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…
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.
The early birds were out this morning.
A steamy morning despite the numb fingers.
Once again, doing my part to mitigate the effects of excessive hatchery production.
Sunrise = good + bad. Good: end to numb fingers. Bad: bite winding down.
Moving back towards the basics. Forgoing the married wings and collar. Coot, pheasant rump, alpaca and a tail of woodduck with flat tinsel and counterwrapped oval tinsel to hold all in place.
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
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 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.
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.
Diced tomatoes and a wee bit of sliced garlic tossed with olive oil, basil leaves, pepper and sea salt provides the perfect little pick-me-up on the river. Looking upstream from the tailout - a smoky sky and lots of wide open flat water. I will probably return here to better learn the water that lies behind where I stand.
Looking upstream from the North-South run, a thickening storm at sunset paints a mid-October sky. Back home, they thought we were just goofy boys playing with fish. To those who knew, who really knew, they could tell you…
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.
Photos do little here. The air heavy with the sweet, syrupy aroma of late summer black berries, still in tee-shirt, the night bugs just starting to sing, and an adult steelhead just released... add in a half dozen half pounders - Does it get much better than this?
I bailed out from an evening on the town with a pretty yound lady to chase rumours of a windless afternoon over the hill. The wind was manageable when I got there, then proceeded to &*%#ing howl. As the sunset over the hill, the wind lapsed for about 30 seconds and I thought that would be the start of a pleasant evening. Nothing doing. You could hear the big whoosh coming up the canyon before you ever felt it. Fishing in the wind is hardly ever the ideal situation. If it’s steady, you can adapt the casting stroke and manage it all fairly well. However, where I was at – a kink in the canyon where the wind funnels through a neck and turns more to the northeast – it came through in pulsing, swirling waves. The riffle at the downstream end of the run would cast a showery mist into the air with each new push of wind.
I did manage my casting fairly well – with some unseen blunders – and managed three half pounders to hand and a few missed grabs. A slow evening – maybe I should have reconsidered my priorities and stuck to the evening-on-the-town plan, but at least I got it out of my system – for a couple of days at least.
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.
A truckload of rocks gathered along the river.Looking upstream from halfway through the run as the sun slips behind the last hill - signaling the onset of the witching hour.Swinging through the honey pot of the run at just about the right time. It was here, my fly hanging on the dangle, that I was caught daydreaming by a freight train.
Shaken Rain 