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.

The smell of black berries fermenting on the vine is sweet and syrupy – the result of daytime temperatures pushing one hundred degrees.  A wall of smoke hangs down in the gorge with a spotter plane and occasional air tanker dropping in low.  The half pounders grab hard and as the night bugs start to sing, so does my reel as a small adult yanks hard and long.  My first adult steelhead on the two-handed rod – small by any standards, but made up for with a hard grab and long, finger rapping run.  He was sitting right in the seam where I had nabbed a few last year and this was my second pass through the run for the evening – one of those nights when I left work with the intent of fishing only one spot at just the right time.  A river to myself, no wind, fish landed and a crescent moon on the horizon coming home after dark.

Made the decision about noon today… called a friend and we were off over the hill, bound for warmer climes along the river.  His mission was to fill the truck (or expend his back, whichever came first) with landscaping rocks and mine was to stand knee deep in the river trying to find a steelhead.  We succeeded on both counts, but the rocks far outweighed and outnumbered the fish to hand (only one).  I was daydreaming when a freight train of a steelhead grabbed my fly at the end of the swing, dashed downstream and came unbuttoned all in an instant – a solid fish but never saw more than the initial boil.  Ended up with one half pounder landed and a couple of other missed grabs.  There were definitely a ‘few’ fish around – a slow evening by catching standards, but once the sun was off the water, the caddis came off thick and the river came alive with bugs and juvenile fish gorging themselves to a backdrop of singing frogs, crickets and miscellaneous birds.  Best of all, the wind died down way early – leaving a warm, calm evening – shirtsleeve comfort.  I found myself in a great meditative rhythm with snap-T casting, so the fish were an add-on bonus, though I was muttering profanities to myself when I missed that one fish – my once chance – no instant replays allowed.  It’s exactly the kind of evening that keeps me coming back.