fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Author Archives: Patrick Konoske


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my summons

What an end to a weekend!  Not having opened the mail, I was surprised to find that I received, for the first time in my life, a summons to report for jury duty in the United States District Court, Eastern Division of California, Sacramento Division.  Somewhat of a nightmare to consider that I might be empanelled on a jury in a relatively well-known case.  (I can’t tell you which case under official admonition.)  Not looking forward to making the 62-mile drive on June 1st just to find out that I won’t be selected.  And the $40 a day will barely cover gas and food expenses, much less the stress!  We shall see how this plays out…

But the weekend was good.  Spent Saturday in “The City” with my son.  Caught lunch at the waterfront, then walked around Chinatown for the first time.  Saw some interesting sights there. I now suggest that any tourist who wants a souvenir head to Chinatown, where the same shot glass you might get for $5 at Pier 39 is $1.59 in Chinatown.  After Chinatown we headed to Sony’s Metreon to look around and play a few games.  About 4:20 p.m. we picked up Karen and it was off to St. Vincent de Paul’s church for mass, then to Tomaso’s Famous for a great dinner with my in-laws. 

Sunday was supposed to be a lazy day, but I jumped into the task of replacing all of our 18-year-old sprinkler valves (two were failing) and installing a new automatic timer.  It went better than expected, and in between I was able to sit back and relax.  Have a great week!


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Phoenix | part drei: quick tour, skyharbor

At 11:15 a.m. Friday, my tour of duty ended with the closing session of the conference. After quick trip to my room, a change to shorts and after dropping my luggage off with the concierge, I joined the midday rush to lunch. During the walk I took on my first night in town, I passed by the Wells Fargo museum and found the Phoenix Police Museum, which I had planned to visit if time allowed. I first stopped at the Wells Fargo museum. It is typical of a small corporate museum, but in perusing its exhibit I learned of Arizona’s own little gold and silver rushes and spent time looking over a collection of guns accumulated by one of the banks former presidents.

Thankfully, it was cooler today, so my stroll through Patriots Park was nice. But again, I found it odd. Patriots Park is one block by one block plaza. It’s relatively new, with trees, brick walkways and planters, and a lawn in front of a stage covered by sweeping canvas panels.  It’s quite nice.  But it is used by only a few souls, some homeless, to get out of the sun. Kitty corner to the opposite end of Patriot’s Plaza is the Phoenix Police Museum.

This is a stop I can recommend to anyone who even has a passing interest. The Phoenix Police Museum is small, but full of interesting tidbits related to the history of Phoenix law enforcement. I was lucky enough to visit on a day during which the first female police officer was working as a docent. She and her daughter personally regaled me with tales of her experiences; tell me how the first uniform for women police officers was based on the uniform used by the WACS, but when she was told that her uniform was going to cost $167 (an there was no uniform allowance), she prompted made her own, which was accepted by the department.  As she was required to wear a skirt and could not wear a belt, all her gear ~ gun, sap, flashlight, ammunition ~ when into her purse, which tipped the scales at 47 pounds! Also, the high-heeled shoes she wore pretty much prohibited running, so she became adept at throwing her sap or flashlight to stop fleeing suspects. She also solemnly showed me a room in which officers who fell in the line of duty are memorialized. Quite a woman.

After spending more time than I expected a the Phoenix Police Museum, I headed back to the hotel to catch a shuttle to Sky Harbor.  The shuttle company also runs Lincoln Towncars and, apparently, it is first-come/first-gives-the-customer-a-ride at the top of the hour, I rode in luxury back to the airport, where I grabbed a leisure lunch.

Airports can be great places to people watch (and listen). An old couple argued over the solution to a Soduko puzzle. A young lady consoled her boyfriend about her leaving, blaming her departure on her mother. Folks of all shapes, sizes and ages bee-bop to music fed to them via Ipods. Cells phones sprout from the ears of just as many folks. Another couple seemed to revel in their new-found ability to pick up and head out of town, now that their youngest child was out of the house. It was a good thing that people-watching kept me entertained…my flight was 30 minutes late.  Out my window I can see topside of fluffy clouds kissed by the last rays of the setting sun.  We’re plying our way home at 30,000 feet.  For a trip that I viewed as disruptive to my routine at work and at home, it sure had some highlights.

P.S. It is a funny site to see folks, who are waiting for the bus in the late afternoon, scattered about in a seemingly random manner until one realizes they are all seeking any shade they can find.


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Phoenix | part zwei: a walk and a restaurant

The conference Thursday went as planned and about 5:45 p.m. I was free of my suit and free to do my own thing. Having “virtually” scoped out Phoenix in advance online, I had decided that I would sample what is called one of the greatest neighborhood Sonoran (Mexican) restaurants. It would be a 2.3-mile hike, but I felt up for the adventure. What I couldn’t anticipate was how rapid the change from neighborhood to neighborhood. I walked east on Jefferson Street past Chase Field ~ where, if I were a baseball fan I would have gone to see the Cubs visiting the Diamondbacks ~ and proceeded south on 7th Street. After passing Chase Field and descending the 7th Street “bridge” (it crosses railroad tracks), without any transition I exited the city center to find myself in a heavy industrial area. The inventory of various companies ~ huge hydraulic cylinders, pipes, slaps of metal, bricks and the like ~ lines the roadway. Trudging along I next passed used car lots and abandoned service stations.

About thirty minutes in my walk I finally reached East Mohave Street, which would lead me to Carolina’s Mexican Food Restaurant. With my right turn onto Mohave, I was suddenly in a residential neighborhood most kindly described as low income. And in the early evening, was eerily quiet. Within this neighborhood’s five or six blocks, only three children were outside, riding their bikes. Various homes’ windows were decorated with those wrought iron bars that despite all artistic efforts never truly look ornamental. One resident, maybe in a moment of levity, had squished yellow rubber duckies between the bars on one window. I got a chuckle out of that. By now I was trudging along, when I spied a restaurant ~ an abandoned restaurant ~ to my right.  I was worried. I had passed numerous homes that had been bought up by the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport (planes now fly above and parallel to Mohave Street) and I wondered if Carolina’s had met the same fate. But it was at the wrong address. I breathed a sigh of relief and in within a few more steps spotted Carolina’s just ahead.

I will never recommend Carolina’s to anyone who doesn’t have a sense of adventure in sampling the local cuisine. The building that houses Carolina’s was probably built long before I was born. Stripping the paint from its walls would be the equivalent of a vertical archeological dig. The menu is simple. Almost everything comes with a homemade tortilla with the diameter of a Stetson. It serves good, solid food of the neighborhood. I chose a “burro,” which is known elsewhere as a burrito, filled with chorizo, beans, cheese and potatoes. Not only is it the closest thing to a self-contained meal, it is very good. Worth the walk. (Of course, I justified eating this monster because I walked.) So, not only did I find a good, local, ethic restaurant, I had one heck of an adventure in walking there.


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Phoenix | part ein: flat. hot. odd.

I’ve been in Phoenix for about 90 minutes; here to attend a conference put on by my employer. While I can now say I’ve see this Southwestern city, it’s not a city that will rank high on my list of vacation spots to which I might return. I was booked at the Wyndham Phoenix, a nice enough hotel in the city “center” and surrounded by downtown and civic buildings. My arrival was heralded by a blast of hot air that snuck between the 737’s fuselage and the jet way…still hot at about 7:00 p.m. Settled into the hotel to find that something had leaked on one of my dress shirts and, after procuring some Woolite from the concierge, took off for a walk. I set out a few blocks east, then south, on a route that ended up being approximately 2 miles. The atmosphere of the city was strange. At 8:00 p.m. the streets were what one might call “sterile.” There was no one else out for a walk, and the only people I saw along the way were numerous police officers and parking lot security guards. Even the homeless were conspicuous in their absence. (Only saw two street people and one was snoring away.)


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squeaky wheel gets invited?

Interesting. A few short weeks after I write American Honda Motor Co. about my disappointment with the design of the new Civic’s seat/seatbelt latch (see the blog entry here), my inbox receives the following:  “The Honda Division of Honda R&D Americas…would like to invite you to be a part of a select group of Honda owners to participate in our Honda ‘Power of Dreams’ Panel.”  Coincidence?  I wonder.  And yes, I did sign up, just to see what might happen.  Could be fun.


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our first opening day

What a learning experience! Chris and I approached this as more of a learning experience, and it was a good thing we did so. After getting up at oh-dark-thirty, we headed up the Lyons Canal in Twain Harte (Nick and Nathan, that’s were we have taken you fishing.) and found nothing going on, so we departed for Moccasin Creek. It’s about thirty minutes away, and because we though the only access was through a gate, we delayed our arrival until about 7:00 a.m.

We found out upon arrival that there was a trail that allowed access around the gate, and from all appearances, some folks set up prior to the 6:00 a.m. opening. Most were bait fishing right around the dam, so we headed downstream a bit. Targeting pools, Chris and I had some good strikes on spinners. A gold/red Panther Martin for me, a gold Mepps for Chris. Devin, Chris’ friend who had come with us, also had a few. Devin hooked one fish but lost it; Chris hooked quite a few and landed five. I hooked three solid fish.

Though I didn’t land any (using barbless lures for the first time), I did hook one that was probably the biggest trout I’ve ever had the opportunity to play. Using 4 lb. line, I didn’t want to be too aggressive, so had my drag set low. Then, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The line peels off the reel as this fish takes off for one side of the stream (about 15-feet across), then back again. It did this six or seven times, then took off downstream, again taking line. Then it was upstream. I figure this went on for about four, maybe five minutes. I finally gained some ground, edge him in…four feet…three feet…and he raises his head and throws the hook. What a fight! Know I understand these folks who year after year chase after that one big fish they hooked by never landed.

Mid-morning we headed out to check a few other places, again don’t some reconnaissance for future trips. One stream had terribly limited access. We drove up to Lyons Reservoir, and while a beautiful place, the action was limited to bait. Devin hooked another fish here. We made one last visit to Lyons Canal, figuring the crowds had died down. We saw a few fish, but they were a bit cagey and the neighborhood dog wasn’t helping by jumping into the water. (Ask Chris about that.)

All in all, it was a good experience, and we gained some good knowledge that will help us in the future. And I’ll be back to Moccasin Creek looking for that bruiser…


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Warning: good, fun weather ahead

Well, looks as if we are being smiled upon for our trip up to western side of the Sierras this afternoon.  The forecast is for fantastic weather.  Hopefully the fishing will be just as good – more catching than fishing.  But either way, it will be good, and good for me, to get out and enjoy the sunshine.  A good weekend to all!


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little discovery of mine for you fish folks

In all of my digging around for information on fishing in the sierras, I ran across an old PDF document hosted somewhere on the California DFG Web site, that offers something that almost every fisherman at one time or other during their life would have given up their best lure…well, maybe their second-best lure…to have. It is in an old issue of the Tracks pseudo-magazine put out by DFG, which covers fishing and/or hunting depending upon the season it might be published.

Like all issues of Tracks, this particular Spring 2001 edition offers information on rules and regulations, the species of fish one can expect to catch, and so on. But within this issue is what might very well be considered a little gem: a section entitled “Guide to Fishing California Waters.”

This seemingly innocuously named portion of the publication offers a wealth of information on the fishable bodies of freshwater – lakes, rivers, streams, reservoirs (forebays and afterbays), creeks and lagoons throughout the state. While it contains the typical notations on the type of fish that might be caught and the services available, the most exciting column is labeled “Driving Directions.” In this column is written directions, from a nearby and well recognized landmark, to a public access point for each body of water. Even for the smallest section of water that receives plants from the DFG’s hatcheries. For example, the small Lyons Canal in Twain Harte warrants a listing, with driving directions that read,

From Sonora, at junction Hwy’s 49-108; go E 11 mi. to Twain Harte Dr. Turn N, go 1.7 mi. to Joaquin Gully Rd. Turn NE, go 1 mi.; road curves E at Middle Camp Rd. for 0.1 mi. Turn N on South Fork Rd., go 0.4 mi. to fishing access on left.

I know from personal experience that these directions are pretty good (although we take the nephews and kids to another section of the canal). So, in a service to fisherpersons everywhere, I am pulling this information out of the PDF and putting it on my Web site for all to see. You can get to a main page for this info by clicking on the ‘Calif. DFG Driving Directions’ under the “Join In” section of the side bar. From the main page you can jump to the various sections.


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countdown to trout season opening day

“Some go to church and think about fishing, others go fishing and think about God.”

          ~ Tony Blake

“To go fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air, with the rush of the brook, or with the shimmer of sun on blue water. It brings meekness and inspiration from the decency of nature, charity toward tackle-makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting of hate, a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week. And it is discipline in the equality of men – for all men are equal before fish.”

          ~ Herbert Hoover


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What’s 18 years old?

My son became an adult this month.  I got to thinking…

If you were an 18-year-old police horse in Berkshire, England, commended by the chief constable your work after disorder at a soccer game in 2003, you’d be retired already.

If you were an 18-year-old movie, you might tell the story of selfish yuppie Charlie Babbitt’s cross-country trip with his savant brother Raymond…

If you were an 18-year-old Olympics gold medal, you might have been won by Jay Barrs for archery.

If you were an 18-year-old book, you might be the not-so brief “A Brief History of Time.” (Author Stephen Hawking noting that for every equation in the book that the readership would be halved, thus it includes only a single equation: E=mc².)

If you were an 18-year-old television series, you might be the short-lived “High Mountain Rangers.” (Lasted one season and was filmed near our cabin.)

If you were an 18-year-old song, you could follow the advice of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

If you were an 18-year-old candy, you might be those oh-so dangerous Pop Rocks.

If you are an 18-year-old today, I won’t pretend to offer any sage advice. Rather, I will offer the following:

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. Scientists have proven the long-term benefits of sunscreen, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or celebrate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it is worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

—Mary Schmich, Chicago Tribune, June 1, 1997