When I top the ridge and see Dixon for the first time my eyes widen as I proclaim a spontaneous phrase that, taken out of context, would label me as both profane and sacrilegious. But within this context, my words are those of praise and awe.
A blue oasis filling high-ridge canyons, the view from up here is dangerous. My eyes need to stay on this narrow un-guardrailed road that snakes the hillsides down to the lake.
Tiny Dixon Lake – as all purebred bassers know – is where the world record largemouth was recently caught, witnessed, filmed, weighed, released, and disqualified because the bass was hooked in a place other than the mouth. Word of that remarkable bass attracted a zillion anglers, a zillion media folks, and a zillion versions of the story.
But today, scarcely a year later, I have Dixon all to myself.
I count 43 vacant boats – powered by only muscle or electricity – at the rental dock. I count 4 anglers on the half-dozen fishing piers. I count 8 cars in the lot. I count nobody in the line to buy a permit.
Walt and Malia Brame attend catfish rods on the closest fishing pier. I don’t know Walt’s age, but Malia – his daughter – tells me she is “fwee” without being compelled to hold up fingers.
Malia also answers my question regarding why she likes to fish: “Because it’s fun.” Pause, then, “I’m going to eat some pudding after lunch.”
Walt and Malia usually fish for bluegill at a small lake near their house in nearby San Marcos. This is Malia’s first time at Dixon. “Look at that duck over there,” she interjects.“What’s your favorite thing about fishing?” I ask Malia.
Her eyes search and her shoulders lift. “Let me think for a minute.” She does. Then, “When the fish pulls your line.” She follows that, without pause, with a fishing tip to live by: “It’s good that the grass is here – because the catfish like to ‘fwim’ around in it.”
Bingo. This lake is deep and clear, but along much of its shorelines are underwater grasses – rooted down to 10 and deeper. Thick vegetation. This is the stuff that catfish – and of course bass – relish. And this fishing pier is surrounded by it.
Walt’s a school teacher – fifth-grade. “They’re sophisticated enough that you can have almost adult conversations. And they have developed a good enough sense of humor that they get your jokes, and that can be a lot of fun.”
Malia is talking too. “I was telling my daddy that he is a rhinoceros,” she stated amid sips from her purple sippy cup. She then offers that she uses “real” cups at home.
Walt and Malia have gotten bites, but no fish. The two anglers on the other pier have caught one catfish – maybe two pounds. The park ranger tells me that it’s been “a problem for anybody to catch pretty much anything lately.” After all, it’s July, it’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s cloudless, and it’s the middle of the day.
Still, with Dixon’s notoriety, you’d assume there’d be at least 100 or so bass anglers here even under the worst conditions. But there are zero.
“I have milk to drink and daddy has water,” Malia again.
Walt on fifth-graders: “The biggest challenge is trying to make the curriculum appealing to them when you know yourself that it isn’t – like when you’re teaching about prepositions or compound sentences. How do you get them to learn the boring stuff?” Indeed.
I rent a boat, tie on a hunk of soft plastic, and am well aware of the history – and big-time money – that’s possible here with every cast. But still I wonder why no other bass angler within highly-populated southern California is here.
After an hour of absolutely no interest in my offerings I think I know why I’m the only one. So I change strategies. No longer will I use my go-to bass methods; I will offer these bass something they have never before seen. (Nor I.)
It takes me about a minute to rig up my new secret (e-mail me at jbryanfish@aol.com and I’ll tell you) – a rig that anyone can make with stuff they probably already have. It looks goofy and I’m glad other bass anglers aren’t watching.
But it works!
In five minutes I hang a fish. (I am using only 6-pound line in this ultra-clear water.) I assume my thoughts are the same as those of all first-time Dixon anglers when they hang a bass. My rod bends double, a few feet of drag peel from the reel, and I’m holding on for the big money.
The fish heads towards deeper water and away from the shoreline weeds, thank goodness.
This is a very heavy fish. I realize that it will be a miracle to land him on this light line.
My rod throbs deeply as I slowly make progress. Then more drag. Careful not to put too much pressure. Careful to steer her away from the electric motor.
Finally, after two long minutes that seem longer, the fish nears the boat as I gain more line. Then I see him and it is indeed a bass (not a catfish!) and I genuinely can’t believe its size. It’s a two-pounder. Without a zero attached. I unhook and release him. What in the world would a teener feel like in this lake?
My exotic rig takes five more bass in the five more hours I am here. The largest is four pounds. The boat dock attendant greets my return with, “Did you ever get a bite?” I feel like Roland Martin.
Prior to the goofy rig I tried various versions of finesse worms, Senkos, frogs and crankbaits. And I threw them in great places: holes in grass, alongside shady piers, bluffs, shoreline weeds, and on top of one surfacing school of small bass. Nothing.
I visit with Walt and Malia again. Malia says, “The crabs pinch. Daddy had one pinch him before and it really hurt.” They are discussing surf fishing which Walt does with sand crabs for perch in the shallows. He also uses lures and on one caught a leopard shark recently.
Advice for Dixon anglers? I have none – except that it’s worth it just to see its beauty. And of course the hold-your-breath feeling of floating atop bass giants.
Photo: Dixon Lake - Fifth-grade teacher Walt Brame and his daughter Malia
