On the Salmon River, Common Sense, and Watching a Friend Die

You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to. - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler, On Grief and Grieving

I first wet a line in New York's, Salmon River nearly twenty years ago. Shawn Brillon - a dear friend who now works for Montana Fly Company and calls home Columbia Falls, Montana - introduced me to the water, the region, and some of the people who once frequented its banks. Our first trip was one I'll never forget but not because I caught my first steelhead. I did not catch a steelhead on that trip or even on my next trip. In fact, I did not catch my first steelhead for several years after Shawn first dragged me to the river; I was a most reluctant passenger. Instead, that first trip left an indelible impression because the whole experience was so unlike anything I had ever encountered.

Until the day Shawn first took me to the salmon-centric towns of Altmar and Pulaski, my fly fishing had been relegated to the days between April 1st and September 30th, which at the time marked the length of New York's regular trout season. In those days, I chased trout and smallmouth bass. Occasionally, I'd wet a line for panfish or carp. I fished when the weather made for a comfortable day of fishing; winter run steelhead were completely off my radar. 

Winter fishing seemed an aberration. Why would any bug chucker, who by my juvenile understanding was most concerned with dry flies and rising trout, willingly consent to fish in the middle of a lake-effect snow storm?  What was a Korker? How in God's name was I supposed to cast half an ounce of lead on a 10', single-handed rod? At the time, spey rods were as foreign to me as camel racing and switch rods had yet to be born. What the hell was Estaz, and why would any self respecting, out-sized trout eat something I might otherwise hang on my Christmas tree?    

I remember being wholly miserable for most of that first trip. I was nauseated from the three hour drive to the river (Shawn drives far too slowly and indulges in the brake pedal far too much for my tender constitution to bear). Several hours with my lower extremities submerged in the near frozen, gelatinous currents left me in what must have been the early stages of hypothermia; no doubt a consequence of my own ignorance, inadequate clothing, and the brutal November storm that drove freezing rain into our faces on a near horizontal axis. At any point, I would have happily packed up, gone home, and never returned to what I thought may have been the final, frozen circle of Dante's, Inferno. And then Shawn hooked a fish.

Nearly twenty years have passed and I can still see ten pounds of platinum silhouetted against the blue-black slate lining the Salmon River's banks. The hen somersaulted from the water and cartwheeled twice before slamming back home with such force a passerby might reasonably have thought a pony had fallen from the sky and plunged into the pool. Nearly twenty years, and I can still see the fish and the smile on my friend's face.

Much has changed from then to now. Like many Salmon River anglers, I quickly graduated from running line and slinkies to floating line and indicators. Eventually, the bobbers (let's call them what they are) disappeared and my single-handed sticks were replaced with switch rods. In recent years, I've laid aside nymphs and eggs entirely. Now, I swing flies - some big, some small, all of them beautiful in their way - along the seams in which the river's steelhead reside.

Unfortunately, as my fishing has evolved the fishery itself seems to have devolved along a contrary arc. The past two seasons have been especially discouraging. By all accounts, salmon and steelhead returns have been somewhat diminished from their height in 2011 and 2012. Evidence for reduced numbers of returning fish is largely anecdotal, but far more disturbing than the possibility of a reduced return (which may happen for any number of reasons, be perfectly innocuous, and part of a normal cycle) is a confirmed steelhead die-off, which is in its second year and shows no signs of abating. Fisheries biologists claim the explosion in steelhead mortality is the result of a thiamine deficiency, which is in turn caused by a staple in the steelhead's diet: the alewife.

My most recent trip to the river drove home the implications of such a die off. After a full day on the water, I had only one tug. As my fly (a diminutive #6 purple heron) swung across the lip of a tailout, it was intercepted by a large steelhead intent on making a fool of me. In one instant I was into my backing, and in the next moment the fish was gone. Of course, one pull - on a swung fly over the course of an icy January day - is all any bug chucker can reasonably hope for. Most days, I would have left the river feeling quite content and satisfied with myself.

Instead, I spent the drive home thinking about the three dead or dying steelhead I saw drift past me as I worked my fly through the run. Eight hours. One hookup. Three dying fish, and two of them were hens. Plump, egg-heavy hens. What makes this especially unfortunate is that I've seen this death dance repeat itself on nearly every trip I've taken to the river over the past year. Lately, a day wading the Salmon River leaves me feeling like I'm watching a friend battle cancer, like I'm watching a friend die. The Salmon River has become a killing field.

So what's a bug chucker to do? I suppose it would be easy to turn a blind eye or to give ourselves over to despondency, but neither ignorance nor despair get us anywhere. Instead, I suggest we begin by using some common sense, but first let's be clear about something. The Salmon River that we all know and love, is an artificial fishery.

As its name implies, the Pacific salmon is indigenous to the left coast, not the Great Lakes. Kings were originally stocked and today exist in Great Lakes tributaries only so they might combat the invasive alewives that are at the heart of the steelhead's trouble. To be clear, the Salmon River's steelhead enter the river in the fall to feed on the eggs of the fish whose purpose is to feed on the fish that is killing steelhead. If this were a Star Trek episode, this would be the point when someone mentions a tear in the space-time continuum.

And this is where common sense comes into play. If we want the fishery, complete with all its artificiality, faults, and ironies, to survive and to flourish, then we need to help it along as best we can. Fewer fish means those remaining stocks are all the more precious, which means we need to become kinder, gentler anglers. I suggest we all agree to the following:

1. Let 'em go. There is no good reason to keep a steelhead when the future of the steelhead fishery is uncertain. Yes, it's legal. Yes, you can. You can also grind up a Budweiser bottle, mix it with hamburger, and feed the fatal mixture to your dog. But why would you (either drink Budweiser or feed a bottle to your dog)? It's a heartless thing to do. It's a douche move. Don't be a heartless douche. You love your dog, and you love your steelhead.
2. Keep 'em in the water. If you want to take a photo then make it a quick photo. If you need to weigh a steelhead because you think it might be a personal best, put the damn Boga grip on your net, weigh the fish in the net, and then - once you've revived and released the fish - subtract the weight of the net. I assume you're capable of simple math, and steelhead weren't made to be hung in the air from their bottom lip any more than you were. If you know a guide, please forward this to him.
3. Stop snagging 'em. Here, I am speaking foremost to my fellow bugchuckers, especially those who frequent the lower fly zone in Altmar. Some of you guys need to cut it out. You know you're lining fish. You know you're lifting them. You ... know ... it, and you know who you are. If a steelhead won't move to your fly or bait, then chances are good it hasn't the energy to survive a prolonged battle at the end of your line (perhaps as the result of a thymine deficiency). This may seem awfully preachy of me, perhaps even a little hypocritical given I've only been swinging flies for a few years, but for God's sake, challenge yourself. Fish in such a way as to give the fish an advantage. Be beyond reproach. All this leaves aside the fact that the LFZ has some beautiful swinging water if only people would rotate through the runs and fish them that way.
4. Preach on brother. Preach on. When you encounter someone riverside who's doing the wrong thing, encourage them to do the right thing. Model the correct behaviors, and if encouragement doesn't do the trick, then be abrasive. Call them out on their nonsense. I can guarantee they're more afraid of conflict than you are; they won't dare mess with someone who has the moral high ground. The same ego that pushes them to snag a fish is also their Achilles heel. They're not afraid of you, but they're terrified of being mocked by their friends and fellow bug chuckers. They're piscatorial pussies. Embarrass them. Shame them.  

The Great Salmon Dud of 2014 and Adam Touches a Boob

Anyone who fishes with regularity for Great Lakes steelhead (and yes ... they are steelhead ... I hope you choke on your pretension if you roll your eyes at the thought)  likely spends the better part of the summer in hopeful anticipation of the fall. Fall is when everything comes together for a steelheader. By late August or early September, the first of thousands of king and coho salmon will start to show in the lakes' tributaries, and by October the salmon run is usually on in earnest. Following the salmon - intent on gorging themselves on eggs and flesh - are the steelhead that sustain so many of us throughout our typically brutal northern winters. Unfortunately for our salmon fishing brethren, 2014 has been - relative to the past few years - a bit of a dud.

As I walked the banks of New York's Salmon River this past weekend, I was struck with a thought that I couldn't quite articulate. Something was missing, but for the better part of the day, I couldn't quite put together just what it was. There were fish - at least there seemed to be. There were fishermen - as many or perhaps more than I have ever seen along the river's banks. I just couldn't put it together; everything seemed to be as it should have been. Ben had the epiphany before I did.

"Smell that?"

"Smell what?"

"Exactly!"

It was the stink. That distinctive Salmon River stink was missing. In a normal October, the river is lined top to bottom and side to side with the putrefying carcasses of spawned-out kings and cohos. The stink - an aroma slightly reminiscent of swelling, sun blanched, fly infested, road slaughtered possum - permeates the air from the estuary upstream to the Brookfield dam. In a normal October, the stink hangs over everything and offers quiet reassurance that there are fish to be had. At this point in the year the stink is entirely absent.

If a bug chucker is looking for salmon then there are some salmon to be found, but actually finding them may take a little more work than usual. There are, however, plenty of steelhead, and this past weekend those steelhead were our saving grace. All three of us hooked a chromer. Ben lost his fish as a consequence of the insipid stupidity of one of the Salmon River's many f@#ktards. The fish took off on a downstream run in front of the f@#ktard and his group, and rather than move as courtesy and intelligence dictate, f@#ktard chose to remain in place. Ben's line drew across f@#ktard's legs and the fish was free. 

While this scenario was not unexpected - we were fishing the Salmon River on Columbus Day weekend after all - losing that first chromer of the season stings especially when the loss could have been avoided. For my part, I lost the steelhead I hooked because I'm a chucklehead. I wasn't paying attention in the moment that paying attention mattered most, and the fish took advantage of my day dreaming to demonstrate her superior focus and determination. So it goes.



Adam, however, remembered to take his Ritalin before we wadered-up, and he was alert and ready when a beautiful chromer of some 12 or 13 pounds decided to take his fly and run back into the lake. Fortunately, the fish only made it a hundred feet or so before being scooped up in the net.

 

As I snapped the photo of Adam and his fish I couldn't help but laugh quietly. There was something boyish about Adam's grin. He looked like my son looks when he asks one of his sisters to pull his finger. He looked like my students look when they ply me with cleverly contrived excuses for unfinished homework. He looked as I imagine I must have looked the first time I ever touched a woman's breast. 

 

He looked a little goofy.

 

And I suppose that's the charm of steelhead. Perhaps more than any other fish a bug chucker might chase, steelhead have a near preternatural ability to turn men into boys. In one moment we're husbands and fathers, teachers and tradesman, soldiers and veterans. In the next instant we're making fart jokes and burping the alphabet.

 

It's a wonder we catch anything at all.

*** More recent reports seem to contradict my own. True to form, we fished the river one day early. Both salmon and steelhead arrived in numbers the day after we visited Pulaski. ***

The Douglaston Salmon Run: An Unsolicited Review - Redux

As steelhead season creeps ever closer, I cannot help but think about the Salmon River and the water I hope soon to fish. Some of that water runs through the Douglaston Salmon Run, and in the coming weeks I'll likely end up fishing there once or twice. What follows is a review I wrote of the DSR some two years ago. I find my position hasn't changed so I thought I'd republish it for the sake of anyone who might be interested.

The Douglaston Salmon Run: An Unsolicited Review

Until recently, I found distasteful the notion of paying a fee to fish. I'm not entirely sure why, but I did. 

Perhaps it's my blue collar roots. I grew up in a household where my parents worked alternating shifts - often double shifts - and only rarely had more than a few dollars to show for their efforts. Paying to fish seems a waste when so much water - excellent water in fact - may be accessed for free.

Perhaps it's that uniquely American ideal that juxtaposes our love of free and open spaces with the honored tradition of the ownership and cultivation of private property. Certainly, these concepts are sometimes at odds.

Perhaps it is because this is the United States and not the United Kingdom. Our European bug-chucking brothers and sisters have for centuries been paying tuition and fees to fish. We yanks have never been comfortable with the idea.

Perhaps there is some small part of me that resents the opportunities of folks who have the financial means to enjoy the kind of fishing about which I'll only ever dream. I'll likely never climb the hills and mountains of New Zealand, or wade the flats off the coast of Belize. I'll never watch golden dorado herd bait through currents of a Bolivian river, and Costa Rican roosterfish will never chase my poorly tied flies. My jealousy is ugly and baseless, but I'd be something less-than-honest if I didn't admit to it just the same.

All this brings us to the Douglaston Salmon Run. For two reasons - at least to my way of thinking - the DSR has been a source of some controversy here in New York. Foremost, the resort limits access to its nearly two river miles of river frontage on what is arguably one of the best salmon and steelhead fisheries in the entire Great Lakes region, the Salmon River. The resort was also at the heart of a landmark legal case here in New York that - for all practical purposes - grants land owners rights of ownership (and therefore the ability to post and limit access) to the river that flows through their property. In other states, one can access rivers from any public access point (i.e. a bridge) and walk the bank along private land up to the river's normal high-water mark.

The Douglaston decision made possible the posting of land through which my home rivers flow, and as a consequence of my anger at having been refused access to water at home, I refused to pay to fish the DSR's private water when I visited the Salmon River. For all the aforementioned reasons, I was bitter about the DSR's posting of a piece of water that benefits from the public's tax dollars - in the form of a very successful hatchery program that stocks the river with both salmon and trout. For years, I abstained from some of the best and most interesting fishing on the river because I didn't want to pay for something that I thought should be free, and I was vocal in my opposition.

I don't know if I was necessarily right or wrong in any of my attitudes, but I can tell you that some of my preconceptions about the Douglaston were fundamentally flawed. Having spent the past three seasons wading with some frequency the DSR's water, I've come to realize a few things about the resort, its staff, clients, and its fishing.

First, the fishing on the DSR's property is arguably some of the best on the Salmon River. There are excellent angling opportunities throughout the fishery (my favorite runs are all on public water), but the DSR does have something that much of the rest of the river lacks.

Fresh fish.

Situated at the head of the Salmon River's estuary, the DSR's property is the first bit of river that many of Lake Ontario's salmon and trout will run as they make their way upstream to spawn. As a result, the fish in the low end of the watershed are often bright silver and energized to the point of being electrified. This is true for the river's king salmon as much as it is its steelhead. I find that fresh, silver fish simply fight harder than their river-darkened brothers and sisters, and bringing a bright fish to hand is just a little bit more gratifying than catching a fish that has seen the fishery's entire length.

For the past several seasons, the Douglaston Salmon Run has maintained a policy of no-kill on trout throughout the property's length. Much of the rest of the river has liberal daily limits on trout and salmon. As a consequence, fish are often killed well before they've a chance to spawn. My secret hope is that the DEC will institute no-kill regulations on wild fish that haven't a clipped adipose fin, but until legistlators and regulators demonstrate the courage to enact such a rule, the Douglaston's policy is a step in the right direction for the fishery and its anglers.

We should note that the DSR is in many ways a microcosm of the larger river system. The Douglaston's property contains any type of water one might hope to fish: classic runs and glides, green-black pools, heavy riffles and pocket water. Whether one nymphs or swings, there is a place on the DSR to do whatever it is one likes to do, and the quality of the fishing hints at what could be possible throughout the entire system if similar, enlightened regulations were adopted river wide.

Fishing aside, the DSR's staff does a fine job of maintaining its facilities and trails, which provide for easy access to any of the resort's 12 or 15 distinctly named runs and holes. While there is something to be said for having to bushwhack one's way to a stream, there is likewise something to be said for being able to take a leisurely stroll along the bank, and the older I get the more appreciate the stairway that leads from the Douglaston's main parking lot, down to the water. 

And what of the 800 pound gorilla in the room? What about the cost? Season passes (unlimited access to DSR property from opening in mid August to closing in mid May) run $450.00, and Steelhead Season passes (unlimited access to DSR property from mid November to closing in mid May) cost $300.00. Both season pass holders also receive free daily passes to be used by the pass holders' guests whenever they together visit the property (limited guests per pass).

Upwards of $300.00 too steep a price to pay? I have to say that with three kids at home and all that entails, the price of a season pass - even the less costly steelhead season pass - is a little too much for me. My wife would argue that I don't need to pay for fishing when there is so much public water - and good public water at that - to fish free of charge. She would be right to make that argument.

But to access the DSR's property, we need not pay hundreds of dollars for a season pass. Instead, we may opt to purchase a daily pass for which the Douglaston charges $45.00. Forty-five dollars? I know. I do. I found it as hard to swallow as you do, but then a friend who frequents the DSR - and has for several years - explained to me his way of thinking.

How much do we pay to go to a concert or to see a film? How much do we pay for a tank of gas or a meal at our favorite restaurant? What's a round of golf cost these days? How about a gallon of milk, a bottle of water, or a six pack of a small batch IPA? The point is that we spend our money in myriad ways, and never think twice about the real cost of things. When observed through the prism of value, I think the price of a daily pass on the DSR is more than reasonable.

      

Before you begin to wonder whether the DSR has put me on the payroll, please know that there are some ways in which I think the Douglaston Salmon Run could be improved. The first of these is the angler education and the enforcement of the legal and ethical rules of angling. As is the case throughout the river system, far too many anglers that frequent the DSR simply do not understand the difference between catching a salmon or trout fairly, and landing that fish after illegally snagging the animal in its body.
Make no mistake, snagging is every bit as prevalent on the DSR as it is on the upstream sections of the river. This is especially true during the height of salmon season. Consider the following video ...

As hard as it may be to believe, the gentlemen in this video recorded themselves fishing the DSR's water, and then posted their antics to YouTube. If you can bear to watch long enough, you'll eventually see that one of the Douglaston's river walkers approaches the group.

We can't be sure how much the DSR's employee saw that day. We can't be sure that he was ever in a position to curtail these men snagging fish. What we can be sure of is that the snagging continued after he walked on. This is unacceptable, and against both New York State law and the DSR's stated policy of enforcing that law.

I think I'll finish simply by saying that I've always enjoyed my time on the Douglaston's water. Some days have been better than others, but such is the nature of fishing. Critics might say that I'm a hypocrite, that I subsidize the people who would seek to make inaccessible the water I would fish. I don't know. Perhaps I am a hypocrite, but it seems to me that the DSR does not make inaccessible the water passing through through its property. Rather, the DSR simply limits access to that land. The fee to use this land is not extravagent, and the value of the experience is well worth the price. Would I prefer that the law reads as it does in so many other states, allowing anglers to access the water from any public site? Of course I would, but in the interim the DSR seems to have found a reasonable compromise, and I am grateful for that compromise.