This afternoon’s Eureka forecast discussion settles the matter:
"RAIN FROM A SECOND...MUCH STRONGER SYSTEM WILL MOVE THROUGH FROM FRIDAY THROUGH SATURDAY NIGHT. THIS SYSTEM IS MUCH MORE POTENT WITH ITS MOISTURE AND UPPER LEVEL SUPPORT. MUCH OF NORTHWEST CALIFORNIA WILL RECEIVE ONE TO TWO INCHES OF RAIN..." "...RAINFALL WILL INCREASE IN COVERAGE AND INTENSITY LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON AND OVERNIGHT AS A STRONG COLD FRONT WITH ABUNDANT MOISTURE PUSHES ACROSS THE REGION."
Leaving the house, I heard the sirens nearby. An apartment building was on fire. Meeting a friend, we took dogs for a walk and they bit a passing biker. It was a painful bite to a young lady training for an upcoming triathalon. It was a dreadful note on an otherwise beautiful sunny morning. Later, I decided to drive over to the river for a late afternoon/evening session to try out some new flies and try a new piece of water that I know has big fish lying in wait. Not a place I would routinely fish, but it has this look about it that suggests very large steelhead. I was low on gas, but knew I could fill up in Willow Creek. Little did I know the power was out all day in Willow Creek and no gas was available. Fortunately, the station in Hoopa was running on a generator, so I was able to feed my thirsty truck. Finally I got there. The sun was still up but I was doing a nice slow pass down and everything seemed to be just perfect. The bottom is a tasty jumble of cobbles and small boulders and just deep enough to give big fish a sense of cover all day while they wait for evening and the arrival of swinging flies overhead. Just about then, two meathead gear fishermen came down the trail and low-holed me. I should have said something, but instead left them with a glare and wondered whether it would be worth writing to the Department of Fish and Game requesting a discussion on river fishing etiquette in their annual regulations. Two hundred miles of fish-filled river and these folks insist on scrambling down the same trail and fishing immediately downstream of me right in the heart of the sweet water that I was systematically fishing down into. Fisg and Game wouldn’t have to enact hardcore regulations – just prohibit other anglers from intruding on the rapturous visions of a solo spey caster in the act of steelheading for sanity.
I drove downstream to another spot that I’ve only fished once. It’s classic steelhead fly water and I hoped to skate a dry fly through it. About as close to nirvana as I may get in this lifetime is watching a big deer hair fly skate across the surface of a steelhead run on a warm fall evening. But I had forgotten my floating line, so I was stuck with swinging a sink tip through the prime hour. As the light was failing, I had a mighty grab but came up empty. I knew if I could get my fly right back out there, I had a good chance…SNAP…the fly snaped off at a wind knot and I didn’t bother to retie. The last of the sunset was spectacular, casting an orange glow across the horizon and onto the water. I pulled out my camera for a picture, but it wouldn’t work. At the truck I found that the battery wasn’t seated properly. Time to get home and hope I make it without another mishap. I’m done fishing for awhile and trips out of the house will only be made for absolute necessities such as work and food.
By day
Her soft voice finds me
Leaving me craving
More.
Somewhere I remember this.
At night
Her soul breathing to me
Over a hundred lifetimes.
Again.
I think I knew you once
Unrecognized at first
Reminded
By her.
All this we played before
Between us.
She tells this story
And I wonder where I went.
Quick notes
As the sun set over the ridge, night’s shadow crept up the river. I was trying to find the point where my lower half was in shadow and upper body in sun – a fish was hooked somewhere in the middle and I never found the sweet spot. From latest afternoon until dark, the evening was a steady stream of jumbo half pounders and one adult with several mystery grabs. Best moment was after switching over to a floating tip. I waded back out and unfurled a cast. Doing so, the strap on my glasses came undone. I propped the rod under my arm to fix my glasses – WRONG. The fish slammed it sending the reel whirring. As I reached down to grab the rod with my now free hand my knuckles played the high RPM rap against the spinning handle. Darkness started to consume the river and the surface came alive with splashing fish. I woulda have stayed for a precious few more minutes had I not been on the other side of the river with a long, deep crossing ahead of me and the sound of bears (or something) rustling in the trees behind me. Except for my leaking waders, a truly sweet evening on the river.
It all felt big and empty today. A lonely wind tried to blow late in the afternoon but it got all hung up in the trees. It seemed like it was trying to find itself and couldn’t quite get going. Along the way it would pick up a few leaves from the trees and scatter them along as if was looking for something to grab onto. It had come all this way looking for something – but whatever was here was gone now. The whole place seemed like it was mourning something irretrievably lost. I think it was the sad love songs I listened to on the drive over. I shoulda picked something a bit more uplifting.
The fish were few and far between, consisting of half-pounders taken on a sinking tip. I banged up my elbow a good bit climbing down a poison-oak ridden hillside downstream of Ice Cream. One of those impacts where you hit hard and don’t feel anything right away. Then the pain comes over like a wave. It’ll probably hurt more tomorrow than it does now. Felt soles and steep, loose slopes do not mix well, unless you’re into skiing, which happened unexpectedly. Ironically, it was nearby and across the river where I banged up my shin last week. That one’s nearly healed now.
Once on the water, I promptly hooked a fish in the shade of the cliff and then spent a long time just trying to figure out the wind. After climbing out and getting out of my waders, which sprung a significant leak at some point in the day, I scoped out another reach to climb down into. The road gives a peek at some potentially good water, but most of it is not visible from up high. Looks like there is a weak trail that barrels down at least part ways through a jumble of oak, bedrock and fir trees. Just in time for my healed elbow…On the way home, the late afternoon sun bathed everything in a soft light, bringing everything to a standstill. I don’t think there’s much more summer left here.
And it’s probably time to ferret out some new music.
My finger still aches from the tear of dry fly line through the crease of my index finger as a fish grabbed hold. Another fish that I lost. I’ve entered the frustrating season. The first adult steelhead came unbuttoned as I was walking it to the bank. The second adult sang the reel, cartwheeling along the way only to break off far across the river. There’s NO EXCUSE for that. Operator error. I was saying dam…dam…dam… over and over again. Shuddering in my frustration. Then there were the long slow pulling grabs on the deep swing – I know those grabs – but I will never know what exactly was at the end of the line. A victim of missed fish. Again.
The wind stayed manageable after the brief rain swept through in the morning and early afternoon and the bite seemed best in the early afternoon. The run was full of porpoising salmon, so that kept it entertaining. Overall, it was a slow day – three passes through and a couple of grabs each time with a few halfpounders to hand. Grabs seemed few and far between. As the afternoon started to fade into early evening, things went slack and I headed for the barn a bit earlier than usual. But it will go down in my memory as a good day since memories have that way of compressing away all the slow times and shining on the moments of excitement. Two years from now it will be an afternoon of non-stop activity when, in fact, more than once I was on the verge of heading to other water. If it wasn’t for the fellow dawdling along the bank upstream where I wanted to cross, I would have left sooner and missed my opportunity with the two adult fish.
My last two outings have produced less than memorable numbers of fish – unlike my first few trips of the season. Last night I walked the trail into a couple of decent runs. The place has never been quantity water for me, although it definitely has the potential. Instead, I’ve taken some of my best fish here, so I always walk in there with tempered expectations. The weather was in transition as a weak cold front pushed cooler air through and left the coast covered in deep, drippy overcast all day. Farther up the river, at the trail, the wind had died down and, although it was still a warm evening, it wasn’t on the heels of a “bloody hot” afternoon. Still, though, I worked up a bit of a sweat walking in at a brisk pace to give myself ample time to cover the water.
I just got my new spey reel from the Spey Company – a true beauty and I had to try it out on the 5/6 wt even though I got it just for the 7wt (photos coming soon). Regardless, it balanced wonderfully and I found myself in the groove with a cack-handed snap-T. I also think I was casting too far. I say this not to gloat, but because I missed a few grabs at the end of 80+ feet of line. With all that line on the water, there’s just too much distance to come fast to a lightly grabbing fish in any meaningfully efficient manner. Still, though, it was a joy to fish the far side of the river – right down in the slot. But those missed grabs hurt and I need to temper my casting enthusiasm with the realities of hooking and landing steelhead on the two-handed rod. I could have easily covered the needed water with shorter casts – but, well, I digress.
I see the numbers of steelhead passing through the weir have declined slowly and steadily over the few weeks of data collection. The big push of fish in late August seems to have waned and surely another big push, THE big push is probably building. Oh sure there are the fish magnet places – those dependable places where numerous fish seem to be expected, and I should probably fish those places more if I want the quantity. But there is something to be said for walking a half mile down into a stretch of river where you are alone. On the walk out, nearly dark in the woods, I found myself looking over my back often and up into the bushes. That feeling of being watched that doesn’t come often. Many times on that dark walk I looked back and waited to see that cat slowly creeping up behind me. Walk faster, but don’t run! And carry a flimsy 13 foot long stick just in case.
I heard it mentioned once that steelhead, when they were more abundant and widespread, may have moved up the larger rivers in “tribes.” I like this idea. With this idea, the Fall Run can be decomposed into several “pushes” of fish upriver, maybe barely distinguishable as older fish linger in runs and new fish arrive to add to the numbers present. At some point winter rolls around and transitions into spring and on into summer – no real distinctions in the runs, just ever-present tribes of fish moving upriver to linger for varying lengths of time here and there – hopefully right where my fly is swinging.
Tonite, the waning, but still nearly full moon rises through a web of clouds marching onshore and promising a chance of sprinkles later tonite into tomorrow. This could well be the steelhead moon that signals the next “tribe” to begin their upstream ascent. I need to get out on the river…
When I heard the storm I made haste to join it,
for in the storms ~ nature always has something for us ~
John Muir
I started out under the Davis bridge far too early in the afternoon. It’s a short run, a quick fish, a place to spend some time while the shade settles on the better water upstream. I walked down in shorts and wading boots through an acre of dried thistles, blackberries and hundred degree heat – just the thing to toughen up the skin on the lower legs.
It’s still fishing the same as it was last year, but, save for the shadow of the bridge, the orientation of the river here keeps it too exposed, unlike December when this place never sees the sun all day. But it was a chance to try a different rod with a sinktip. This rod had given me some frustration in an earlier outing in the wind, so I wanted to give it a chance under better conditions. I was in the groove with it now and found I could fish the entire river with the double spey and a much slower timing than the rod I left back up in the truck. The wind was nearly non-existent and the smoke was creeping in over the ridges from seemingly all directions. I did a pass through and decided to head up the road to the trail and walk into a favorite spot. Upon arrival, a car was parked there, and although there is plenty of water to access from the trail, I decided to head back downstream to explore some new water that I had heard promising things about. I like giving people space and only hope they can do it for me from time to time.
Since it was getting on in the evening, I knew I would be “committing” to this place since it was a short walk downstream and the upstream run was already occupied – it’s about that time of year when folks from far and wide start arriving – plus, it’s Friday – I was mentally prepared for this by having a pocketful of options to fish should one or the other be occupied. I didn’t feel like having company tonite. The water in question is at the end of a long pool/glide the size of a couple of soccer fields. The water scoots along painfully slow until it spills over through a maze of small riffles and bedrock outcrops. This spot changes from year to year even in a low water year like we just had. Right before spilling over the riffle, the water picks up speed and has the potential for good holding water.
The thing about fishing new water is the unknown quantity that lies before you. In familiar runs, the best lies are usually known and focused on at just the right time. These are the places fished with a certain efficiency. If the familiar place doesn’t yield fish, we are left to assume that the river is “slow.” Sometimes fishing new water requires an I-don’t-care mood. If I can find myself in this mood then I can usually settle down and be more methodical about the fishing rather than wasting myself with thoughts of “I should’ve gone elsewhere.”
I probably started too high on the tailout. By the time I got into the faster, fishier looking water, it was getting dark. A few bright salmon rolled in the moving water – suggesting that it did indeed hold fish. The water was a much different layout than I’d seen before. I couldn’t really find what I would call a sweet spot, but it looked good, nonetheless. After a solid grab, I switched over to the skating fly – again, in the “I-don’t-care” mood and just wanting to see what was down here at the bottom of all this flat water. Nothing on the skater – but the fixation with watching that fly skid across the water’s surface knowing that at any time all hell could break loose underneath is entertainment in itself. Nearly time to go and I switched back over to a spider and landed a sassy half-pounder. By the time I got to the bottom, an almost full moon was peeking over the trees.
I don’t feel like I had a chance to really fish the run – it deserves another trip and provides an excellent late evening backup to the oft-fished run above. I shall return.
Notes on the food prepared for this trip: Since food is such an integral part of this season, I should mention that prior to leaving I was able to use some of the potent brandywine tomatoes mixed with a little sliced garlic, pepper and tossed with olive oil, sea salt and basil. There is a fellow at the Saturday market that has, hands-down the best tomatoes – they are small but full of a sweet tangy flavor that makes even those of us who are not tomato disciples take notice. Taken to the river on ice and eaten chilled in only a small amount it is the perfect compliment to a warm September afternoon.
experimenting with iced coffee again…
The road rounds the bend dropping into the valley. From this view much of the river can be seen. The late afternoon wind still ripples the calmer water at the bottom of the Campbell Run. If I were to drive to the waters edge there, I would be greeted by the hot winds and I could stare into the clear water and see every stone. Yet I know this place will come alive once the sun has gone behind the mountain and the crickets start chirping.
Along the road a few of the maples show their weariness of summer with curling leaves, maybe a hint of yellow here and there. It’s just too hot right now. If I drive beyond the valley and through the gorge, the wind will pick up- drawn from the sea to feed all this heat and rising air. Today, the water just seems to run down to the sea only to escape the heat. The urgency isn’t here yet – it’s just not time. Driving on, I remember the place where we pulled off to let Greg dispose of his “sack” – he’d been quietly puking the entire, wild drive over the windy dirt road. The gas tank had a pinhole leak somewhere near him that flooded the backseat with wretchedness. But we had to get somewhere.
Now I can stare into the water and see everything – like looking into another’s eyes and seeing their soul – the color of the rocks, the small fish that hold in the current. In a few months it will be a different river, and I might decide, again; this is not the place to be. In a few months I may well not be able to peer into that same soul – now harboring secrets that are surrendered only slowly and with gentle persistence. And I may not find the patience for them to surface – because I have to get somewhere. And this becomes the challenge; balancing an ever-hoped for patience with the knowledge there might be something else just around the next bend. Sometimes none of it ever works- the patience isn’t there, the next bend isn’t just right, and I just keep looking for that just-right somewhere. But sometimes it all comes together – usually unexpectedly – despite all my best planning and scheming – suddenly realizing that I’m right where I need to be at just the right time and nothing more is needed. That’s usually when it happens best.
Shaken Rain 