It’s been almost a month since I last fished the home waters, and apparently, the lake took it personally. Everything’s different now—water’s way up, temps are lounging in the mid-60s like they’re on spring break, and algae is smothering everything like a bad cologne. The wind has officially become sentient and moody, changing directions hourly like it’s trying to gaslight me. And baitfish schools? They’re suddenly everywhere, as if someone rang a dinner bell underwater.

I was amped to get back out. March and April—this is prime time. The striper spawn is kicking off, and these big girls are schooling up, looking to party and maybe make some bad decisions. Word on the dock is Steve Santucci, Mike E., and Roger George have all pulled 20-pounders recently. That kind of talk gives a man hope… and striper fever. Symptoms include obsessive casting and delusions of grandeur.

Even the usual suspects were out today: Steve, Brian, Tim Anderson… It was practically a class reunion on water. Apparently, Steve stuck a forty-pound striper on a fly last week, and the lake hasn’t known peace since. Rods have been snapping out of garages faster than a Black Friday sale at Bass Pro Shops.

I kicked things off at the Bay of Pigs, tossing a giant shad glidebait like I had any business targeting the one. Schools of fish were chilling in 20-30 feet, and I tried that video game fishing trick with Livescope, watching fish play tag with my 6-inch Flashtail Clouser. They’d follow, get curious, then ghost me like a bad Tinder date. Not even a courtesy nibble. Brutal.

I swapped flies, tied on a “Frank’s Special” (basically a shad on a diet), and boom—action. Turns out the stripers were into minimalism today. As usual, I told myself I’d only target big fish, but after two hours of existential crisis, I folded and started hunting schoolies like a man starved for affirmation. And let’s be honest, Steve caught his 40 on a three-inch fly, so maybe size doesn’t matter… at least in the striper world.

Hooked a solid fish off the dam and lost it, thanks to one of those industrial-strength meat hooks I stubbornly believed in. Heavy wire hooks? I’m out. They hold onto fish like democrat politicians hold onto promises. I purged the fat boys from my fly box and tied on a lighter hook flies—zero drops after that. Vindication.

The dam was productive. Half a dozen fish, some practically jumping out from the rocks and saying hello. There was algae thick as shag carpet right on the shoreline, probably throwing some shade for ambushing baitfish. I swear, with that full moon last night, it was like a dinner-and-a-show situation down there.   Late bite expected.

Around 1:00 p.m., I motored over to the racks and found a mess of fish stacked like rush hour traffic by the north pillar. It was game on—every cast felt like cheating. No pumps running, but the fish were in full spring-break-mating-mode, rubbing shoulders and flirting around the concrete like it was spawning prom.

By 3:00, the wind was trying to throw me off my casting platform, and I’d caught 15 fish—enough to feel smug, but not enough to retire. I packed it in early. Honestly? It fished better than Belize. No permit again, sure, but I caught more and bigger stripers today than I did bonefish on the flats. And with that heat? Close your eyes, squint into the algae green flats,  and you could almost hear the Belizean guide yelling Permit 1:00,  50 feet.

And here’s the kicker—California’s still pushing that brain-dead “eight-day quarantine” between the lake and the Forebay. Because, you know, the water totally doesn’t connect or flow between them or anything. Government logic: It’s like fishing with barbless hooks in a sea of red tape.  I think the solution is to have two boats,  one for the Forebay and the other for the lake.

Oh, and rumor has it they’re putting up new windmills out west. Twice as big, twice as ugly. Wonder which landfill all the old ones ended up in. Probably sitting next to the common sense that disappeared when they planned the water quarantine policy.

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