[notes – trying to convey the notion that salmon and steelhead in the Pacific have largely evolved alongside the earth’s most dynamic landscapes – the Pacific Rim – this country beaten, shaken and falling apart is home to these great fish – I just wanted to get some preliminary thoughts down and work through it for awhile – much better reading than a journal article!]
I promised myself I would take care of chores today: laundry (including folding), kitchen cleaning, vacuuming (yes, I occasionally do vacuum the house), and, the fun part, making tomato sauce! All this prior to tomorrow’s hike into a rarely-fished stretch of water unseen to most. The river is currently up nearly a foot and a slow drop should be ideal for an afternoon exploratory descent into this land of poison oak, free-roaming black bears and wild steelhead.
After a bit, the tomatoes and garlic are roasted, the chard blanched and the work begins.
These fall easily out of their skin into a waiting bowl of basil and roasted garlic. The mixture is gently kneaded and placed into serving sized bags for mid-winter nourishment.
The chard and beet gratin was angelically smooth with a hint of nutmeg. I worked in some parmesan but it’s not very assertive in the mix.
Mixing very soft coot with slightly stiffer pheasant rump to see how it responds as a “do all” fly for varying current and swing speeds.
Mixing very soft coot with slightly stiffer pheasant rump to see how it responds as a"do-all" fly for varying current and swing speeds. (yes, I know my wings are a tad too fat)
The cast unfurls on target: a submerged rock shelf across the river. Barely visible as a dark patch between downpours. Flies are changed and swung deep and slow or shallow and fast. Nothing seems to work. One missed grab at the top of the chimney run. The river is up a scant few inches. Everything is working as the flies swing perfectly through the runs, again and again. Everything except the fish. One half pounder to hand, one jumped and one grab. Other than the fantastic wet weather, a curiously slow afternoon and evening. Even the salmon were barely showing.
I knew full well that fishing the first rains with a barely rising river has never been a producer for me. Despite this, I have never been able to resist the temptation of standing knee deep in a mild October rain. Maybe others have found good fishing in these conditions, but when I see the river creeping up a tenth of a foot and rain in the air, I know I go for the sweet smell in the air and the soft hiss of rain on the river’s surface.
Now, having said all that, there is one formula that HAS worked for me. Two days after the rain has consistently provided a productive outing. This is a schedule to adhere to. Sunday afternoon might be worth looking into.
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."
Rain this morning with more due in Friday and Saturday - just the ticket for a long, productive Fall
The last bit of light fades away from a day marred with tragedy, misfortune and unadulterated mishaps.
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.
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.
My new Spey Company reel provides a solid, workman-like click to outbound fish. The singing reel on two lost adult steelhead provided a bit of soothing solace to a day marred with frustration.
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
Late afternoon and the fog pushes over the first coastal ridge. Coastside, we spent the day under overcast, drizzling skies. Coming back at night, the place where this photo was taken was very much reduced visibility as the fog attempted to push over another ridge.
Maple trees on the right show the first signs of turning color. OK, it’s not New England, never will be – but it’s what I got to go by.
Shaken Rain 