Bonzai, Blitzes and Big Ones on the Forebay

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”

September slipped through my fingers like a greased eel, a mad blur of missed opportunities and restless nights. One measly day of Striper fishing—that’s all I managed in the entire damn month. My dreams were haunted by visions of the lake and Forebay, those elusive, shimmering playgrounds of aquatic chaos. But instead of bending rods, I was stuck, glued to fishing reports like a junkie sniffing around for a hit. Torture of a particularly savage kind, reserved for fly-fishers hooked on the dopamine explosion of a fish on the line.

Even rodless, I couldn’t escape the obsession. Two weeks ago, while wandering Yosemite, I found myself scanning the rivers like a hungry hawk, wishing I had a line to cast. San Francisco was no better—hanging around Fisherman’s Wharf, eyes darting to the ocean, jealous as hell of the birds working anchovy schools. Hell, I even fantasized about trolling off the deck of a military ship during a tour, picturing my line slicing through the water while I pretended to admire the hardware. When you’ve got fishing in your blood, every moment away from the water is a festering itch you can’t scratch.

But today… today was the kind of day that makes up for all that agonizing waiting. Epic, as they say, one of the top five Forebay days of my life. Everything clicked—nature lined up its variables like a cosmic joke and finally let me in on the punchline. The Threadfin Shad schools had bloomed. Water temps hovering in the mid-60s. Winds were chill, overcast skies kept the glare down, and the pumps at the powerhouse were on full volume just in time for my arrival. Perfect.

To rewind a bit, last week I took Steve Pryor out and we hammered dinks—those feisty 14-17 inch stripers—left and right. Felt good but didn’t scratch the itch. Then, three days ago, Dan and Vaughn had a slow grind—five small fish all day. Torture. But then, Frank calls me up yesterday afternoon, telling me his arm went numb from pulling in so many fish. And Steph? He texts me that the Fly Core boys had a killer day out on the lake, while Dan and Vaughn were struggling. That left me with a choice: hit the lake for bigger fish or try my luck at the Forebay, where Frank had just struck gold though smaller fish. The wind made the call for me—white caps everywhere on the lake. Off to the Forebay I went.

I started around the islands where Frank had fished the day before, and where Steve and I had been hammered by small stripers last week. The wind was ripping down the channel, making boat control a circus act. After a couple of dinks, I shifted to Check 12, where the water was sheltered from the blow and calmer. I saw shad popping up, here and there, but no birds working them—bad sign. Picked off a few more dinks and started thinking today was a wash. Made a run to Check 12 buoy line hoping for some current, but found none. Nothing. I was starting to think I’d struck out.

But then—Powerhouse. The pumps were on, birds everywhere, and just one boat with two old guys casting into a white-water blitz beyond the bouy line. They were anchored, chucking gear, but barely reaching the chaos. I slid into my usual spot downstream from them , cast across the current, and—bam—hooked into a 20-inch striper. The first decent-sized fish I’d seen out of the Forebay all year. From that point, it was mayhem. Fish on every damn cast for two hours straight. The blitz exploded right in front of me, and I was in the thick of it. Bigger fish had moved into the current. Finally a day of bigger fish on the forebay and I rode that wave for as long as I could. What seemed to be an eternity, I caught fish or had hits on nearly every cast for a couple hours,

Around noon, like someone hit the kill switch on the universe, the pumps went dead. Just like that. The blitzes fizzled out, too, and the catch rate plummeted—not into oblivion, mind you, but down to a more human five fish an hour. It felt like the fish were still hanging around, dazed, scanning the water for baitfish that no longer danced obediently in the current. The frenzy died with the flow. See, it’s the current that corrals the baitfish, and when it’s gone, the chaos goes with it. No current, no concentration, no glorious blitz. Just scattered remnants of what was.

My flies—those scrappy little size 2 Clousers, a cocktail of white and chartreuse ice fiber, Frank’s bread and butter—got absolutely annihilated. Every dozen fish tore them apart like hungry dogs on a raw steak, leaving nothing but naked hooks. By the time I wrapped up the carnage, I’d gone through half a dozen flies, each one shredded, stripped to ribbons, sacrificed to the madness. It was brutal, chaotic, and damn near beautiful—an orgy of destruction out there on the water.

I’m hoping for a repeat this weekend, but, as always, nothing in fishing is guaranteed and so many variables have to line up. The reports have been all over the place lately. But today? Today, it felt like the universe finally gave me a taste of what I’d been craving all month. Hey Steph – Bonzai, baby.