March 5, 2025 – Somewhere in the Wild Bureaucratic Hellscape of California

Another bout of rain looms on the horizon, but the real storm already passed—an eight-day exile at the hands of California Parks and Recreation. Banished. Quarantined. A punishment so absurd it could only have been conceived by a government agency with no clear mission other than making things difficult for the sake of it.

Eight long days of bureaucratic purgatory, all because my boat—already marked with the sacred “Red Band”—had to endure yet another round of pointless inspections. As if I were some kind of aquatic smuggler, some nefarious mussel-runner hell-bent on destroying their precious water system. They ran my CF numbers, combing the records to ensure I wasn’t a liar, a cheat, a menace to the fragile balance of government incompetence. And just to twist the knife, they made me drop my motor and pull the plug—standard hazing, the bureaucratic equivalent of a cavity search.

The whole charade was playing out in real time while, just beyond the check station, a steady torrent of water from the mussel-infested Delta was being pumped directly into the lake. 10,000 gallons per second, unchecked, unstoppable. A bureaucratic Ouroboros, feeding on its own absurdity. The park rangers, poor bastards, were just cogs in the machine. The real culprit? The festering, bloated beast known as the California Bureaucracy—utterly incapable of answering the simplest question. Like:

“Why the hell aren’t the bands on San Luis and O’Neill Forebay the same color, since they share the same damn water?”

Crickets. Nothing. Not even a half-hearted excuse.

I shook off the bureaucratic filth and moved on to something only slightly less maddening: renewing my Poppy Pass. The ranger, after issuing a pass stamped 3/26, enlightened me with some Kafkaesque logic: my 3/25 pass actually expired at the end of the month, meaning I was effectively cheated out of an entire month. When I pointed this out, he shrugged. “Regulations.”

Regulations. A word used by the feeble to justify the insane.

No senior discount, no common sense. Just another reason to have no sympathy for the State Park System.

But out there on the water, none of it mattered. The hills around San Luis were glowing green, elk wandering lazily across the slopes, and the lake—now 90% full—had swallowed whole groves of trees, turning the shoreline into a new and unfamiliar world. The water temp sat at 57 degrees, the prime number for Stripers to shift gears into spawning mode. This is when things get interesting.

I worked the shorelines around Dinosaur Point, casting into the tangled mess of drowned trees, expecting ambush predators to be lurking. But they hadn’t figured it out yet. The Livescope told the truth: nothing. No schools, no action.

I moved on to the Upwellings in front of the Racks. The great concrete monoliths, where pumping water calls the Stripers like a dinner bell.   A debris and algea line was distinct on the livescope. where the dirty mussle laden water churns up from the deep pumps some 500 yards beyond .  Schools were frolicking deep —50 to 60 feet down and probably feasting on Chineese Mussel Larva.  Too deep for a fly.  The trollers were cashing in this past week, dragging their offerings through the abyss, and the Fresno Bee was singing their praises. But I don’t troll.

I checked the Bay of Pigs—Vaughn’s honey hole. Schools were there, 20 to 30 feet down, but moving too fast. Too deep for a clean shot, too quick to get a proper lead. I let them be.

The real action was back at the Racks. The Stripers were holding tight to the south tower, hiding in the currents like streetwise hustlers waiting for the right moment. If you were blind casting, you wouldn’t stand a chance. But if you timed it right—dropped the fly, let it sink, counted it down like a demolition charge—you’d strike gold. A 40-second count was the magic number today. I racked up more than 20 fish, all from the towers.

A good day.

And to top it off, I finally put my long-forgotten app to the test—an old idea resurrected, meant to calculate fly depth based on variables like line type, leader length, and cast distance. In theory, it would make precision fishing an exact science. In practice? A cumbersome pain in the ass. I ditched it for my iWatch, using a simple timer instead. Sometimes, simplicity wins.

I also tested a new fly—a bastard creation inspired by an old pattern Frank from Modesto gave me years ago. A monstrous, flashy beast of Ice Dub and Flash, a baitfish on steroids. It looked ridiculous. It worked like magic. The Stripers devoured it.

Tomorrow, the rain will come. The water will rise. The fish will adjust. And I’ll be back since you dont have to wait 8 dyas to fish the same body of water.  Give them time,  they will figure out some way to screw us out of that too.   Because, despite the bureaucratic madness, despite the senseless rules and the never-ending battle against the absurd, the fish are still here. And that’s all that really matters.

 

🎶 “Rack Fever” 🎶
(A Striper Fisherman’s Anthem)

(Verse 1)
When the Cali rains peak and the waters rise,
Snowmelt flowin’ from the Sierras high.
The lake fills up, pumps hum at the racks,
And the stripers roll in—yeah, they’re back.

(Pre-Chorus)
Current’s strong, fish hold tight,
Circle the columns, set for a fight.
Drop that fly, 40 feet down,
Patience pays where the big boys bound.

(Chorus)
I got Rack Fever, it’s a full-on bite,
40-count strip, then a hard-set strike.
Catchin’ ‘em deep, man, all damn day,
Thank the Lord for a fish-filled play.

(Verse 2)
Ain’t no talk of stocks or pay,
Ain’t no worries, let the world fade away.
Ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout clams or recession schemes,
Just strip-set livin’ in a striper dream.

(Pre-Chorus)
Rod bends low, reel starts to hum,
One more cast, yeah, here they come.
Keepin’ it deep where the big fish stay,
They ain’t shy on a day like today.

(Chorus)
I got Rack Fever, it’s a full-on bite,
40-count strip, then a hard-set strike.
Catchin’ ‘em deep, man, all damn day,
Thank the Lord for a fish-filled play.

(Bridge)
Sun sets gold, but I ain’t done,
One last cast just for fun.
Arm is sore, but I don’t care,
Still dreamin’ ‘bout stripers in the air.

(Outro)
When the racks turn hot, you better be near,
It’s a striper run, best time of year.
Wind in my face, rod in my hand,
Just a fisherman blessed in this great land.

🎶 Rack Fever… Lord, I got Rack Fever… 🎶