Can I hold your gaze a moment longer?
So I can fall into that place
Of your soft light.
Might I hold your gaze?
Then would you laugh
If you knew my thinking?
Would I find you there,
All of this
So close to me?
Just let me hold your gaze
And tell me what you see
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.
[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!]
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All along the coast
Great mountains rise
Up from Oceans
Falling from volcanoes
Rainier, Hood, Shasta
Just a few
And all those little creeks
Collecting water from the ocean
Pushing mountains back to the sea
Returned to their birthplace
Atop mountains carved by glaciers
Covered in lava
Shaken by earthquakes
Landslides, floods and droughts
Such a brittle country
Who would ever find a home
Here?
That little creek,
Here today
Going away with the mountain
Some great geologic clock
Returning all to the sea
Then upheaved, scraped and shaken again
And again from before our time
To well past our place
Who would ever be here?
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.
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."
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.
Shaken Rain 