Yesterday, on my way back from a field trip to the south, I was toying with the lines of a poem. It was solidly late afternoon, with a dipping sun coloring the dried, grassy hills a buttery hue. The temperature was about right, with the window down and it felt like this might be one of the last real summer days.
The light moves across a life gone easy.
That was yesterday. Since a Sunday river trip was in order, and since life seemed solidly in the good zone… a routine trip would yield a few routine steelhead, thus rounding out an exceptional weekend in this life gone easy. You can see where this is leading…
The salmon have arrived BIG TIME and in the water around Little Argentina they were showing two, three or more at a time. I knew they were in when I pulled up to the water, an otherwise calm early afternoon, with gentle waves rippling the surface from fish porpoising throughout the long, slow water. A black bear scampered away down the far bank. But the sun beat down hard and warm and despite two passes through I could only manage one decent fish that parted ways on a great tarpon-like leap. It looked to be 18 inches or so, putting it in the super-pounder zone. That was all I could muster save for a few juveniles that I was able to release by throwing a loop into the line and hopefully minimizing any trauma.
I packed it up and went up to lower-most Ice Cream where the same story (minus grabbing fish) played out as the first shadows crossed the far bank. The bottom of this run, if not the top, is usually dependable for a mystery tug or two (like last year’s freight train that snapped me off before I could even put a bend in the rod). Nothing doing.
Down to Stuarts to try the semi-fishy tail water and cross over to the bridge riffle. Maybe one decent tug – maybe.
I should have left later and focused on an evening outing, but it is what it is…. One of those fish-off-the-bite days, but more importantly, I was off the bite. I had too many things whirling around my head and just wasn’t as dialed in as I could have been. Often, it seems that when things are clicking, there is a synergy of angler and river – it all seems to come together just like it was supposed to be. It just wasn’t there today. In short, I was out of synch.
Maybe I was taking it all for granted, not really wanting it enough. After all, I did leave the house thinking I should stay put, do some chores, maybe get downtown and socialize a bit. The river felt like more of an obligation – I just might miss something if I don’t go. Having said that though, I was thinking today that I hadn’t fished enough so far this year and that it was passing me by. Nothing new for me. I always do well early on, have a lull day or two, think I’ve missed it all, only to arrive at some other end, in a paradise world of fall, first rain and an entirely new place. Today felt more like getting whisked up and swept along, so then, maybe the next stop is where I arrive.
The couch potato fishing schedule. Usual Sunday morning Americano and paper at Brio to start the day, whip up a brunch at home, and leisurely contemplate a trip inland. Scattered thunderstorms in the forecast could make for an interesting afternoon. A routine drive contemplating which piece of water to work first. Rig up at house-sized boulder and fish it down to sea monster without even a grab. Started out with a large “special hackle” spey fly then switched over to a smaller more subdued coot spider. Nothing doing.
The big riffle was occupied so that made the decision easy. Although I like having the river to myself, and I often do, sometimes finding someone on a favorite run takes away some of the decision-paralysis. Head up to town and do a pass through the hotel run – a fellow across the river is blaring his radio and tending to his pot garden on the terrace above the river. It wafts down to the river, but the breeze soon kicks up to carry it all upstream, including much of the radio blare. I nab a small adult right in the dependable seam where they always are, but lose it after a bit. I see another, or possibly the same, adult splash in the same spot, but can’t dupe it on numerous casts and flies. Two missed grabs and the afternoon breeze turns full tilt.
I pack it up and wander down to the super secret tailout water. After this afternoon, I think I am officially dubbing it Little Argentina… wide open, expansive water and a relentless breeze that kicks whitecaps up the river and through the heart of the best water. It requires a long, deep wade over numerous sneaker boulders, then hunkering down, facing the wind head on, and pumping water loaded overhead casts right into the teeth of it. Sometimes the casts fail miserably, but it’s just part of this place. You either resolve to go at it head on, or get your ass kicked and whimper off to some sheltered leisure water. You won’t know until you try and today was one of those near ass kicking days, where you just have to suck it up, snarl right back at it and put forth your best into the maelstrom.
I cock my index finger on the line to feel any grabs in the chop and try to keep the tip up a bit to avoid the wind waves slapping at the tip. In any conditions, this is subtle water, but is ALWAYS good for at least grabbing fish, if not fish to hand. And the fish here are always showy, so there is usually something to keep me dialed into the water. One of my biggest adults came out of this water – water that many boats will pass by because it just doesn’t have that textbook setup to it. But look closer and all the ingredients are there: chest deep water moving at a fast walking pace over a coarse bottom. But put a little wind on top of it and it goes largely unnoticed by most. True to form, it lives up to its dependability and a half dozen fish are either landed or LDR’d.
No adults to hand today, but that’s what next time is for. Today was definitely work to get fish: maybe it’s the full moon? Two weeks ago, fish were on the grab, not so much today. I call it an early day as the sun sinks into a hazy sky and the farthest edges of thunderheads borne out over the Trinities reach out west and north in tendrils to dampen to light. A special evening on tap, no doubt, but I got what I came for, avoided a butt kicking, and there is always the promise of next time.
On the walk out of Little Argentina I scavenged the river margins and found a couple of “special hackles” that will make fine new spey flies for the next outing… And in town two elderly ladies set up a table selling the ripest, sweetest figs off their trees – weighed on a rusty old Montgomery Wards scale that really doesn’t do much weighing anymore and a price is agreed to more by sight than anything the scale might tell.
The afternoon wind never quite makes it today. And it’s warm … really warm for this coast-bound wader. It never really dawned on me to make the dash over the hill any earlier. I got off work, the idea of being on the water for nightfall stuck in my head and a mad dash to the sweet water on the middle river. Fishing before 6:00pm. One cast to get the line out, and the next three casts with two fish to hand – big, sassy half pounders pushing past the 18″ mark – I think Dr. Welch called them “super pounders” when he first told me in 1986. Ten more casts and eight missed grabs or fish to hand … all the while a bright, hot sun glaring down. Throw in a few long, slow mystery grabs along the way. The fish-per-cast statistic, while sounding impressive, only really reflects my cheating by dropping right down into the bucket first thing. I’ll save the rest for dusk.
It’ll really be a swell evening, I think. I swing a long, wispy spider though the surface and watch a fish boil on it.
Then the transition happens, the sun dipping over the ridge, and somewhere after that, over the great horizon far off at sea. The crickets, frogs, caddis and bats all ramp up in song and flight. Curiously, the fish taper off to near nothing as darkness falls. This is not the first time this has happened here .. actually it seems to happen all the time here. Why is it that this place fishes so well from about mid-afternoon until evening then dies off? Surely, it’s not me taking another pass through? Regardless, the river at the witching hour is an ultra-sensory experience – bats swoop for a slow-cast fly, crickets and frogs rise and fall in mysterious unison and caddis zig-zag inches above the water. Nothing sums it all up better, except for the arc of an adult steelhead just as darkness descends and the woods behind me crackle with bears coming out for fresh black berries along the river bar. Not tonite….
Drag through the film and see the water boil ... about as simple a tie as any, and probably the most effective...Bats catch the camera flash at dark
To hell with summer, the best time right now is 1:00 pm standing waist deep on the far side, hoping for that elusive early afternoon grab time. If we’re lucky the wind will tail off at sunset after a painful, frustrating, almost enraging wait for a quiet evening after a late afternoon lull.
That damned wind….
But then it all goes away, the light fades and the river erupts to life in a cacaphony of frogs, crickets, skittering bats, bears crashing somewhere off in the black woods and splashing fish.
Teeming.
Stand, listen and it all becomes a crazy, pulsing choir sung at some hipster-gone-bad church on the river where god’s nothing more than snot-slick cobblestone … and just as it all seeps into the inky blackness of night, the silver flash of adult steelhead can barely be seen arcing through the once quiet water.
At least that’s the way I remember it.
Swing the long hackles over a known adult lie on the third pass through as night is about to run you off the riverDurable, dependable and deceptive. If there was a generic brand fly, there'd be a simple white box full of these with black letters: "STEELHEAD FLIES - Use With Caution"
In mid-afternoon, the wind fails to materialize and the bluff provides a view across an immense, lush underwater garden. The water, lots of it, moves silently through beds of bright green aquatic vegetation. Here and there, fish hold down deep, next to the protective cover of the weed beds, sometimes jockeying for position, but mostly just sitting, almost motionless. Now the river is open and exposed, almost empty looking and untantalizing. Off to the side a small fish noisily splashes after something, a fallen ant, or maybe just the hint of a bug hovering overhead. Except for the splash of that fish, or maybe an upset duck, the water doesn’t make a sound. It just goes about its downhill slide like it always has. How so much moving water can be so silent… Siesta time on a big spring creek.
I’m thinking of compiling a bunch of stanzas over the course of the summer, each being a separate evening on the river, and see where it goes. Of course, that begs the question when does summer begin and end! So here’s an introduction, maybe, followed by a recent evening. We’ll see how this pans out – guess I better spend some time on the water in the evening!
.
The smell of river hangs in the trees.
Dangling on the buzzing songs,
Of birds and bugs.
Heaps of them
Appeared just yesterday!
.
The days don’t seem long,
But they stretch beyond August now,
What they will soon call the dog days.
.
Now, we have frog days,
That linger into this night,
An evening of cricket thickets,
Water noises and screeching night birds.
.
A pulsing choir to send us on our way.
.
Last night, a sudden and certain pause:
Sprays of lightning danced overhead,
crackling off in every direction.
And the last bit of setting sun,
Spilled golden light underneath everything,
Casting a rainbow over the far bank.
May31.
And now the rain, showery waves
Wavering by day, singing lullabies by night
This is the rain you were warned about
Where picnics run and hide
And chefs delight in warm dishes from the hearth.
Sustaining, despite our cries for ice cream
and secret swimming holes at the ends of dirt roads.
July 11.
Afternoon hangs on here,
Like a cruel gift of time
For people who never give up.
August 4.
Just for a moment,
Afternoon sneaks in a rattling breeze
Shaking little poems from the leaves
Giggling like children passing secrets
In a playground, just before the bell rings.
October 26.
Maybe summer exhales in the evening now,
More likely an afternoon,
When sun and light and water play
For just a while, before it all quiets down
But maybe, just maybe,
Summer might tell one last quiet bedtime story.
Late February, like it always seems to do, ushers in the bitter cold of arctic winter with snow all over. I don’t really recall wrestling with any “decision” this go ’round – I had a gathering to attend and the river happened to be on the way, along with snow, more winter, and the barest hint of spring given away by longer days and the buds of streamside willows. Dropping down into the valley, the horizon is sprawled with black clouds, streaking virga, and the intimate play of morning light across everything: somehow, the nastiest of the weather is not here, only suggested in the vistas of snowclad lowlands and restless looking skies.
The only decision is where. And I replay the fantasy of the long, slow bottom half of the Anderson run where the conditions seem set up for surface feeding fish, easy wading and the good promise of solitude. If not this fantasy then the riffle at the bottom is ever dependable. This is the piece of water that might take me five years to catch a fish in the way that I dream about on long, rainy coast-bound nights. I can always catch fish here, but there’s something about the “situation” that you find yourself catching fish in that makes it somehow intensely, cerebrally satisfying.
Let me jump to the punch line: it was on the minute I approached the water. But wait – even this takes some understanding. You see, these fish don’t give themselves away so easily. Oh sure, you’ll see a fish rise here, maybe there. But just stop. Stop, breathe, listen, look. Then it comes alive. The fish sip in emerging baetis or some other small, olive mayfly with gentle, purposeful, ultra-efficient movements. The biggest fish give themselves away with the flick of a very large tail barely slicing through the surface. Some fish work the edge of the moving water where the flow is easy. More fish delicately nose through the calf-deep shallows of the margins picking off bugs that wash into this forgotten realm. A few caddis take flight, the water is colored pewter with the black clouds painting an electric energy across everything. The fish, the bugs all seem to agree. There is a loud, urgent and anxious rhythm established when the bugs are emerging heavily, the fish are feeding and the weather is vibrating.
So it’s dream fishing – knee deep water, big, spooky trout, but not overly selective. Colorful, rotund rainbows that pull line from reels and make you want to talk in whispers like they might hear your cries of delight. One after the other. Later on, in early afternoon, the caddis emergence kicks in following a brief snow squall. A bald eagle watches from the top of a snag across the river – wondering who this curious critter is, on knees, hunched over in inches of water, casting to snouts and tails with intense abandon. Swaths of sun, rainbow, silver and gold color the scene. The baetis alternate with the caddis and at one point I just step back and watch the parade of bugs littering the water, floating silently down. Tails, snouts, splashes all add to the ongoing rhythm, uninterrupted by a flash of lightning and thunderclap.
I can’t say the “bar has been set” or “this is as good as it gets,” rather, this is the culmination of five years of work, patience and observation. I’ll be back soon, to find myself in an entirely new situation and reveling in the simple fact that it is bound to be different. It’s why I fish – if it were the same every time… well, that would be a different story, I suppose.
It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything fish related – anything at all, for that matter. To that end, I thought I would get down in the weeds with steelhead.
As usual, a difficult decision hung over a potential outing for Sunday:
Option 1: Travel inland where big rainbows would likely be surface feeding on emerging baetis on the wide waters during the early afternoon. The weather forecast supported this option with warm cloudy skies and a chance of rain with calm winds. More forecasted rain would have been nice for the baetis, but, still, the prospects looked good. I had done this trip last month and was satisfied all around with the day. It’s just an ideal fix, a little taste of summer in the middle of winter. What could be better than the chance at a 20″ rainbow on a small dry fly? well….
Option 2: Travel south to a certain secret Lost Coast river in hopes of connecting with a wild steelhead on a deeply swung fly. Despite most other rivers being unfishably high, the gage showed this river at ideal levels. I was a little skeptical of the gage – we had just come off a significant peak flow two weeks ago, so the gage might be off. Yet, looking back, the tell-tale signs of a gage re-adjustment were showing on the graphs – so I had most every reason to believe the displayed flows were accurate – save for all the surrounding rivers being too high. It would be a bit of a gamble. And if it was right on, wouldn’t half the county be there fishing?
These decisions are not made lightly. Every possible aspect is weighed and revisited while trying to fall asleep with still no plan.
I arrived at option #2 early the next morning. The rain forecast for inland had been trimmed back more – pulling it a tad farther away from ideal than I wanted. Plus, it was really mild overnight – perfect for coastal rivers and their fish. Off we go with spey rod in hand…
Describing the “perfect” water color for coastal stream steelhead fishing is a fun intellectual exercise, but, in reality, it either is “sweet”, “not quite”, or “blown.” The first look at the river usually produces one of these responses. A blown river is pretty straightforward – keep driving, find something else to do, or go home. Not quite water is usually a recipe for a fruitless day. It’s the type of water that doesn’t call to you. You have to go to it. Sweet water is rarely debated. It is mysteriously green – just clear enough to reveal a glimpse at a secret underwater world, but dark enough to be mysterious and engaging. Green water draws you to it. You can’t just pass by it. When you walk up to it, the water beckons closer inspection. Lighter-colored rocks are visible in the deeper runs, maybe. It’s the color of water that seems to match the body of a steelhead perfectly. The bottom is full of ghostly shadows, movements and colors. The thing with perfect water is that it gets even better after a day or two. What’s perfect one day is even better the next and so forth until one day it’s suddenly too clear – just like that – or the rain kicks up again and the whole process starts over again.
The other challenge is trying to find the water that is optimally fishable with heavy sinktips and weighted flies. These are usually the broader runs and slots. I don’t want to rule out the narrower chutes and deeper pools, and many more accomplished folks will fish these as easily as any other water. But, for me, finding that wider water, where the bottom wells up in gentle slicks along the surface and maybe fans out a bit before reaching the next riffle is the ideal. Take this water and litter the bottom with larger cobbles and smaller boulders, with stripes of sandy gravel between, and an afternoon could be spent probing it’s depths. For me the challenge is finding the right pace of fishing through the run before I get bored of it, but being able to cover it entirely. I could exhaust myself refining each swing so that a new piece of bottom is covered before I even take a step. If I fish through too fast, I don’t cover the water. If I fish too slow, I get antsy and lose my focus in critical water. Therein lies part of the challenge: with water this good, it ALL looks critical. So the fishing becomes a waltz between intuition, persistence, and being able to just move on. When in new water, there is the temptation to fish too fast through great water thinking that even better water lies around the next bend, which may or may not be true. Then there is the dilemma of the surfacing fish in difficult water. The splashy chromer in that fast, deep trough may draw more time and energy than would otherwise be alloted to such marginally fishable water. Here, fishable being a deep, slow swing. Not that it can’t be done….
Finally it all comes together in a piece of water that just seems designed for a marriage between steelhead and fly. The notion that better water lies around the next bend is still there, but this is the type of water that seems to evoke some forgotten memory of being taught what “perfect” water is. The swing is perfect, the water itself seems somehow apart from the rest of the river. This little piece has been set aside to a place where time gets thrown out, intuition and persistence merge and the game is on.
Fresh winter steelhead don’t always attack with ferocious abandon – that say a late winter/early spring runback might do, or a warm water fall fish. It’s that stop in the middle of a swing covering nearly the same water for the third time. This aint no rock. Rather, it’s all about that first lift of the rod into a blur of deeply pulsing rod, knuckle-busting reel, and a split-second mental hesitation – is this for real? It can happen that fast, and when the fish holds; the water, the river, the landscape suddenly opens up. For me, it then becomes not finding some philosophical essence to the moment, rather, it’s all about adrenaline. It’s the stuff that leaves us shaking. After releasing such a fish, we might find ourselves walking a bit taller, speaking a bit more confidently and just feeling all around satisfied about everything. It’s the stuff that will carry with us for a day or two, maybe a week? Then, that critical urge will rise up again. And a decision will be at hand.
Even from far away, the calling of sweet water can usually be felt. With this view, there was no question.We can debate perfection, but that's just it - even perfect water can get better. Wild winter steelhead on a swinging fly.Mirror to another dimension
Nothing like the free-feeling of a Sunday afternoon spent on the river; a river empty of angler folk but full of fish. Fished Slate Creek, the bridge run and the super secret tailout water all with a steady pick of half pounders on a cool, cloudy afternoon. Took advantage of a water temperature drop to below 20C. First adult came to hand and adds to my small, but growing list of adult steelhead landed before September 1. Called it quits before evening set in, as the cool winds kept at it and the evening began to fizzle out on the heels of the afternoon. Will try it again mid-week as it warms back up and returns to summer for a more classic evening jaunt. Stay tuned….
Darkness sets in on arguably some of the best steelhead fly fishing on the planet this time of year ... all whipped to a frustrating froth by a wind that refused to ease up at sunset.
Right on schedule … mark calendars … Fall has begun and now is the time to convene at the river…
All the willow trees, blackberry bushes and dried grasses are almost the same as last summer. Except the blackberry crop this year is late, owing to the late rain and cool summer. This probably also explains the lack of algae along the rocks in the faster sections of river; the streamflows were likely high and fast enough into the summer to preclude the development of slippery substrates through much of the faster moving water. In places, the river bed is stunningly clear. Water quality is correspondingly improved as well (except for temperatures which are their usual late summer stressful levels). The relatively stable footing on the clean riverbed is an entirely new sensation for these parts at this time.
Right on time, as in years past, a weak front moved through yesterday moderating water temperatures and raising hopes of a windless afternoon. No such luck. The winds were strong and unabating into the evening making Slate Creek a “wind whipped hellhole” as I was prone to calling it long after the sun had sunk below the ridge. Despite this, the fish did come on the bite as darkness started creeping in. All half-pounders, with a back-to-back hookup at one point. Maybe four fish to hand and a few more LDR’d on a floating line. Very difficult conditions in the wind to control line, swing and patience. Regardless the fish are here. Did a quick pass through house-sized and sea-monster early with nothing. No fish showing on top at Slate Creek until near darkness, but difficult to see and hear in the wind-stirred froth. Now, from here on out, it’s all a matter of watching water temperatures, prospecting windless afternoons and reminding the boss that I will be scarce until at least November. All social and domestic obligations will be thrown aside. The time has come to convene at the river…
Shaken Rain 