Anglers Break Ice on Trout Season

When Gary Olson said South Lake, high in the mountains above town, was “like a giant margarita,” I said I’d be up first thing Saturday morning.

Not because I was thirsty, but because if South Lake, at nearly 10,000 feet, was already that slushy, then it probably would be an interesting place to spend the first morning of the Eastern Sierra general trout season.

Either some poor fool, thinking the ice strong enough to allow him to walk on water, would crash through--in which case it would be my responsibility to give a firsthand report on how he became a human ice cube--or the fishing, brought to life by the unseasonably warm weather and early breakup, would make the 30-minute drive up Highway 168 and South Lake Road a worthwhile adventure.

“This is my 13th opener here and I’ve never seen it where you couldn’t ice fish,” said Olson, owner of Bishop Creek Lodge, nearby Parchers Resort and the concession at South Lake.

Until Saturday.

Upon arrival at South Lake, headwaters of the South Fork of Bishop Creek, I hiked down the boulder-strewn hillside to water’s edge, where it became apparent nobody was going to walk out onto the ice, which actually did look as though it were poured from a giant blender.

But it also became apparent that this pristine mountain lake, nestled at the foot of the snowy trails that lead to the rugged back country--and the entire Bishop Creek Canyon area, for that matter--is a special place for those who want no part of the circus atmosphere associated with more traditional opening-day fishing holes (read Crowley Lake).

“We come here because we love to ice fish, and because there are no crowds,” said Sam Mozak, 33, a Vacaville resident who comes with a group of former Air Force buddies.

Theirs was a bizarre method of ice fishing: throwing rocks to break up the thin layer of ice, then casting and trying to catch a fish before the ice formed again.

But it worked well enough. Not only did everyone catch his five-fish limit, Mozak got his Power Bait-laden hook into a five-pound rainbow, an Alpers holdover planted last fall.

Jeff Romey, 38, of Brea, did Mozak one better. He tossed his lure into a hole in the ice formed by a natural spring 15 feet from shore, flipped a gold Kastmaster lure into the hole, jigged it a few times and latched onto a 5-pound 6-ounce rainbow, after which he had to invent a plan to get the fish to shore.

“We had to keep throwing rocks to break a path to the shore,” he said, clutching his prize by the gills. “It was hilarious. Every time we threw a rock into the water he took off. He kept running. One of the rocks hit the fish; he really started running then. It took more than 15 minutes to bring him in.”

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There wasn’t a whisper of wind at Crowley Lake from the time the flare was shot at 5 a.m., signaling the start of the season, until well into the afternoon.

Too bad for the fish.

Though the day might not have been as productive as last year’s opener, the 5,000 or so anglers who lined the shores and crossed the glassy surface of the popular reservoir in their boats were relentless in their assault.

The first five-fish limits were hauled up at about 10:30 a.m., and by noon the cleaning table had become a busy, bloody mess as anglers stood elbow to elbow, sharing stories while slicing away at rainbows and browns that averaged one to two pounds.

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Lower Twin Lake near Bridgeport produced the biggest fish on opening day for the second consecutive year, a 13-pound, 6-ounce brown caught by Charlie Balogh of Escondido on a Flatfish lure.