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    Sunday morning June ten five forty-five I zoomed south on I-15 for a marathon drive to Bahía de Los Angeles on the Cortez side of the Baja peninsula five hundred miles south.  A week prior I hit up Tijuana for a tourist card and $700 worth the pesos, and forked over almost $300 for two weeks of Mexican car insurance from Auto Club so that I would not have to stop on drive day.  That ought to put me in town to meet pal Baja Tim by five in the afternoon.

    Actually I did stop for something... six cases of warm Corona.  I hit up several beer joints along the way starting in Ensenada, most of which only sold cold.  I finally found a gold mine at an agency in San Quintin on the right side of the road as you head south.  The deal is if you buy cold cases, they heat up while you’re touring the desert, causing the seals on the caps to warp, which renders the brew funky.

    Bad things happened during the drive south on two-lane Mex-1.  One time I had to stop dead in my tracks with people behind me screeching their tires as I kindly allowed some goofball heading right at me in my lane as he passed a line of cars to swerve back to his side precariously close to my front bumper.

    Then, as I climbed into the mountains from El Rosario heading towards Cataviña I heard this loud POP accompanied by a sliding sound.  I look in my rearview mirror and discover the back door of my shell open and that I had just made a sacrifice to the Dios de Baja of one fresh case of beer.  This gift, I hoped, would deliver me from any more evil during my eleven days down here but not exactly.

    Once I closed the door and returned to the road I hear this WHAP WHAP WHAP BAM BAM WHAP BAM noise coming from the front left wheel.  Once I applied the brakes slightly the sound dissipated.  I let up off the pedal and more WHAP BAM.  I’m thinking it can’t be my brakes, I just installed new Toyota factory pads and rotors two weeks ago!  I pull over for an inspection, the brake assemblage looks fine, I jack up the axle, whip out the lug wrench and find one of the studs snapped off.  What’s more the remaining five were all loose!  Ah carumba it appears I failed to cinch the dang things after the brake job and just now they each backed off a half a turn.

    Once retightened, I was happily motorhead towards the L.A. Bay junction some 90 miles away.  It was amazing how comfortably cold the air stayed all the way from the coast.  Normally in June once you see your first cirio tree you are in the hot desert.  Today I never had to turn on the air conditioner all the way to town, to which I arrived by 16:30.  I contacted Tim by walkie talkie; he directed me to the right and then left onto the Casa Diaz property, where we each snagged a room on the beach for the night at 25 bones.

    I would like to note that all of the pavement so far on Mex-1 and the road leading to Bahía were in great shape without all the speed killing potholes one encountered ten to fifteen years ago.

    Monday morning we motored the 37 or so miles to our southernmost destination, Bahía de Las Animas, for a four-night camping spree.  The main road was like a washboard but there was a smoother parallel path.  Still the velocity was way under 20 mph in order to protect our vehicles and cargo.  It looked as if the area received some measurable precipitation not too long ago, as the elephant trees with their pink flowers and others were in bloom.  The cardon cactus had just finished their flowering and there was long dead grass everywhere.

    Sometime around noon we turned left on the Animas road, finding our first glimpse of water an hour later.  We timed our trip perfectly to the new moon high tides so that at high water the sun would be somewhat straight overhead.  The beach looked great near the back bay, nice white sand with clear water.  The thing was there were several Mexican fish camp shacks lining the road and we wanted to be away from all that mess.

    So off we went east along the northern bay, past two islets and one main point near an estuary replete with small mangroves, to a beach where it looked by an old fire ring as if nobody had stayed for years.  We positioned our trucks in a parallel fashion, Tim rigged up his shade tarp, I set up my tent.

    I pulled my 20-pound pole out of the Easy Rider rod rack bolted atop my shell, mounted a reel, tied on a one-ounce Krocodile in blue mackerel, and cast it far out there.  For an hour I had no hits; not even from the ubiquitous barred sand bass nor finescale triggerfish.  Very odd indeed.

    During the day there were flocks of gulls and other seabirds squawking like nuts on an island just one-half mile from shore.  Tim and I kind of joined them by drinking beer and listening to CDs loudly on my Sony boom box like crazy the rest of the day.  At night the bay filled with finback whales, their loud breaches sounding like they were just yards from shore.  There was even a dead one lying on the beach, a first for us both.

    Tuesday morning I got up late, sat in my chair, ate snacks, drank beer, rocked out to CDs, cooked a chicken, all the while staring out over the water to the mountains across the bay, thinking I should strap on some dive gear and get my face in the water to see what’s going on down there.  Didn’t make it, too lazy.  I did however pack up some tackle, water and snacks for a morning hike to the main point about a mile south.

    Wednesday morning I got up before light and made a breezeless hot sweaty death march all the way to said point.  The rocks were extremely slippery during the morning low tide, making a cast a tricky proposition.  I started out with the trusty five inch Storm WildEye mackerel, as yellowtail and white seabass are kings of this region.  The dream of something sizeable sucking up the lure fizzled to what I figured would happen, them dang triggerfish with their horse teeth bit off the wiggly tail, rendering the bait useless.

    Time to retie the Kroc.  I cast that really far, let it sink for a few seconds, then reeled in with the perfect twitching of the rod tip.  Fan casting around the point I finally had a nice hit.  So nice in fact it held its ground as I tried to reel in, as if it managed to insert itself into an underwater rock grotto.  No!  It took off and pulled several yards of drag from the big 20lb reel to the right, then switching to pull more drag to the left about a hundred feet out there.  I swear the way it vibrated, the end of each drag pull felt exactly like the six-pound yellowtail I landed from a boat ten years ago.  Oh man how exciting, I brought all my sushi supplies on the trip, awaiting that fat fresh fillet hitting the camp table.

    I ran into a snag, as it were.  Upon arriving to Animas Bay and exploring its virtues, we found the whole place lined with a thick layer of this fine-stemmed kelp growing five feet out from the low water mark, something I don’t remember ever noticing in the Sea of Cortez.  For fifteen minutes I stood there with an eight-foot rod bent double, trying to wear out the fish before I attempted to guide it through a gap between strands.  Didn’t matter.  Even though there looked to be an opening, the cotton-like crap was omnipresent under the surface.  As soon as the fish hit the weed line everything stopped.  I applied medium pressure, slacked off a bit, pulled the rod back with maximum pressure; all I reeled in was a treble full of plant.

    I thought how the heck could I fight that fish for so long with such a solid hook-set just for it to disgorge itself immediately after hitting the weeds?  Fishing Palos Verdes I always manage to yank even the largest of calico bass out of the kelp using the above described techniques.  The only conclusion I came up with is that the kelp near home has larger spaces between leaves, allowing a smoother pull through.  But still, how did it come off the hook while I kept the pressure on?

    Recovering from that I cast more.  Twenty later here and there around the point with the same Kroc I hooked yet another something-or-other in the same manner.  I call it an s-o-o because the result played out exactly like the previous scenario; big fight, pile of weeds.  DAM!

    Somewhat disappointed I scooted over twenty yards closer to where the rocks of the point meet the sand of the beach.  There I finally landed two tasty critters on the Kroc, a 13-inch sand bass, which is big for around here, and a triggerfish coming in at slightly over two pounds.  Finally!  Tacos!  I thought for cryin’ out loud if I can’t catch the two basic fish in all the Sea of Cortez, I must really suck.  I cast for another hour but had no other takers, large or small.

    Back at camp I informed Tim of my tribulations, cleaned the catch, sat down, drank beer, cooked chorizo, rocked to CDs until the unit gave out.  The boom box still played tapes fine.

    Thursday morning we packed up camp and headed back to Bahía de Los Angeles.  As we passed the beautiful clear water white sand beach near the shacks we found at low tide it was not so appealing, what with all the exposed brown rocks as far as we could see.

    We wanted to investigate if there was access to the south side of the bay but ran into trouble when the offshoot trail turned into salt mud.  I easily backed out of the muck before getting stuck.

    Further up the main road as we approached L.A. Bay,   I made a recon at a fork in the road leading to the southern portion the bay while Tim aimed for the motel on the beach to secure two rooms for the night.  For just hanging out, this section of the bay is killer with all its vacation homes lining the sand.  For shore fishing the steepness past the beach looks great but is practically inaccessible.

    While I was poking around I found two of the darndest things; a Trooper same year and color as Tim’s and a Toyota truck the same year color and shell as mine.

    That evening in town we cruised the main drag, finally settling on Fat Momma’s mole and asada tacos.

    Friday morning we headed north from the main highway towards San Felipe.  This road, which is picked up near Laguna Chapala, was in abysmal shape.  It was less than 10 mph all the way to Gonzaga Bay, 30-something miles away.  Seemed like it took all day in a meteorological vicissitude that now at a hundred degrees alas feels like summer.  Our destination was worth the effort as Alfonsina’s clean and beautiful restaurant was slingin’ the killer hash.  I forget what we ordered but it was great.

    Tim got a room for the night but I roughed it by cruising over to the last palapa to the south and placing my camp pad atop my shell.  Problem was the first winds of the trip kicked up and almost blew me clean off.  Instead I crammed the pad into the cab and dozed off there.  In the middle of the night I marched over to one of the nasty outhouses placed fifty yards away and with my flashlight noticed sidewinder tracks of all sizes crisscrossing the whole dune.  Sure enough I spotted one curled up right next to the crapper door presumably waiting for a mousey guy to emerge from underneath.  I already knew they’re around, which is why the pad went into the cab instead of on the ground.

    Saturday morning I got up early, or should I say I didn’t sleep very well in the noisy wind, and drove five miles north to the abandoned Campo El Faro.  There I set up two outfits and hiked a mile-and-a-half north along the pebbly beach to a point with a sea arch.  After several casts with the Kroc, again I hooked a sizeable s-o-o.  It fought well although not as fervent as the ones at Animas, and one more time as soon as it hit that pesky week line, it was gone.

    I spent another couple hours casting around the area, catching only one six-inch sand bass.

    Back at Alfonsina’s for breakfast Tim and I each had the camarones rancheros, which was fantastic.

    The new Pemex station at Gonzaga was out of gasoline so instead of opting for some dude across the street with his barrel gas we headed north towards San Felipe with my ten gallons in two bottles in the back.  Our first stop was a relatively short drive to a side road near Campo Delfines.  When we first hit the beach we found a couple houses that would have made a great camping spot but we concluded the proprietors might not delight in squatters milling about.

    Instead we took a trail a half mile north to another beautiful vacant beach where we parked and scouted.  I liked this spot because as I hiked around I found bunches of old dried up filleted white seabass carcasses stacked up in a small arroyo, which is always promising.  Since we were there early and had a lot of daylight to set up some sort of camp, I whipped out my 15-pound outfit and started flinging the WildEye at high tide.  Nothing bit off the tail nor sucked it up, so out went the usual Kroc.  I didn’t give it much of an effort and for that landed another six-inch sandie.

    Not far to the south was in full sight a Mex fish camp.  Their fearless leader came over to bum a beer and see what’s going on, which we obliged.  It was hard to understand him but with my limited Spanish I asked what kinds of big fish live around here while displaying illustrations from my Gulf of California Fishwatcher’s Guide.  He pointed to the whites, pargo and leopard grouper as being the best ones.  I suggested jurel (yellowtail), he pointed to one of the nearby Islas Encantadas and said they hang out there.

    To take a panga miles and miles out to Isla de la Guardia from L.A. Bay it costs roughly $250.  We asked how much he would charge to for a ride to Isla San Luis, just a couple miles out from our current spot.  He said he would not charge, rattled off a bunch of mumbo jumbo, and that the fishing is really good in the afternoon, we should go now.  I retorted with, maybe in the morning, not right now.  I added that I had already been up since four this morning hiking the beach and driving over that kidney killer road for over four hours.  I just wanted to take in the sites and soak in some suds.

    And while I was doing just that, here he comes in his boat with a full crew, ready to take us out for the price of cold beer.  We said no thanks, possibly in the morning.  A member of his party runs up to our trucks and asks for a cold one.  We shooed him off, said sorry, later.

    After they retreated we huddled up for a new play.  Since we more than likely just pissed these guys off and we are kind of on their beach, we should pack up what little we unloaded and scram.  You never know what these guys are capable of way out here.

    We found another trail north a little over a mile and parked at a spot where our vehicles would not be so noticeable from the water.  Finding some peace, I whipped out the Coleman stove and cast iron fry pan and fired up six tasty tacos made from the fish I caught Tuesday along with all the fixin’s including locally made corn and flour tortillas.

    Sunday morning we relaxed on the beach a bit while I made the killer BLT sandwiches out of my favorite slab of bacon, Ralphs Center Cut.  In the afternoon we took a fully clothed stench control dip in the water, then while packing up camp we dried off and were on our way.  It was a little tricky finding the main road north, as we ended up on a couple of private properties complete with wary owners pointing to where we should head.

    This part of the road, along the Enchanted Isles coast north to Puertecitos, is the worst.  Our goal was to get past the town a ways and take a side road a short distance towards the mountains for a canned good munch ‘n’ sleep.  To go the 37 miles it took way over six hours.  It wasn’t before ten that night we finally cracked open cans of meat, tuna, stew, soup, ravioli, et al.

    Monday morning began Capítulo Dos of the trip, an easy going ride over smooth pavement from Puertecitos to San Felipe, where we would get side-by-side rooms at the lovely Hotel Riviera for a three-night stay.  Before hitting the hotel we took a side road to one of the rare vacant white sand beaches in the area.  The reason it hasn’t been developed yet, as have all the other beaches along this 50-mile strip, is that during extreme high tides the flats turn muddy, making any access to the sand risky business.

    Today and for each of the next three days the plan at the hotel went like this:  wake up, drink six Coronas, go to the Malécon to pig out on seafood, get ice on the way back, take a nap, get up, drink 6 Coronas, go to the Malécon to pig out on seafood, come back, sleep ten hours.

    Actually the last two nights, instead of seafood on the Malécon, we hit up the main road into town, where we found the finest of hamburger stand and hot dog cart, with everything cooked over local mesquite wood, nary a gringo in sight.  The hot dog guy doled out fried potatoes with all the usual toppings for free.

    Special note: this one really nice-furniture restaurant on the Malécon called Bajamar was freakin’ fantastic and reasonable too.  We pigged out on large portions of fish soup, fish chimichangas, steamed clams, ceviche, a huge calamar steak, two big margaritas and a beer for a mere $40.  The flavors were fresh and perfect.  Actually every place we stopped the food was cheap and tasty.  I especially dug the mixed seafood cocktails, just incredible.  I could go on forever about Felipe cuisine.

    Thursday morning we vacated the hotel for an easy ride along a new toll road to Tecate, where we had lunch, checked out the town, and crossed the border with no wait.

Baja Trip Stats:

Exchage rate was 10.72 pesos per dollar.

Gasoline was $2.33 per gallon.

Corona was $20.75 per 24 bottle case and $14.55 if you had empties to exchange.

Round trip from Bahía de Los Angeles to Bahía de Las Animas and back was 95 miles, I got 8 MPG.

From Bahía de Los Angeles to San Felipe, 232 miles and 11 MPG.

From San Felipe to Rancho Bernardo over good paved roads at normal speed, 241 miles, 17 MPG (normal).

Between border crossings I spent $966 on gas food lodging ice beer tequila.  $82 just for ice.

From Jim L.

A husband and wife came for counseling after almost 

26 years of marriage. When asked what the problem was, the wife went into a passionate, painful tirade listing every problem they had ever had in the 25 years they had been married. She went on and on and on: neglect, lack of intimacy, emptiness, loneliness, feeling unloved and unlovable, an entire laundry list of un-met needs. 

Finally, after allowing this to go on for a sufficient length of time, the therapist got up, walked around the desk and asked the wife to stand. He then proceeded to embrace and kiss her passionately. 

The woman sat down quietly as though she were in a daze. The therapist turned to the husband and said, 

"This is what your wife needs at least three times a week. Can you do this?"

The husband thought for a moment and replied, "Well, I can drop 

her off here on Mondays and Wednesdays, but on Fridays, I fish."

*****

From Roger B.:

*****

Another Lake Amador report from Wook 6/6:

Lake Amador report from Wook 5/19:

Hey all,

Weird bite this time.

Got there around 4pm and saw a bunch of folks just killing the Donaldson trout (steelhead/ rainbow/ cutthroat cross) at the docks. ..they had just stocked it and the avg trout was running around 3- 5 lb. Folks were just throwing any green or white colored Berkeley power baits. I got one off of a brown with orange belly jig I usually use for surf perch.

Since we were here for bass, went over to the dam (no crappie were hitting at the docks). Even though I'm a die-hard senko-only bass fisherman and have never caught a thing in all my years off of a floating bait, thought I'd give topwater a try with waning sunlight and a gentle breeze. Had no problems "walking the dog" and in about 20 minutes of remaining sunlight, got three LMB off of the super zara spook. Similar to how exciting it was for me when I got my first brown trout off of an elk's hair caddis dry fly, the first topwater bite was exciting. The bass missed my first attempt and then before I could even react, hit again a second time and it was on. Pretty awesome to see all the splashing around on the bite. Reminded me of how Gold Asian Donald missed his 10 lb bass that struck his floating frog while he wasn't paying attention. ;)

Got dark so packed it up. Next morning, was all excited about the bite. Started the day with senkos with no love. So whipped out the super zara spook again. First cast and I nailed a three pounder. Then the sun hit water so no more topwater action. Tried senkos again with no luck. Switched to a white spinnerbait and got two 3 pounders. Then it was dead. Seemed the bass had post-spawn blues. Oh well, fun regardless. Attached is one of the three I caught the night before at the dam.

*****

From Mike B:

What can I say Mike. This grandson (Eli) of mine just never ceases to amaze me. We were at Laguna Niguel Lake again last Thursday (15th) and weren't having much luck at first. We moved to another spot. Still no luck. We moved again, and I guess that old adage, "third time is the charm"  is true. He soon hooked up with a 4lb1oz trout using salmon eggs on a #18 treble hook. What gets me though, is the air of confidence he has when he reels in these 4lb+ trout. He's almost like a seasoned vet.  Later on I caught a 12" Largemouth. I released it though, didn't bother to weigh it cuz it was dark.

Hey Mike,

    I was on my way to DVL on Tuesday morning, but when I got to Riverside it was already getting really hot. I decided instead to fish at Fisherman's Retreat in Redlands. (SanTimoteo Canyon Rd. between Moreno Valley and Redlands). I started out at the far end of the lake. After several hours and many assorted offerings without nary a nibble, I became very frustrated. Not only that, my bad knee began to throb. I thought, should I go home and accept defeat, or should I relocate to the other end of the lake? I took a couple of extra strength Motrins (800mg ea.) and chose the latter.

    After setting up again, I placed some  chartreuse powerbait on a #18 treble hook and cast out. I set the rod in a rod holder and walked over to my cooler to get an ice cold can of....Coke Zero. Didn't get to open it though, I was interrupted by the whirring sound of my drag, good thing I adjusted it loose, or it might have snapped my 2 lb. fluorocarbon leader. It turned out to be my biggest catch of the day at 3lbs. The others were smaller, decent sized keepers, but they all fought like crazy. Turned out to be really fun day of fishing.

Mike B.

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