully, speaking in the documentary film, "Rothko's Rooms."

I wonder if my picking thickets as carriers of truth was influenced by, or presented to me in my childhood through a TV cartoon of Grimm's fairy tale of the Sleeping Beauty. Flip-book-like animation of thorny bramble cross-hatched the screen, obscuring and engulfing the castle, wherein the comatose guests and Briar Rose slumbered for a hundred years. When the right sort of prince came along, an opening appeared in the impenetrable thicket through which he entered, found, and awakened the snoozing fraulein with a kiss (who never woke up and said "Yuck.")

I have always felt this tale to be about (among other things) the artist's muse, or interior awareness of and attempt to grasp a beloved or an ultimate meaning. One that must be searched out, captured, and expressed; praised, actually, and praised to the point of exhaustion. "This is the most important thing I have to do in life, really the only thing I need to do, the work that can give my life a purpose." Now, this could be read as a statement of the male biological impetus to impregnate the female (in some written versions of this tale, the prince rapes the young woman, who wakes up pregnant), and/or it could be understood as a statement of spiritual ambition: to transcend accidental material existence with a conscious demand for meaning, for participation in a greater life.

Abstract expressionist painter Barnett Newman wrote about his vertical stripe paintings, explaining that the primal vocation of a human being is to stand up out of the ooze and consciously confront the reality of personhood and the intuition of God, "... to stand in a place."  To stand forth, to be aware, to seize the opportunity to recognize the other and demand to be acknowledged.

OK, so why all the drums and trumpets for some messy bushes, dark roads, and a muddy canal? Guess I haven't yet got as far out of the ooze as Newman did. But I see glimmers:

Dusk down by the ooze seems to open into the dark matter of the cosmos, a camouflaged interior that can be sensed but not seen when the bright light of day reflects and richochets around the faceted surface of the world, distracting the mind from searching for an opening into its deeper, simpler, more distilled and more demanding truth -- perhaps something like the truth in Rothko's large, dark, "room" paintings.

A New Year in Anza Borrego

I took off on a January road trip and visited fulltiming friends dry camped in Anza Borrego for the winter. Mild evenings, cool mornings, pleasant days -- not freezing-the-pipes nights like Bishop.  Lotsa fan palms, date palms, teddy bear cactus. A bowl of alkaline earth, circled by mountains.

An Afternoon at The Slabs and Salvation Mountain

Websites to fill you in:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slab_City

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salvation_Mountain

Slab City was one of Chris McCandless' stops on his way to Alaska in the movie Into the Wild. We visited the Range Stage where he sings his duet with the young trailer lady. The irrigation canal at the "back" of the grounds was newly earth-worked and fenced. The place did not seem as crowded as I had imagined. We waved at many folks coming out of RVs at the end of the day to sit on folding chairs and chat. 

I had seen many photos of the the heart slope but I was unprepared for the spectacularly colorful interior armature of Leonard Knight's Museum rooms constructed of straw bales, branches, clay and paint, paint. The late afternoon light lit up the branching ceiling structures, falling through small irregularly spaced windows -- although the word "irregular" is impertinent here, for the regulation is evident, but it is not derived from an engineer's blueprint but rather seems to mimic the fractal growth patterns found in nature. The colors glow and reflect into one another like sunlight refracts through stained-glass windows in old churches. The interior spaces are very small and close, but while looking up into their ceilings, the armatures appear to extend into a greater space than is actually present. I was reminded of the Watts Towers, cathedrals, playground jungle-gyms, color-coded illustrations of neurons in the brain, the painting classroom at Immaculate Heart College with its banners, puppets, blocks, and Mary's Day parades, and the boxfulls of photographs I have taken and continue to take of trees and thickets, thickets. He painted no figures -- it's all words and flowers and waters (the blue and white striped areas are the Sea of Galilee).

Alas, I came too late to meet the artist himself. Here is some of his work: