Monday February 24, 2025 – February striper fishing these days is a roller coaster—a transitional circus of nature gone mad. The rains have come down like a curse, swelling both Forebay and Lake to surreal levels. Water turbidity is off the charts, with murk reducing visibility to a mere 1–4 feet, and a bitter cold front has turned February mornings into scenes from a frozen nightmare, with my car glazed in ice.
I haven’t seen the water since January 28—blame it on grandpa duty after my second grandson’s arrival—yet the cabin fever had me itching for a taste of striper madness. Still, excuses piled up like bureaucratic sludge: dismal fishing reports from the Fresno Bee and a buddy’s tale of landing only two miserable fish on the big lake all day. And then came the latest farce—a new set of Chinese Mussels regulations that forced boat inspections at every turn, plus a ban on hopping from the forebay in the morning to the lake by afternoon.
Catchy Phrases to make the madness justified
Enter Dan Blanton, my long-time comrade in angling debauchery. One text from him about the forebay, and we agreed to forsake our doubts and head out into the murky unknown. We launched at 9:00 AM, the lone vessel slicing through the gloom until 10:00—a solitary rebellion against the tyranny of bad luck. Our plan was absurd yet audacious: hunt down those hunkered-down, cold-water stripers hiding in zero-visibility depths and seduce them with a fly via the marvel of livescope.
The first bizarre twist came in the form of a brand-new side dock at the launch—a monstrous floating deck, seemingly built by some bureaucratic architect with a flair for the theatrical. It’s now a perfect platform for teaching fly or spey casting, maybe even for renting out as a venue for oddball events. I cruised around it, plugging in the livescope to reveal fish lurking beneath the platform’s shadow, a silent promise of what might be.
Casting Platform
While Dan set up his rods like a seasoned madman, I ventured along the beach with the livescope dialed to 110 feet out, discovering small, ghostly schools of two to five fish scattered about. We tried our luck with the dock dwellers—no joy. Peering at the powerhouse with my binoculars, I caught sight of a promising current. Deciding to take a risk, I moved to fish the dam and the rock wall near the powerhouse, where Dan’s wild fly swings landed a rebellious 23-inch striper. Optimism surged, yet between the dam and the tail of the powerhouse, we managed only a trio of catches.
Next, we turned our attention to the flats across from the water tower. As soon as I dropped the livescope back into the water, the screen erupted with the day’s largest school. With visibility at a pathetic two feet, we chased these elusive phantoms in front of the tower, ending up with 14 landed and 18 hooked. Dan’s mere presence seems to command respect from the forebay stripers. But just as fortune smiled upon us, a gust of wind and cold smote our lucky streak, forcing our retreat around 2:00 PM—leaving us with just a couple of fine fish for dinner. The autopsy on our biggest catch revealed tiny orange Scuds, a grim reminder why I swear by closures with burnt orange wings in February; history tells me these near hibernating stripers feast on shrimp and scuds when baitfish are nowhere in sight.
Fishing with Dan is a celebration of nostalgia—a twisted reunion of souls who’ve been at this game for decades. At ages nearing 70 and 80, we’re haunted by memories of friends lost to time, legends that our younger cohorts can’t even begin to fathom. Yet out on the water, Dan is as sharp as ever, and our laughter and competition echo the wild, free spirit of days gone by. These moments, precious and fleeting, are reminders of a life lived on the edge of chaos. Enjoying old friends while we can still stand and cast. And, I have to love a guy who thinks I can sing beter than an AI synthesized voice.
And as if nature’s absurdity weren’t enough, a new banding protocol has been foisted upon us this week. Boats leaving O’Neill Forebay, Los Banos Creeks Reservoir, and San Luis Reservoir are now retagged with different colored bands, a bureaucratic farce that forbids switching waters for eight long days—unless you’re brave enough to return to the very same body you just left. It’s a twisted puzzle designed to force fishermen into a week-long waiting game, curtailing our appetite for variety. In this mad, regulated world, the only constant is the raw, unbridled urge to defy the system—even if it means chasing ghostly stripers in a murky, ice-kissed February. All banded boats have there CF numbers stored in a central Database so you can not cheat this system by removing a band and getting reinspected in less than 7 days.
Dan the Man
