Watching the river cool a bit each morning… still too warm to swing a fly through the low flows of summer, but almost…almost…
Almost…
Category: fall
Talking weather with the boys down the way
Here are the stories (summarized) that the old men down at the corner bar tell of the weather here on the coast.
Summer: Fog rolls in and out. When the fog is out the sea breeze kicks in fresh and brisk. Sometimes the fog lays along the coast for days – not a ground fog, instead a low ceiling that hides the sun – an important distinction. A few times over the summer, the fog’s ebb and flow will vanish, the wind will disappear. The day will start warm and end warm. The sea will be greasy flat. This is when the boats run long distances searching for tuna. The local farmer’s market swells through the summer – reaching a crescendo into the early fall.
Fall: The best time of year. The fog starts to get more playful. It comes in lower, rolling across the bottoms like a wave swallowing everything up. But it lapses, steamy warm days are most likely now. Then the first rains come and settle the dust and the warm sun returns. Maybe it will be a warm rain – sun – rain in a perfect march that lasts for weeks, though the fall rains seem to come later now. Regardless, the sun’s angle now starts to cast everything in honey-colored light. Clouds, sunsets, wet, dry and the first south winds keep everything in play. Mushrooms start to show in the woods, rivers are refreshed. Summer’s fruits and vegetables are still to be had.
Winter: Big winds, long rains and chilly mornings hide some of the best days of the year: well-lit celebrations after days of rain – maybe even warm then. After the big storm, maybe a day or two of showery weather – rain-sun-rainbow-rain-sun – moving through the days – the temperate rainforest at work.
Spring: First really warm days. Showers, sneaky storms and attempts at summer. Time to step outside and stretch and yawn – birds start singing in the mornings outside the window. Things transition to summer when the Swainson’s thrush sings in the bushes.
Leaving Autumn Dreams Behind (with much reluctance)
Endless, golden October afternoon
.
There we found our river,
A simple quiet.
Our place.
.
Along ocean sand.
Under a setting November sun.
Another afternoon for us
Each walking little paths,
Soon shared.
.
Returning,
We convened with water.
Falling from dark December skies.
We found ourselves then.
Picking up little bits
of the dreams to
Hold us tight.
.
We wondered along the creek
Through snow, woods and
All along the grassy hills.
.
Together,
At year’s end we met these places.
And we arrayed our dreams and desires
Like Christmas gifts under our tree.
.
I saw the blue green water dreams
Deep in your gaze.
You saw those places in my eyes,
Color of fall.
.
And I still want to hold onto it
Before you are even gone.
.
Now all those little dreams
Scattered.
Washing away in the rain,
Across the hills,
Into creeks, rivers and oceans.
Back to those places.
.
But these places,
We will walk again
On our own paths,
Gathering up all of those dreams
And the new stories they will tell.
.
Goodbye, my love.
I will always hold you
In my dreams.
Descent into winter
These days
Falling into hushed calm
Of mornings lingering
And afternoons brief.
I cannot say
Those fearful words
We’re done
And yet you persist
And I find you there.
Find me again
Along the river
Starved for rain
As I gather the last memories
As fast as I can.
rain, sun, rain
Started out early in the rain, then things briefly cleared to warm sun in the early afternoon, then a walloping downpour came through late afternoon. It came slowly over the western edge of the valley looking like a giant wave. Only one small steelhead to hand, but a slow and steady stream of mystery grabs to keep it interesting. I was “asleep at the reel” for the best grab of the day. Some late salmon showing in the runs. Water was the color of very light tea and all of the traditional runs were very fishable at 1,900cfs. No wind ever really appeared until the very end as the downpour commenced; making for a simple, quiet outing along the river now completely bathed in fall. If nothing else, everything just seems quiet now and it’s easy to loose track of time altogether while working through the water. I fished the new (to me) spey rod that Jonas from Norway sent me and it took me awhile to get in the groove, but once I did, I settled into an easy rhythm with it. The pace of the day was easy, and the schedule was just right, getting me home in time for an early dinner. Despite the lack of fish, it’s days like these that make me want to go back again and again.
River notes – November comes in on a storm
A certain tension, maybe, seems to develop as Fall progresses. Teased on with a few light rains, the hills start to play the role with colorful trees and a few choice mushrooms showing. But down below, the river still speaks summer with low, clear water. I think that might have changed this weekend. Maybe:
Follow him down the dirt road past the apple orchard, fruit still hanging fast, leaves half gone from the wind the night before the rain. Along the trail are the first shaggy manes pushing through the damp earth – good eating if they can be brought back home and cooked soon enough. Follow him to where the old road fades into a trail and winds through the blackberries. If you’re not careful to stick to the paths that the bears trampled down during the height of it all, you’ll find all that’s left are the leaves and arching canes full of thorns that have a knack for reaching out and grabbing passersby. Along the way you might see the tiny shriveled berries still there, like you could reach out and grab summer back again.
Past the berries, the silt on the high river bank is cool and damp; settled by the rain. The dust is all gone now. The old dried weeds through here are turning from golden yellow to light brown and slowly collapse under their own weight, aided on by a day’s worth of wind and rain, working their way closer to, and back into, the soil. Along the gravel bar, the cobbles and boulders are shiny new again.
The water’s edge has reclaimed some of this. The river rises slowly, over the course of a day. The last green grass stands knee deep in the water now, gently washed by the waves lapping up. And like the berries behind, the algae still clings to the rocks out further, but the currents slowly wear it away and carry it suspended through the run. The water is now the color of strong tea. In the pool below, waves of leaves and algae well up in the backwater and leaves collect here and there along the bottom, occasionally scooting along at their own pace. You can’t miss the bright maple leaves whisking by in the faster water. A small willow branch floats by, probably blown in on the wind.
It won’t get muddy until the next storms really let loose on wetter ground. The emerald green water of winter is still a ways off. Everything balances here now. Down here, summer passes by in the currents. Up there, summer works its way back into the soil. Out there, another storm is pushing winter in a tad bit closer.
Winter Cometh Soon and a Pause
The latest weather forecast paints a lengthy period of rain starting later this week suggesting rising rivers and a big step towards winter. Granted, winter is still a ways off by the calendar. We are likely on the cusp of the more classic fall – damp ground, the river valleys shrouded with smoke from woodstoves, a new round of fall colors, and a burst of mushrooms from the forest floor – rather than this faux summer we’ve been living through lately.
So far, looking back, the season started with a bang in August and then progressively got more difficult in terms of hooking fish – though, I must admit, some of the most satisfying days have been those with one or two good fish hooked. And difficult is not the right word – intense, maybe? If I had to talk about catching fish, it’s less of a number game and more of the cerebral quest of finding a piece of water, methodically working through it and being rewarded with one good fish. That seems to make the whole crazy thing worth it. I won’t argue with the fast and furious early season evenings – those are special times. But there is something to be said for the focused pace through a piece of water, getting the swing just right and, finally, on the 23rd cast, connecting with seven pounds of electrified wild steelhead and then finishing with nothing more than that. Of course, a single seven pound steelhead probably qualifies as a good day in most people’s ledgers around here. If it was all easy catching, that would soon get tiresome (I think), and if nothing were ever caught, then, well, that speaks for itself. It’s about landing somewhere in the middle which is, in practice, rarely enough.
I think the satisfying thing about it all so far is that I’ve managed to fish the water I just needed to fish, covered the water I wanted to fish and found a few new spots along the way. Best of all, the old water was revisited and fished in a new way this year. I think if the rain happens just right and the rivers come up about a foot or so, it will all start over again. Pause…
Sitting on a Rock in Late October
Find me along the river
Dreaming in golden afternoons
Telling of long summers
Not yet ended.
Find me holding you there
Lightly to a touch
We tell all those things
Seen along the way.
Will you still be here
With springtime?
April showers perhaps?
And scurry for cover
Under the mossy rock ledge?
Will you show me those places
Only you might see
on a starry night?
Maybe, then, we might forget
consuming our time.
What is this time?
How we found little blue flowers
Did you see them?
Hidden among the drying grass.
Or were you dreaming
While I crouched to trace
Little furrows in the sand
Casting long shadows
On a late October afternoon.
Emerald Velvet
A golden maple leaf
While falling
Tells the story
Of Spring, Summer, Autumn.
Dropping on yesterday’s wind,
Beneath clouds hanging low
Clouds hiding more mountains behind.
Soft hiss of light rain on water,
This river now whispers winter.
Down here
A quiet singing surrounds
Sounding like
Emerald velvet sliding
Over little slate pebbles.
Suicide dogs
The dogs lie in waiting during the dawn hours. A truck zipping by at 50 miles per hour constitutes fair game apparently. Twice they seemed to just miss the front tire. Maybe that was their version of success – game won. Crossing and walking down to the bottom of the north-south run at the corner another pack of dogs wandered by, sniffing the morning air -making the rounds of their turf. They were gone, my fingers were already turning numb by the time I worked out a first cast – fish on! A feisty half pounder landed. The sun had not begun to clear the ridge yet, the river was steaming off its accumulated heat, and the fish were right were they were supposed to be. Everything was working.
A couple of missed grabs (that coulda been the ONE) here and there, a few more half pounders to hand, and I decided to try the wade across to the East-West Run: Steelhead Shangri-La. In some years the wade isn’t doable. At the crossing point the river crosses back to the near side cutting a slot along the willows with some sunken wood tangles thrown in to roughen things up a bit. My first try was denied – the slot was too deep. Moving farther up, I found I could cross by wading straight across past the slot, then straight downstream, then angle down and across to complete the mostly deep wade. I’d have to remember the precise path coming back – and a long push of water wading upcurrent – else I’d catch the slot and get swept into the woody tangles and add to the growing pile of human carcasses that accumulates underneath the willows each year.
This was a source of some concern. However, arriving at the top of the run I could only notice that it was better than ever. What was nearly the perfect piece of steelhead fly water has subtly shifted to become, well, nearly perfect steelhead fly water. That’s the thing with steelhead fishing and defining “good” water. There’s all types of good water out there, and better yet, many variations on “perfect” water. Just when you think you’ve found mecca, a better place likely lies just around the next bend.
Some things were still the same here, though. Near the top, there is a rough line of boulders or bedrock along the far bank that creates a wonderful fast water lie. And it was along the face of these boulders that my ruminations and reminscings came to a halt. A big halt. The swing just stopped and I came fast into a cartwheeling adult. It all happens so hard and fast that describing the sequence of actions that happen from cast to hook set would just be guesses.
I finally managed to work a hatchery adult to the bank, snap a quick picture and send it on its way – hopefully to feed a hungry anglers family. I’m not a big fan of the large numbers of steelhead and salmon that the hatchery cranks out – a whole host of issues. Not the least of which are the thousands of anglers who travel to fish the upper reaches below the hatchery. Up there the river is small, narrow and, in my mind, one long extension of the hatchery holding tank. Steelhead fishing at its finest. Oh boy. But here I am, happy to be swinging flies and hooking a hatchery steelhead.
Hypocrisy?
Probably. Definitely.
Somewhere around ten, just as the river was starting to turn into an aquarium and the first gentle breeze was rustling the leaves, the off switch was hit and I left with the one adult and a dozen or so half pounders. I need to get to work on some flies for this fast, shallow and clear water – my fly wallet has a few voids that need filling.
Shaken Rain 