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.
My finger still aches from the tear of dry fly line through the crease of my index finger as a fish grabbed hold. Another fish that I lost. I’ve entered the frustrating season. The first adult steelhead came unbuttoned as I was walking it to the bank. The second adult sang the reel, cartwheeling along the way only to break off far across the river. There’s NO EXCUSE for that. Operator error. I was saying dam…dam…dam… over and over again. Shuddering in my frustration. Then there were the long slow pulling grabs on the deep swing – I know those grabs – but I will never know what exactly was at the end of the line. A victim of missed fish. Again.
My new Spey Company reel provides a solid, workman-like click to outbound fish. The singing reel on two lost adult steelhead provided a bit of soothing solace to a day marred with frustration.
The wind stayed manageable after the brief rain swept through in the morning and early afternoon and the bite seemed best in the early afternoon. The run was full of porpoising salmon, so that kept it entertaining. Overall, it was a slow day – three passes through and a couple of grabs each time with a few halfpounders to hand. Grabs seemed few and far between. As the afternoon started to fade into early evening, things went slack and I headed for the barn a bit earlier than usual. But it will go down in my memory as a good day since memories have that way of compressing away all the slow times and shining on the moments of excitement. Two years from now it will be an afternoon of non-stop activity when, in fact, more than once I was on the verge of heading to other water. If it wasn’t for the fellow dawdling along the bank upstream where I wanted to cross, I would have left sooner and missed my opportunity with the two adult fish.
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.
The road rounds the bend dropping into the valley. From this view much of the river can be seen. The late afternoon wind still ripples the calmer water at the bottom of the Campbell Run. If I were to drive to the waters edge there, I would be greeted by the hot winds and I could stare into the clear water and see every stone. Yet I know this place will come alive once the sun has gone behind the mountain and the crickets start chirping.
Along the road a few of the maples show their weariness of summer with curling leaves, maybe a hint of yellow here and there. It’s just too hot right now. If I drive beyond the valley and through the gorge, the wind will pick up- drawn from the sea to feed all this heat and rising air. Today, the water just seems to run down to the sea only to escape the heat. The urgency isn’t here yet – it’s just not time. Driving on, I remember the place where we pulled off to let Greg dispose of his “sack” – he’d been quietly puking the entire, wild drive over the windy dirt road. The gas tank had a pinhole leak somewhere near him that flooded the backseat with wretchedness. But we had to get somewhere.
Now I can stare into the water and see everything – like looking into another’s eyes and seeing their soul – the color of the rocks, the small fish that hold in the current. In a few months it will be a different river, and I might decide, again; this is not the place to be. In a few months I may well not be able to peer into that same soul – now harboring secrets that are surrendered only slowly and with gentle persistence. And I may not find the patience for them to surface – because I have to get somewhere. And this becomes the challenge; balancing an ever-hoped for patience with the knowledge there might be something else just around the next bend. Sometimes none of it ever works- the patience isn’t there, the next bend isn’t just right, and I just keep looking for that just-right somewhere. But sometimes it all comes together – usually unexpectedly – despite all my best planning and scheming – suddenly realizing that I’m right where I need to be at just the right time and nothing more is needed. That’s usually when it happens best.
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?
About every nine days or so, the tides line up just right so that the bottom of a big outgoing tide lines up with sunset (plus or minus). I guess you could cut this cycle in half if you included the early morning as well – which can also be productive, but requires an early rise. As the tide runs out, and approaches its bottom, all of the suspended algae has been flushed out of the estuary and, for a few hours, the normally trickling river runs like a much bigger river. If the wind dies off in the late afternoon, the ingredients are in place. If a wall of fog comes crashing across the estuary about that time, then it’s icing on the cake.
Sight fishing for steelhead is the game. Most of the time they will be moving, giving themselves away with a distinct wake. Often, there is a lead fish with more, sometimes many more, behind and underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever hooked one of these pass-by fish. However, there are moments when the fish will station up in the outgoing tide and hold. Often they will give themselves away with just the tip of a tail pushing out of the water, or the subtlest swirl – these fish can be biters! I will go down there ten times, and maybe once all four things will come together: wind, tide, light level, and holding fish. If you can fool one on the fly, these are arguably the hottest fish on the planet at that very moment – screaming line of reels and ending up across the river before you even knew what happened.
I spent one morning casting to several fish swimming in a slow circle, the size of bathroom, say, occasionally showing themselves with a fin or subtlest of wakes. It was probably just like the ‘daisy chain’ that mating tarpon are known to form. Finally, after about an hour of careful casting (did I say that they were spooky in the low, clear water?) a fish grabbed and was instantly into my backing and cartwheeling hundreds of feet across the way before I could gather myself and restart my heart.
These fish are amazing and while the chance of hooking up can be extremely low, these fish, when hooked, are nothing short of powerful. The saving grace to all of this, is that the esatuary is a fantastically beautiful place to be while the sun sets – covering everything in honey-colored light if the fog stays away. If the fog comes in, the place becomes an eerily dark, quiet piece of water fading into grayness. Shorebirds usually dance along the flats at low tide adding to the amusement.
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.
Shaken Rain 