By Paul Lebowitz

Not long ago I found myself floating down the Owens River. It was mid-November, yet the river braided its twisted course under a kindly, sun-dappled sky. As the swift current shot my Tarpon 120 kayak around a bend, revealing yet another breathtaking vista of High Sierra peaks snow-frosted just that morning, I caught sight of Mark Pierpont. The pro staffer for kayak maker Wilderness Systems was laughing in delight as the glittering rainbow trout at the end of his line danced across the water.

That Owens ‘bow was Pierpont’s 15th or 20th of the day. To tell the truth, neither of us was sure how many trout the clever angler fooled with his unconventional but inspired choice of baits. He was tossing a 2-inch black Berkley Power Grub threaded onto a 3/16th ounce jighead. That quick-sinking combo was dynamite for the trout swimming in November’s unseasonably high and fast Owens.

The jig bite got progressively better once we’d drifted past the short stretch of river accessible from the banks. We hooked robust, fully-finned fish after fish, reachable only by drift boat or kayak. Don’t worry. The trout are still there, including a few drag-ripping browns.

And to think, as dawn broke that morning the chill wind spilling down the steep, eastern face of the Range of Light was howling at more than 40 miles per hour. Our chances to get on the water looked grim, yet we waited and watched. Gifted with a late-morning weather window, we pounced on the opportunity.

Capitalizing on weather windows is the kayak anglers’ credo from late fall through spring. Even the Sierra is a possibility, well, at least the stretch of the lower Owens that flows past the quaint little valley town of Bishop. It’s open to fishing year-round. Those who come prepared, with fleece under their waders, a modicum of skill for handling the sometimes swift current, and a nimble ‘yak like the quick-carving Tarpon 120, have a good shot at drifting the river even in December or beyond.

It’s the same deal for kayakers who crave a spicy change of pace in northern Baja, and one reason why Dennis Spike’s KayakFishing.com offers an early December trip to tourist-friendly La Bufadora. Spike’s group head back to ‘La Boof’ in March, and sometimes visit more remote Puerto Santo Tomas in early spring.

GOT ‘YA, WEATHER WINDOW – The snowcapped peak tells the tale. Only hours earlier the wind screaming from the storm-shrouded passes was pushing 40 m.p.h. Rather than give up the trip, we watched and waited for our weather window, and then cashed in on sunny skies.

OWENS RIVER RAINBOW – Wilderness Systems pro staffer Mark Pierpont brings in yet another trout on the lower Owens. The stretch that flows past Bishop is open year-round.

KayakFishing.com has been running trips to uppermost Baja for a decade now. “There is a huge emphasis on safety during our trips. Really though, we make them as easy as going kayak fishing at home by offering caravanning to the sites, supplying our DIY galley, comfortable accommodations and just about anything else a guest might need to have a successful trip,” Spike said.

Spike’s trips are an excellent, easy introduction to the mild adventure that is kayak fishing just south of the border. Of course, more worldly and experienced kayakers regularly fish below the frontier on their own. 

A trip to the near south is a great respite from the winter blahs, especially when nothing is doing locally and the otherwise ever-dependable rockfish are off limits. Unfortunately, it’s a bit tough to judge what conditions await even two to four road hours south of the border.

In off-season Baja, even the best laid plans are really nothing more than a roll of the dice. Sometimes you hit craps, which means mud-bogged back roads, crashing surf, and wind-blown seas white-capped all the way to the horizon. Time to whip out the playing cards, kick back, rehash old fishing legends, and sip a cold one beside the campfire. Then again, you might throw a seven on your first go and win sunny skies, a calm ocean, and a yak-full of fish.   

The danger in these winter and spring road trips is in the temptation to push it. To launch into less than optimal conditions because four hours was too long to drive without wetting a line. I’ve committed this sin myself, paddling out into the teeth of a gale because, blast it, I came here to fish.

Take my advice, when that voice in the back of your head is whispering a warning, that’s when a man’s man (or woman) should go with discretion over valor. And that’s doubly true when you’re miles from potential help, whether on a Sierra river or a deserted Baja beach.   

Sea kayakers, the people who can somehow paddle twenty miles a day without as much as a lure in the water(and they think we’re a bit odd?), use the Beaufort Scale to estimate wind speed. I won’t bore you with the full, tedious details, just the highlights. Only a few whitecaps out there? The wind is blowing 7 to 11 miles per hour. Once it ramps up to 17 m.p.h. the whitecaps are everywhere. If their tops blow off in sheets of spray, that howling wind is at least 22 m.p.h. For comparison’s sake, the National Weather Service issues a small craft warning when sustained winds hit 21 knots (about 18 m.p.h.), although that’s a bit of a simplification.