Sometimes, we bug chuckers need to fish. We do not care if it's convenient. We do not care if our schedules or day-planners agree. Ultimately, we do not even care if the fishing is particularly good. We need to fish, and wetting a line is all that matters.
Such was the case yesterday. We knew the river was low, and had been low since the summer. We read the reports, and knew that few steelhead were coming to hand. We knew that gear-slinging chuckleheads would likely line both banks of every likely hole and run along the river's entire length. We knew that if we were measuring our success by counting fish in the net, we would likely leave the water both exhausted and disappointed. We didn't care. We needed to fish. Our suicide run began at 2:30 a.m. with the two and a half hour drive to the river, and ended twelve hours later when we drank our victory beer.
We thank the river gods for bestowing upon us their benevolence and largesse.
There are few experiences a bug chucker may have that are quite as sweet as that first (or second, or third, or ...) steelhead of the season.