The Salmon River: A Trip Report (Part Four)

Day four. The final 24 hours of our annual steelhead bender. Shawn and Mike had quit the day before, and when my alarm sounded at 3 a.m., I woke hoping the boys hadn't taken our luck with them when they left. Our plan was to get Milo into fish; seventy years on this Earth and the man had never hooked a steelhead. Tragedy of tragedies.

The plan was simple: plant Ben's father in what is arguably the most prolific run on the river, give him the right fly and a reasonable chance to learn the drift, and defend the man from the inevitable low-holers and dog walkers who would try to crawl into the slot. The first part of the plan required us to be the only cars in the parking area at 4:00 in the morning, and while we were the first to arrive, little time passed before approaching headlights told us we needed to head down to the water.

The rabbit runs round the hill, through the loop, and ...

By 4:30 we had humped all of our gear a short distance to an equally short run that is - rather ironically - known as Old Farts. I can't say I'm entirely sure why this piece of water is named as it is; other sections seem more aptly named: Schoolhouse, Trestle, the Flats, Black Hole, Church Pool. Perhaps the run had been named for a group of aged gentleman who once frequented it currents. Perhaps Old Farts is a reference to the stench that hangs perpetually low and oppressive over the water: putrefying salmon, diesel fumes, and cigarette smoke. More likely, the run is named as such because it provides ridiculously easy access to some of the river's best fish and fishing. Old Farts may be the only run in the river where an angler - even a septuagenarian like Milo - can be absolutely sure of his footing as he fights steelhead that are both ridiculously big and scary fast. The process is usually only complicated by those fish that choose a long downstream run. If that happens we'll usually break off so as not to intrude on the folks fishing below us, unless - of course - the fish is exceptional.

As we hoped, the river gods were kind to Milo, and gave him the opportunity to tangle with some very respectable fish. Ben played the part of his father's guide, patiently explaining the mechanics of the run, showing Milo exactly where to place his fly (Milo's switch cast became increasingly accurate as the day went on), helping with fly changes, and otherwise doing what he could to get dad into fish. 

Here is Milo hooked up ... again ... moments before the fish throws the hook ... again.

Unfortunately, the river gods' generosity only goes so far, especially as it surrounds the newest of initiates. Milo hooked several fish over the course of the day. Every one of those fish would likely have scaled 10 pounds or more, but we'll never know for sure as we were not able to put even one into the net.

One of Milo's steelhead haunts me. The fish was an honest 14 or 15 pounds; for most bug chuckers she would have been the fish of a lifetime. As Milo played the thick bodied hen, I found myself whispering little prayers to whatever divinity chose to listen. Everyone wanted desperately for Milo to land that fish, everyone except the chuckleheads fishing just downstream of us.

On the last of its runs, Milo's best steelhead of the day tore off downstream but came ridiculously close to the near shore, perhaps only one or two feet off the boots of the group occupying the territory on that downstream flank. As I chased Big Bertha past the demilitarized zone, net in hand, I explained as I ran (by ran I mean that I was moving as quickly as my morbidly obese backstrap would carry me) to anyone listening that this could be Milo's first steelhead. "Pardon me ... excuse me," I kept repeating. "The old fella's hooked up on a slob - it could be his first fish in the net - and he can't get down here quickly enough to get his line and the fish out of your way."

"Mind if I step in with the net?"

No reply.

Again, "Mind if I step in with the net?"

Blank stares.

"Fish off."

Really? Really.


None of them moved. Not so much as a twitch. I'm fairly certain one of those boys actually stepped farther out into the water solely to complicate things. They had been trying to low hole us all day, and I am convinced their lack of cooperation was deliberate. For the life of me, I just do not understand the logic. They were hooking as many fish as were we. Could the grass really be any greener over our septic tank? Had they moved, I am certain I could have put that fish in the net. Modesty aside, I am generally surgical with a net.

This is what it looks like to get low-holed on the Salmon. On the right is Ben Jose: gentleman, fisherman, sometimes doberman. Only moments before he had been standing in the space on left, which is (in this photo) occupied by one of the river's many low-holing chuckleheads. Ben only moved to the right so as to extricate his fly from a snag. Barely two minutes. Barely a rod length. There you have it.

A consummate gentleman, Milo only smiled, and I am told - quietly whispered to his son that the fish he had just lost was the largest he had ever hooked in fresh water. I hope we can get him back on the water before the first real snowfall. 

As for the rest of us, we all caught fish. Adam brought in his best ever brown trout, and Bennie stung a couple of steelies. I was good for a few myself. Altogether, this year's trip will be remembered as one of the best if not for the fishing then certainly for the personalities involved. I am a lucky man for many reasons. I am blessed with a wonderfully understanding wife who abides my passion for the long rod, three beautiful children who love me without reservation, and friends who are every bit as passionate as am I about swift water and silver fish.

Thanks for a great trip guys.

 

The Salmon River: A Trip Report (Part Three)

Day three marked a turning point in the trip. Once again we were out of the rack by 3:00 a.m., breakfast was another two dozen eggs (chickens hate us) - this time with a side of sausage (from pigs raised by one of our group, Mike Healy). As soon as we donned our waders and stepped outside the cabin door, we could feel change in the air. Each of us remarked on it. This was going to be the day; we knew it from the outset. For the first time in three days, we were genuinely hopeful (and hope arrived just in time as Shawn and Mike were slated to leave before the end of the day).

Perhaps because we sensed the change, perhaps because we're gluttons for punishment, or maybe because we're simple minded chuckleheads - we decided to revisit the run we had been fishing for two days. To a certain extent, fishing this particular run has become something of a tradition - we get together in November, and we fish this one piece of water. Even more than giving a nod to tradition, however, we were convinced that the fish were there. We only needed for things to heat up and turn on.

As it happened, things did heat up - both literally and metaphorically. Day three witnessed a dramatic change in the weather. The cold front that had been so persistent throughout days one and two finally gave way to weather that was downright balmy by comparison. Whereas the high temperature over the first two days might have scraped the low side of 40 degrees, by the afternoon of day three the air temp had exceeded 60 degrees, and the fish responded.

Everyone hooked fish that third day. At one point, we had hooked so many on the swing, I remember thinking that fishing with the long rod should always be so easy. If the fishing was easy, the catching remained difficult for just a while longer. By mid-morning I had jumped three solid fish, and as they did the day before, each came unglued. As if to rub a little salt in the wound, Brillon's third swung-up steelhead came - once again - to a generic Popsicle style fly in purple and black. Black over purple was the color combination all week long.  

Bug chuckers are a funny bunch. We love our friends; really, we do. We want to see them be successful, and we want to share in that success. We chase their fish with our nets. We photograph their catch, and post the pictures on our blogs. We do this - not because we expect our friends to reciprocate - but because they are our friends, and we love them. But love isn't enough - is it - to take the sting out of a friend's high rod?

While I was happy to see Shawn hook the fish he did, I have to admit that the last one stung just a bit. At the point in the morning when I looked upstream, and watched Shawn's rod buck in synchronized rhythm with the desperate antics of yet another steelhead, I was on the verge of piscatorially induced hara-kiri. I had jumped three fish and had at least two other pulls (maybe three but one might have been that snag that pulls back - you know the one). Yes, when Shawn hooked that last fish ... it hurt.

But the river gods weren't intent on my continued suffering. After a disappointing skunk on the second day and an early morning that saw several fish released at an unacceptable distance, I finally stuck one with which I managed to stay connected. That one fish was all I needed; anything else was gravy.

And there was gravy, but the details aren't of any real consequence. Suffice to say we did well on day three. Shortly after noon, Healy and Brillon decided to call it a day, packed their things, and said their goodbyes. Just before they left, Ben and I were joined by Adam and Ben's father, Milo - both of whom were eager to wet a line. Much planning and attention had been given over Milo's time on the water as he had never hooked a steelhead.

Milo Jose first cast a fly rod some fifty odd years ago. To hear him tell it, he had been rather successful as a young man growing up in Idaho's corner of the Rockies, but his most memorable fish were all caught in San Francisco Bay on conventional tackle and hardware. He didn't quite know what to make of the 11' rod we put in his hands, and our first afternoon on the water was spent teaching Milo a basic switch cast. He was a quick study. After an hour or so of practice, Milo felt his first sign of life at the end of the line.

To Be Continued