Blood, Zen and Security Guards in Golf Carts
My thumb was finally dripping bright red blood, and yet I was smiling ear to ear, having just released my PB Spot. It kicked my ass like if I owed it money, ripping drag...
Author: Miguel Lizarraga
The Jetty Giveth, the Jetty Taketh Your Shin
I realized something this week. I haven’t actually fun fished in a while. Like, just gone out to fish without a tournament hanging over my head like the cloud that follows Eeyore everywhere. In...
Addicted to Rocks
Saturday morning, I found myself out at the Marina del Rey jetty. I wasn’t planning on being there, but it was either that or prefishing Diamond Valley again, which we affectionately now call Cubic...
Piru: The Lake That Gets No Love (But Gives It Anyway)
Let’s be real—when people talk about the “Big Three” lakes around here, Piru Lake is definitely the red-headed stepchild. Castaic? That place is a legend. Back in the ’90s, when I was still learning...
Furries and Bass, Just Another Pond Sesh
It was around 5:30 a.m. when The Gooch — yes, that’s what we call him, don’t ask — woke me up. “It’s five in the morning, David. You better be in jail, or caught...
Rumble in the Desert
Our Tournament Director opened the fridge Friday night during our house dinner, and a few seconds later, shouted, “Who in the F*CK is marinating their plastics with teriyaki sauce?!” He had grabbed a Tupperware...
The Dragon
This past weekend, I linked up with Phantom and El Japo for a kamikaze trip up to Lake Nacimiento — and as usual, what a trip it turned out to be. We hit the...
Jerks at the Pond
Omar, the resident high school dropout, was whizzing past on his 3 thousand dollar scooter just as I was releasing another chunky 2 pounder back into the aquamarine colored pond. He stopped to chat...
Eastside Riders
The first time I went to the Eastern Sierras, it was late October and winter had come early. The GF (at the time) and I thought that trout fishing was like bass fishing, and...
“Stalking” Day at Probation
It’s stocking day at Probation Pond, and the locals couldn’t be happier, as the ramp was loaded with anxious individuals ready to score a stocker, or 12. I saw the Merry Men of Sherwood...