Fishin’ Hole : Regulars Are Hooked on Urban Lakes That Provide Food for Body and Soul

The usual June clouds still hung low over the Santa Ana River Lakes in Anaheim. But the regulars knew summer had begun two weeks earlier when they stocked the lakes with cats.

Now the trout people would be trailing off and the catfish people would be coming in. Some would camp in the four-lane driveway overnight; some would fish 24 hours a day.

“What you have here,” said Julie Urie, the manager of the lakes, leaning over the counter of the bait shop, “is people who fish five times a week and know everybody.”

You also have an urban fishing hole, three lakes edged by the Riverside Freeway, high voltage power lines and industrial warehouses, into which 2,500 squirming catfish, crappie, bluegill, largemouth bass and sturgeon are dumped every week.

And equally important for some, you have a place where the hot, crowded freeway seems to disappear, and a self-contained world of wind-rippled water emerges, a world with its own inhabitants and rules.

To enter the facility off La Palma Avenue, near Tustin Avenue, you pay $10, or $8 if you’re a member. No fishing license required. You don’t use more than two rods and you don’t leave with more than five fish. In reality, you do and say whatever you can get away with, which is usually a lot. “Fishing people are real neat. They’re happy people. They don’t fight,” Urie said cheerfully. “They’re just liars.”

The screen door squeaked. A small man with a large reputation entered the bait shop. He didn’t get far before disappearing into a bear hug from a large man in camouflage pants. “There’s Phoumy! My friend! He’s the best!”

Alvin Howard, 68, of Carson often broils and shares his catch with Phoumy Sivongsak, 45, of Placentia. Sivongsak in turn makes bluegill “cookies” (fried fish rounds) for Urie and Marilyn Shoaf, who work in the office.

In six years of fishing in the flooded gravel pits, Howard, a veteran of the U.S. Army’s black infantry division in World War II, says he has learned the most from Asian fishermen like Sivongsak, a former Laotian soldier who worked for the CIA before coming to Orange County in 1976.

Learned Most From Asians

“I know from experience, if the fish stop biting, Phoumy’s gone. Here he comes, and the fish start biting again,” Howard said.

Working for the post office, Howard earned a promotion from clerk to superintendent by “doing his homework” on subjects like registered mail. Retired, he continues to watch and learn. Like the Asians, he uses sharp Japanese hooks, $40 rods, and meal-worm and marshmallow bait.

But still, he favors Hog Wild sponge bait, a rancid-smelling sauce made, according to the label, from “rich, ripe, aged ingredients.” And where Sivongsak will move after 15 minutes if he doesn’t get a bite, Howard prefers to stay by his lace-curtained motor home with a refrigerator full of fish and beer for friends.

Today, he has parked by Chris’ Pond, stocked heavily with whiskerfish by the owner, Outdoor Safaris International, to attract passing drivers on the freeway.

Somewhere inside the motor home--with a bumper sticker that reads, “When the going gets tough, the tough go fishing”--are Army surplus shorts and a shade umbrella for the hot days of summer.

Shorts, Shade for Hot Days

Howard disappears and brings out a scrapbook with photos of favorite friends and fish.

“Here’s where the kids threw me a birthday party,” he said pointing to a snapshot of smiling, shirtless young men gathered at night around a cake that reads, “‘Big Al.” “I really appreciated that.”

“Here are my grand-kids. They live in Sweden. It’s a long story.

“Here’s Julie at Halloween. She’s imitating Dolly Parton.

“I wish you could meet Joe. He loves to talk. So do I. But when I’m with him, I listen.

“Here’s Jimmy and Sue. I followed them around until I learned their secrets. Jimmy stopped fishing, he was spending too much of his time fishing and not taking care of his family. He started selling cars. But he came back and said he promised the guys at work he’d bring one back. So I says, ‘Hey, Jim. Take this one. Hey. Why not?’ ”

By 8 a.m., Howard already had three catfish wriggling on a line in front of his motor home. Smaller, less impressive fish were freezing inside.

“My wife says, ‘Please Al, don’t bring no more fish home.’ I will though.”

Deep-Fried Catfish for Lunch

For lunch he might deep-fry the catfish. “I have creole seasoning sauce and a little garlic pepper. It gives it a real good flavor. Everybody asks me what I put on it.

“Phoumy loves it!”

Leaning against his van a few feet away, Sivongsak rolls a cigarette from Laotian tobacco and notebook paper. Once he worked as a laborer to support his family, then quit to fish. He takes orders from neighbors who stake him the entry fee.

He showed off a cold chest with 15 catfish inside.

Urie drove past. “Caught any fish today, Phoumy?”

“Three.” He laughed.

Urie laughed too, knowing the truth was different. “OK,” she said, and drove on.

After fishing the dirt shores for 12 years, Sivongsak said, “people here are like family. . . . Sometime you love each other. Sometime you fight a little bit.

“People get mad when they see me catch fish.

“I look like Vietnamese people,” said Sivongsak, who learned English from television. “Hey. A lot say, ‘Go back home, go back to Vietnam.’

“I close my ears,” he said, shrugging. “That’s the American way.

“There are a lot of good people here.”

Catfish will bite more when the weather warms, he says before he drives on to a new spot.

Catfish Like It Hot

“What caught, grandpa?” he yells to Marion Cotler, 79, of Hawaiian Gardens who, with his friend Weddle Brittin of Whittier, has set up a dozen poles along the shore. Cotler pulls a basket of catfish from the lake.

“How many you get?” he asked Sivongsak.

“Three.” He drives on.

Back at the bait shop, Urie swaps fish stories with a security officer.

During the day, she also gathers facts and stories for “The Lakes,” a newsletter that appears on the bulletin board outside, along with faded snapshots of people and fish.

Some people borrow fish to pose with, and others might pay $20 for a fish that another has caught just for fun.

In seven years in the office, Urie knows by instinct when the truth is being stretched. She’s even heard tall tales from children who learned from their parents how to make a six-pound fish into a 10-pounder.

It doesn’t really matter. “There are so many regulars. They want to teach everyone and say they’re the best. We just agree with them.”