Happy Stocking Day!
Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2026 2:41 pm
On most days, the city pond is just water and grass blending into East LA. But every so often, it hosts an event. You can tell because people start showing up early and standing around doing nothing in particular until the show starts.
The cormorants know first. They always do. They appear in numbers that suggest a group text went out. They circle, land, take off again. Efficient. Professional. No pretense.
The anglers arrive shortly after.
Some come early and stand still, rods used as staffs rather than their intended use, watching water that hasn’t yet been changed. Others arrive late and move quickly, as if momentum alone might secure them a better spot. Everyone asks the same question. Nobody has an answer. This is tradition.
The waiting room
"Have they stocked yet?"
The cormorants, notably, never ask.
When the truck finally pulls in, there’s applause. The crowd erupts, as if it's the bottom of the 9th at Dodger Stadium in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, and Kirk Gibson is coming up to pinch hit. Trout hit the water like Gibby hit that ball, and the pond is briefly transformed from an ignored patch of city landscaping into something important.
From tank to pond, right on schedule
Happier than a pig in shit, front row for the main event
For a few hours, it becomes straight theater.
Rods appear where there were none. Lines and tangles multiply. The water fills with balls of PowerBait, colors never found in nature, deployed with great confidence. Some fish are landed quickly. Others are fought far longer than necessary, as if endurance were the point.
One waits. One chases.
There are anglers for whom this day exists on a calendar, planned weeks in advance. Their gear is immaculate. Imported. Tuned. Explained at length if one lingers too close. The idea is finesse—light line, small baits, maximum sensitivity—applied to trout that were poured out of a tank an hour ago and are already reconsidering their fate in this thing called Life. Don Iovino would be smiling right now. He should've trademarked "BFS" in the 80s.
Like and Subscribe
Nearby, someone with a dented spoon he liberated from Walmart and a reel older than the internet quietly puts fish on his stringer, offering no commentary.
Along the edges, chest cams, head cams, cameras on tripods record everything. There is content to be captured. Fish are landed. The fifty-cent jig is removed from the trout’s mouth and replaced with whatever lure needs promoting this week. Phones appear. Angles are discussed. Hashtags are born. Somewhere, an upload begins before the trout has been put back in the water 20 minutes later. Upside down.
Limits are reached. Limits are ignored. Buckets fill. Buckets empty into ice chest into car trunks. Buckets return.
And threading through all of this is another presence—less obvious, easier to miss.
The Bass Guy doesn’t arrive for the truck. He just happens to be there when it shows up.
He walks more than he casts. Stops to watch more than to fish. Notices things that don’t make the report—light on the water, birds shifting position, the way a kid holds a rod like it might explode, that kid's first catch. That smile that reminds him of his first catch.
He isn’t offended by trout fishermen, nor impressed by them. The chaos is part of the charm. The dads helping kids land their first fish. The quiet triumph of someone new feeling that first tug. Even the guy fighting a stocker for five minutes on thread-thin "JDM" line, learning a lesson he doesn’t yet know he’s being taught.
Sometimes the Bass Guy catches a bass during all this, not because he timed it right—but because he prefers to catch bass, even during a trout stock. It feels vaguely inappropriate, like ordering coffee at a strip club. Sometimes he doesn’t catch shit. Either way, it’s fine.
Caught while everyone else was watching the shoreline
Because the Bass Guy isn’t there to conquer the pond. He’s there to witness it—to watch a forgotten city puddle briefly become alive with intention, optimism, and a shared goal. To catch a fish.
Same afternoon. Same pond. No schedule required.
Stocking day passes. The truck leaves. The crowd thins. The pelicans linger just a little longer.
The regulars remain
By late afternoon, the trout truck is back in Fillmore, the stringers and buckets are heavier, and the shoreline thins out. A few days later, the birds linger. The water settles back into itself. The pond returns to being what it usually is—an overlooked square of city life pretending to be insignificant.
Years from now, no one will remember how many trout were stocked, what color dough worked best, or who limited out. But they might remember standing around waiting for something to happen. Talking to people they wouldn’t otherwise talk to. Watching a friend grin like a kid he is because the hatchery truck arrived on time and hopefully noticing, maybe for the first time, the birds that never left.
Some residents don’t care what day it is
The fishing will blur together. The afternoon won’t.
So I stayed—long after the crowd thinned, long after the light softened—until it was too dark to see my line in the water, looking out at a pond that had finally gone quiet again.
The cormorants know first. They always do. They appear in numbers that suggest a group text went out. They circle, land, take off again. Efficient. Professional. No pretense.
The anglers arrive shortly after.
Some come early and stand still, rods used as staffs rather than their intended use, watching water that hasn’t yet been changed. Others arrive late and move quickly, as if momentum alone might secure them a better spot. Everyone asks the same question. Nobody has an answer. This is tradition.
The waiting room
"Have they stocked yet?"
The cormorants, notably, never ask.
When the truck finally pulls in, there’s applause. The crowd erupts, as if it's the bottom of the 9th at Dodger Stadium in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, and Kirk Gibson is coming up to pinch hit. Trout hit the water like Gibby hit that ball, and the pond is briefly transformed from an ignored patch of city landscaping into something important.
From tank to pond, right on schedule
Happier than a pig in shit, front row for the main event
For a few hours, it becomes straight theater.
Rods appear where there were none. Lines and tangles multiply. The water fills with balls of PowerBait, colors never found in nature, deployed with great confidence. Some fish are landed quickly. Others are fought far longer than necessary, as if endurance were the point.
One waits. One chases.
There are anglers for whom this day exists on a calendar, planned weeks in advance. Their gear is immaculate. Imported. Tuned. Explained at length if one lingers too close. The idea is finesse—light line, small baits, maximum sensitivity—applied to trout that were poured out of a tank an hour ago and are already reconsidering their fate in this thing called Life. Don Iovino would be smiling right now. He should've trademarked "BFS" in the 80s.
Like and Subscribe
Nearby, someone with a dented spoon he liberated from Walmart and a reel older than the internet quietly puts fish on his stringer, offering no commentary.
Along the edges, chest cams, head cams, cameras on tripods record everything. There is content to be captured. Fish are landed. The fifty-cent jig is removed from the trout’s mouth and replaced with whatever lure needs promoting this week. Phones appear. Angles are discussed. Hashtags are born. Somewhere, an upload begins before the trout has been put back in the water 20 minutes later. Upside down.
Limits are reached. Limits are ignored. Buckets fill. Buckets empty into ice chest into car trunks. Buckets return.
And threading through all of this is another presence—less obvious, easier to miss.
The Bass Guy doesn’t arrive for the truck. He just happens to be there when it shows up.
He walks more than he casts. Stops to watch more than to fish. Notices things that don’t make the report—light on the water, birds shifting position, the way a kid holds a rod like it might explode, that kid's first catch. That smile that reminds him of his first catch.
He isn’t offended by trout fishermen, nor impressed by them. The chaos is part of the charm. The dads helping kids land their first fish. The quiet triumph of someone new feeling that first tug. Even the guy fighting a stocker for five minutes on thread-thin "JDM" line, learning a lesson he doesn’t yet know he’s being taught.
Sometimes the Bass Guy catches a bass during all this, not because he timed it right—but because he prefers to catch bass, even during a trout stock. It feels vaguely inappropriate, like ordering coffee at a strip club. Sometimes he doesn’t catch shit. Either way, it’s fine.
Caught while everyone else was watching the shoreline
Because the Bass Guy isn’t there to conquer the pond. He’s there to witness it—to watch a forgotten city puddle briefly become alive with intention, optimism, and a shared goal. To catch a fish.
Same afternoon. Same pond. No schedule required.
Stocking day passes. The truck leaves. The crowd thins. The pelicans linger just a little longer.
The regulars remain
By late afternoon, the trout truck is back in Fillmore, the stringers and buckets are heavier, and the shoreline thins out. A few days later, the birds linger. The water settles back into itself. The pond returns to being what it usually is—an overlooked square of city life pretending to be insignificant.
Years from now, no one will remember how many trout were stocked, what color dough worked best, or who limited out. But they might remember standing around waiting for something to happen. Talking to people they wouldn’t otherwise talk to. Watching a friend grin like a kid he is because the hatchery truck arrived on time and hopefully noticing, maybe for the first time, the birds that never left.
Some residents don’t care what day it is
The fishing will blur together. The afternoon won’t.
So I stayed—long after the crowd thinned, long after the light softened—until it was too dark to see my line in the water, looking out at a pond that had finally gone quiet again.
