Holy crap, I did my California thing and caught crabs!

On Saturday, J and I took an overnight trip to Santa Cruz County. We gawked like rubes at the mountain vistas and giant redwoods, ate like kings, and engaged in dreamy idylls inspired by ridiculously expensive real estate. On the return to S.F., we motored up Highway 1 for more eye candy, evidence of which you can see to the left and below.

When we arrived at Pacifica, I had to indulge my urge to inspect the local fishing grounds. The Pacifica city pier, which juts about 1,000 feet straight into the ocean, is legendary among California fisherman, widely considered the best in the state. I had read the stories of spectacular catches of big fish--salmon and stripers and, occasionally, halibut and leopard sharks. Naturally, I had to see for myself.

The weather was perfect, with blue skies and a dappling sun. There were a lot of people on the pier, but none of the anglers seemed to be catching much. The crabbers were another story. They hooted and hollered as they hoisted up hoop nets crawling with rock and dungeness crabs.

Yesterday, I drove to Pacifica and found myself at the Rusty Hook baitshop, where I shelled out for a $19 hoop net and a package of frozen squid.

The scene at the pier was nothing like Sunday afternoon. Hardly any fishermen. Few tourists. And virtually no sun. An armada of big, fat clouds was squatting stubbornly in the hills. The ocean winds piled on the fog.

I baited the hoop net with squid and lowered it from the pier, using nearly 100 feet of rope before the hoop settled on the ocean floor. I waited ten minutes and hauled the net to the pier. Like that, I'm a crabber. My first crab, a five inch red rock, threatened my with his pincers. I replied to this aggression by tossing him into a waterless bucket and--later that night--boiling him alive.

Yeah, I know: an asymmetrical response.

Anyway, I wound up catching a ton of crabs. It reminded me of still fishing for cats--a lot of waiting around with a big hunk of bait meat in the water. In the course of the afternoon, the majority of the crabs I caught were undersized (and the Dungeness were undersized and out of season). While most of my prey was returned to the deep, I drove home with eight captive red and brown rock crabs.




After J got back from work, she dropped the condemned into a pot of boiling water, then showed me how to clean them. A nasty but not entirely horrific process.

Fifteen minutes later, we were enjoying a messy, tasty, one-course feast while watching a documentary about crossword puzzles.

Minneapolis looks good (in its dusky makeup, at least)!

Minneapolis is like an aging movie star. Lit too brightly or shot from the wrong angle, it looks lousy.

But when cast under a merciful light and viewed from a flattering perspective, Minneapolis can be mighty fetching.

Exhibit A: this splendid vista, which I enjoyed while fishing for channel cats from the River Ranch Monday evening.

The year's last cat

As you can tell from the greasy, mussed hair and slitty eyes, the Man of Constant Leisure didn't get much sleep on his last night in Minneapolis.

Instead, he stayed up until 3 a.m., splitting time between packing luggage and harassing any channel cats that dared to frequent the waters in front of the River Ranch.

It looks like this here fish will be my last cat of 2007. That is, unless I can fool some rogue kitty swimming in San Francisco Bay.

The penultimate kitty was an art patron

What does the Man of Constant Leisure do on his final night in Minneapolis?

He goes cattin' on the Mississippi--especially when it's October, the water is running high and the kitties have strapped on the feedbag.

This handsome fish hit a big sucker minnow in the eddy by the River Ranch. He visited the Spot Art gallery, where Scotty and Carisa were relaxing at the bar, before returning to the murky waters to tell a tale of horror and wonderment that none of his fellow fish will believe. Bah, they will say, there is no world without water and if there were, no living thing could survive it.

For the yellow perch of Cass Lake, a day that will live in infamy

PK and Hesler joined the Man of Constant Leisure for a weekend of cabin closing and perch fishing at Cass Lake. We drifted around the Lodge Point bar on Saturday afternoon. After a half hour or so, we nailed the pattern: the fish were feeding in nine foot water along the eastern drop off.

The action was fast and furious. PK got sick of opening the live well for the new arrivals, so he decided to leave the lid open. "When you have to leave the live well lid open, that's the definition of good fishing, " he said.

We landed a bunch of nine to 12 inch fish (my definition of jumbo perch) and twice as many smaller ones. PK also snared a nice, eating size walleye. We quit after burning through our minnows--a scoop of fatheads and a scoop of spottail shiners. Added bonus: we got plenty of comic relief from the radio broadcast of the Gophers/North Dakota State football game in which the Goofs shit the bed yet again.

The butchering took an eternity. But as you can probably guess from the impressive mountain of fillets, we feasted. By the end everyone, including guests Melissa and Keith, were gorged. PK took the remaining fillets to Duluth, where he fed his friends the evidence that October perch fishing on Cass Lake can be mighty fine.

This fish ate my last sucker minnow

That would be the sepia toned fellow to the right. He was chunky and fierce and got tangled in a snag that made him seem a lot bigger. And, like I said, he ate my last minnow.

I caught the fish that is posing with the handsome retiree at the right at about 10 a.m.

When you shoot self portraits with fish, it's tough getting the whole fish in the frame-- especially when the fish gets to 20 inches or so.

Man, I wish I had more minnows.

If I were you, I'd lay some money on this: The Man of Constant Leisure will be driving to the Bryn Mawr bait shop this afternoon.

Gray days are fishy days

That lesson was imparted to me again this morning. First I ran into the chunky smallmouth in the picture below. She was swimming in the shallows between the two islands by the Riverside Power Plant. I caught the channel cat from River John's dock a few minutes later. A respectable 21 inches.

Check out my styling blue jacket. It's the best cold weather gear you can get as a charge of the Minnesota Department of Corrections. I paid 75 cents for it at a garage sale in northeast. The dude running the sale was wearing a button that said "I need money bad." He was also unloading a comprehensive collection of porn tapes, most of which he dubbed himself and labeled in freakishly neat handwriting.

The whole thing seemed pretty bold. It's almost like he just doesn't give a fuck if the whole world knows he's an ex-con with cash flow troubles and a taste for erotica.

A few questions in prelude to the butchering

The captives found themselves in a pearly white sink, thrown in a heap from the yellow bucket, which had suddenly gone dry.

Did they contemplate their unspeakable fate as they gasped for oxygen?

Did they regret attacking and eating lesser fish as they suffered helplessly?

Were they filled with visions of the spawning grounds from which they emerged as tiny, delicate fry?

Who the hell knows? All I can say for sure is that it took me about an hour to clean this batch. By the end, my techniques with the killing stick and fillet knife had become increasingly refined.

You don't want to read about the particulars on those matters, do you?

Perch by the bucket

When the yokels around here talk about fall fishing, the discussion usually focuses on the joys of catching big walleyes, northerns and muskies. Me, I like spending an October day fishing for yellow perch in the six to 12 foot water at Cass Lake.

For the past few years, I've noticed that a lot of bigger perch move into the shallows this time of year. The action is usually fast.

One other thing: while pursuing perch with a fathead on a jig one afternoon, I had an unexpected tangle with a muskie. The fish leaped out of the water twice before plunging into the deep and snipping my six pound monofilament like it was a cob web.

The whole experience--the wild physicality of the airborne fish--got me wondering: Could I even handle a muskie if I didn't have someone else in the boat with me?

I hope to find out the answer to that one of these days--and I hope the answer is yes.

Another kitty makes an unhappy visit to the shallows

Once the circle hook was removed from his mouth, he dive bombed back into the deep water.

I caught this one about half an hour after Hesler went home.

Hesler split too early

On Oct 3, he came to the River Ranch for some shorefishing. The cats didn't cooperate until after he left. They seem to be feeding most heavilyduring the two or three hours after sunset.

This one agreed to pose for a photograph the following morning.

Payment was disbursed in the form of one six inch sucker minnow.

Okay, this is the last shot of this particular kitty I'll post

But check out that meaty tail, how it slopes down under the weight.

A nice fish, eh?

One more shot

I love how that big red gash of a gill looks.

Oh, and thanks to Scotty Johnson for clicking the pics.

I shall be released

Okay, maybe I won't be.

But this worthy fish was.

Hello, Kitty!

It goes without saying that I greatly enjoyed making the acquaintance with this channel catfish tonight.

The inducement? A five inch sucker minnow on a large circle hook, with a half ounce split shot pinched three feet up the line.

The location? The Hideway, a hidden spot tucked into an industrial zone on the Mississippi River whose precise location I will release only to cash bearing clients.

The fight? Fan-feisty-tastic! I thought she was a flathead until I took a closer look.