On Salmon River F@#kdoggles and Moses Descending the Mountain

There is something about the experience of fishing New York's, Salmon River that lends itself to the expansion of the bug chucking vernacular. Maybe it's the easy wading. Maybe it's the unspoiled landscape. Maybe it's the native women: exotic, mysterious, toothy. Whatever the reason, nearly every time we're wading the river's currents we're faced with some new rub - something unlike anything we have ever before experienced. Sometimes this strangeness is born of mother nature, but more often it's the river's anglers who leave us scratching our heads like space monkeys staring down some strange, foreign fruit. Consider one of our latest additions to the lexicon: f@#kdoggle. F@#kdoggle was spawned on a day and in a moment when we couldn't quite make sense of the world - a moment in which some of our fellow bug chuckers forgot the lessons learned from their fathers, grandfathers, or in that short section of The Curtis Creek Manifesto devoted to etiquette and the fishing of a popular spot.

F@#kdoggle's genesis saw a late November morning break crisp and clear as five of us settled into one of our favorite runs. We arrived at the river around 4 a.m., made a pot of coffee that smelled like sex and tasted of malted turpentine, and as the sun peeked out over the trees we started our rotation: one man at the head, three working through the bucket, one man in the tailout. Cast, step, cast, step. From top to bottom, the whole process took us some 45 leisurely minutes to complete, and with five anglers swinging five different flies on five different tips, we were likely hitting every fishable inch of the water column. Our rotation allowed each of us a shot at the best sections of the run; two of us hooked steelhead on our first pass, and with our second hookup so began the F@#kdoggle.

One of the peculiarities of fishing the Salmon River is that regardless of where we might wet our line we're likely to have an audience. There are only 16 river miles from dam to lake, and some of that water is private and posted. Consequently, a great many anglers are packed into a relatively small space. Compounding the effect of limited space is an epidemic of steelhead fever, which is a potent affliction with the power to make men do things - despicable things - they would never do on an ordinary trout stream.

As that second fish took off on its first run, the alarm of line peeling from the reel had the effect of alerting a trio of passing anglers to the presence of fish in the water. Standing on the ridge overlooking the riffle, they huddled, they whispered, and they pointed. Plans were made. While three of our party contended with the chaos of landing, photographing, and releasing our second steelhead of the day, the three musketeers slipped into the empty spaces between us and began nymphing the seam. In typical Salmon River fashion, not one of the interlopers ever said "hello" or made introduction. No one asked to join our group or to share the water, and before we could finish that first pot of Death Wish Coffee, our rotation had ended.

There is no way of knowing if those three anglers were the advanced guard for a larger group or if some member of our party owed a karmic debt, but no sooner did our nymphing cousins set up in the middle of the run than four more anglers tiptoed into the tailout, waded clumsily across the river through the very water our bottom most man was fishing, and then set up on the far bank directly across from us. To be clear, in the space of ten or fifteen minutes, five anglers had ballooned to twelve. Twelve anglers were fishing a piece of water that could comfortably hold four, accommodated five so long as they were all were in synch, but became something of a circus if stretched beyond that limit. The result?

The early stages of a F@#kdoggle.

But numbers alone do not a F@#kdoggle make. A F@#kdoggle requires a certain something - something even the most talented writer might find difficult to articulate. A carnival barker would say it's a spectacle, extravaganza, or a feast for the senses. Southern gentry might suggest it's a heckuva hullaballoo. A soldier returning from war would speak more plainly and call it a clusterf@#k.

And a clusterf@#k it was. Shortly after crossing and scattering any fish that may have been lying in the tailout, one of those bug chuckers on the opposite bank hooked - or rather snagged - a late season king salmon. The angler was fishing at the top of the run, immediately across the river from our coffee pot and top most man, when his tippet likely tickled the mudshark's dorsal (or the whitish stub that remained of its dorsal). Suffering the onset stages of steelhead fever (or perhaps having an epileptic fit), the fisherman immediately set the hook Bassmaster Classic style, and for fifteen minutes we were treated to Jo-Jo the Idiot Circus Boy running up and down the far bank as he chased a fish that had likely spawned a week prior and was just moments earlier looking for a quiet place to die. Eventually, one of our party spoke up.

"For f@#k's sake," he yelled. "You have a king, and it's snagged in what used to be a dorsal fin. That little chartreuse spot on its putrefying back ... yeah, that's your fly. Just break it off so the rest of us can get back to crossing lines with each other. F@#king halfstack."

Jo-Jo's response summed up the whole scene: "I want my fly back."

He wanted his fly back. Of course he did. For the sake of that 75 cent Estaz egg, he was willing to inconvenience everyone else in the run, and for the sake of a fish, he was willing to disregard anything his mama ever taught him about courtesy. He was willing to set up directly across from eight other anglers in what may be one of the narrowest runs on the river. He was willing to cross the river through water in which another bug chucker was swinging a fly. He was willing to forgo any semblance of grace, courtesy, or decorum. He was willing to do things he would never consider doing on other, more refined rivers. Why? Because this was the Salmon River, and for reasons known only to the river gods, there are no rules governing civility on the Salmon River.

We propose to end that tradition. Like Moses descending the mountain, we carry with us the law - rules to live by for the Salmon River's fisherman: bug chuckers, pinners, and gear heads alike. Consider them. Please, consider them. It's not about you; it's not about us. It's not about one group of fishermen or another. It's about the health of a river that has been hurting and the hope our children might enjoy it as we have.

Ten Commandments of the Salmon River

1. I am the river, Salmon River; thou shalt consider me before all things. 
2. Thou shalt leave neither refuse, nor excrement, nor entrails, nor mono, nor any sign of man strewn on my shores.
3. Thou shalt not floss, nor line, nor snag; for snaggers are as thieves, and they shall be made to crawl on their bellies. 
4. Honor the steelhead and her brood; she is of water and there must remain so to bring joy to the joyless. 
5. Thou shalt not kill any steelhead but to soothe thine family's hunger. 
6. Thou shalt not Boga for Boga is of the serpent of the abyss - the destroyer of piscine souls.
7. Thou shalt show courtesy in all that you do as grace begets beauty, and beauty begets peace.
8. Thou shalt rotate thine water with both friend and strangers on the path; for rotation is of the spirit, and spirit is of the river.
9. Thou shalt not covet your neighbor's riffle, but will instead offer him your own. 
10. Thou shalt carry these words with you, and sew them as seed; for in the planting thou shalt be blessed. 

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.  

On Looking Back and New Beginnings

I cannot believe over a year has passed since I last logged into The Rusty Spinner. I've felt the absence - acutely and genuinely. Like so many bug chuckers, I enjoy an opportunity to talk fly fishing when I can't be on the water, and for several years this blog had been the vehicle by which I could have those conversations. I've missed it, even if it's true that most of the time I spent here was likely spent talking to myself.

Regardless, I hope that today's post will mark something of a new beginning for The Rusty Spinner. I've blown the dust off the laptop, and I am feeling ready to go. The experience is akin to the anticipation we all likely feel in the moments before a fishing trip; and we all know how powerful that feeling can be.

Here's to hoping the river gods will see fit to bless me with some inspiration. Until my muse arrives, I hope you'll be satisfied with some amateurish and poorly edited fish porn.

Cheers,

Mike

My Therapist Says I Need to Let Go My Anger

Angry? Nah .......

Don't Be This Guy

With salmon season just around the corner and steelhead season following close on its heels, you'll want to make sure you're not this guy ...



Of course, a fifteen minute walk in any direction from any of the Salmon River's public access areas will likely buy you all the solitude you'll need.

Tis the Season

It's that time of year when I start to daydream of steelhead. Of course, we have to make it through the summer and then salmon season, which brings us to this video ...


It's a little dated, but worth watching nonetheless. Forward to 3:00 or so to see the most interesting part.

Where Time Passes Slowly

We've been here a week - marooned in a rum fueled, salt water, white-sand-beach day dream. Our snowed-in psyches have nursed the pain of Central American sunburns and sucked back Belikins as if each bottle was filled with a different woman's love. Our guide - an American expat who goes by Ray Ray - reminds me a little of David Lee Roth circa 1985, and he hasn't been bashful about drinking panty rippers and mojitos on our dime. In truth, we've done nothing to either discourage his indulgence or encourage his abstinence.



Ray's a big man: 6' 3" tall and all of 325 pounds on one of his better days. To look at him, you would think that his next drink was sure to be his last, but then he sucks back the rum - tongue licking the inside rim of the glass like a hungry python tasting the air - and nods to the bartender for another. The barkeep is almost certainly a native Belizian. That is to say he looks much more the part of Central American fishing guide than does Ray. With a flourish and a knowing smile, he acknowledges Big Ray’s request and looks to us for validation.

“Another for your friend?”

I find myself simultaneously thanking God they speak English here and wishing I had paid more attention during high school Spanish.

"Set him up."

For all his inner demons and assorted personal failings, our guide has put us on fish every day. If feeding his tendency toward alcoholism helps to keep the trend going then so be it. We'll happily be the big man's bankroll and benefactor. The drinks are on us Ray; we’ll keep them coming so long as you do the same with the tarpon, permit, and bonefish. You can climb back on the wagon once we've safely returned to the land of snow blowers and rock salt.

And after six days in paradise, I find I'm missing purgatory. I'm an enthusiastic winter fisherman - a steelhead guy of the first order. I've drawers filled to overflowing with Under Armor long-johns and Smartwool's thickest socks. I own two balaclavas and three pair of fingerless gloves. Who in the lower 48 - but a steelheader - really needs two balaclavas and three pair of fingerless gloves? Add to all of that three hundred pounds of God's natural insulation, and I can't help but wonder what I'm doing here - so close to the equator.

As difficult as it might be to believe, I need snow drifts and shelf ice, intruders and sucker spawn, slow drifts along the seam and the unexpected grab of a migratory torpedo. I need steelhead.

I need steelhead.

   

The Salmon River (A Trip Report): Day One - Boon

Sometimes the best part of a fishing trip happens well before an angler ever steps into the water. The preparation - tying flies, checking knots, patching waders, and mapping routes and destinations - is part and parcel of the hopeful anticipation that characterizes the bug chucking persona. We spend the days and weeks prior to our trip in a prolonged daze. We dream adrenaline fueled dreams of what might be, but oftentimes the reality does not match our hopeful expectations. That's not to say we're disappointed. Rarely if ever do we come back from a fishing trip without smiles on our faces, but more often than not the what was is hopelessly eclipsed by the what could have been. All of this brings us to Wednesday of last week. 

Every November, the boys and I make our annual foray to the Salmon River in New York; the trip is one of many we each make to the river individually, but usually the only one we make as a group. We come not for those fish that share the river's namesake but rather the steelhead that entered the river behind the salmon; brilliant fish that are intent on a feast of decomposing flesh and eggs. By late November the great majority of kings and cohos have expired, and thousands of steelhead remain. These are the fish that fuel our dreams, and last Wednesday was our first day on the water.

Our plan for Hump Day had been made months before the alarm rang at two o'clock that morning. Ben's father was to join us as he had last November, and we were determined to make this year more successful. Milo hooked several large fish - including one of particularly grotesque proportions - on that last trip, but his young buck guides just couldn't manage a single chromer in the net. This year was to be Milo's redemption; we guides made sure to brush up on our net skills, checked and rechecked all our knots, and tied hundreds of the flies we thought might bring Ben's dad some luck. Unfortunately, life is no respecter of fishermen and their steelhead dreams, and this year life threw Milo a bit of a curve ball. Ben's father was forced to back out of the trip at the last moment, and the rest of us scrambled to rearrange our first day.

Ultimately, we decided to stay with our original plan for the early part of the morning, and began at the Lower Fly Zone where we were joined by several dozen of our very best friends. If you've fished the LFZ then you get the joke. In November, this stretch of river is packed with steelhead like Toys-R-Us is packed with soccer moms on Black Friday, and where there are so many fish there is sure to be a corresponding number of anglers. There are some cracks where one or two bug chuckers might grab a small piece of water and expect to be relatively unmolested for the better part of the day; because we arrived well before most other anglers were even out of bed, we were able to slide into one of these sequestered - if not secluded - spots. Before long, however, we spotted little dots of light - other anglers' headlamps - bouncing along the trails on either bank of the river. I was reminded of History Channel video I've seen of the Viet Cong moving supplies along the Ho Chi Minh trail.

As the sun came up over the treeline we realized that we had chosen poorly. We were surrounded by at least fifty other anglers, and with half of our party intent on swinging flies, there was no way we could bear to stay very long.  

In the short time we remained there were fish to be had, and while everyone in our party hooked up with relative ease, the nature of such fishing quickly became tedious. Our proximity to other anglers - many of whom were clearly lifting and snagging fish - prompted us to pack up after just a few hours and find a piece of water that wasn't being quite so rankly abused. On a lark, we drove to the Upper Fly Zone to check on a run that was tailor made by God, Nature, and Brookfield Renewable Power (the company that owns the Lighthouse Hill Dam from which the Salmon River flows) for bug chuckers who like to catch steelhead on the swing.

I won't go into too many details, but suffice to say we finished the evening on a happier note than we began the day. There were plenty of fish in the run, a few of them were eager to chase the big stuff, and those bug chuckers who happened upon us generally left us alone to do our thing. We met another angler who asked to rotate the run with us, and as enjoyable as was my conversation with Tom - I was happier to have met his dog. Copper was the most stick-fetchinest pup with whom I've ever become acquainted. I tried desperately to take a photo, but every time I picked up my camera Copper sniffed the lens - leaving little streaks of dog drool across the glass. Camera shy I guess.

Photo: Ben Jose

As the evening wore on, a couple of the boys wandered off to find an open slot to nymph. When they returned we decided to call it a day. We were exhausted and satisfied. Slowly we walked back to the lot and made the bleary-eyed drive to the cabin that would be our home for the next five days. After showers, unpacking, and a meal comprised almost entirely of useless carbohydrates (read: beer and pasta) we agreed to a later than normal wake up. For my part, I fell asleep filled with the hopeful anticipation that always precedes another day on the water.  

1880 House Robbed

The 1880 House is a bed and breakfast that caters - by and large - to anglers who visit the Salmon River in New York. While I haven't been a guest of the 1880, I can say that the B-n-B has a reputation for being very accommodating of the anglers who choose to stay there. Unfortunately, the place was recently robbed; a safe containing the owner's personal property was taken.

I realize that chances are slim the thieves will be caught - even slimmer that they would be recognized via this site - but I thought I'd do my part regardless. The video is below, and you can find the full story here.

September on the Douglaston Salmon Run

Every September, my fellow bug chuckers and I make an annual pilgrimage to the Douglaston Salmon Run on New York's, Salmon River. Our hope is to wrestle an early season coho or king while not-so-secretly pining for steelhead and browns. The trip usually comes together in the first or second week of the month, but as fate would have it, only yesterday were we able to get our collective acts together. As expected, there was no shortage of fisherman, but an abundance of fish - fresh from Lake Ontario - made the trip worthwhile.

Fishing aside, the highlight of the trip was having the opportunity to meet Devin and his family. Devin was a young man (seventh grade) who had never caught a salmon; for the better part of the day, he and his parents were struggling to connect with fish. We were eventually able to get a fly rod in Devin's hands, and connected to that rod via line, leader, and gaudy fly was a coho of about ten pounds. Devin did an admirable job of listening to instruction and playing the fish; when that gleaming slab of silver was finally in the net I looked to the young man, and the expression on his face said all I needed to hear. We had done a good thing. Devin would sleep soundly that night, dreaming of silver salmon - his first salmon - and the pride in his parents' eyes.

Strangers

There was a time when I would walk for miles to avoid other anglers. If - when driving along the river - I came across another car in a parking area then chances are good I would just keep on going. I even tried to mask my movements bank side; at times hopping from rock to rock - like some sort of wader wearing ninja - to avoid leaving footprints in the mud. On the rare occasion when I did encounter another angler, I did my best to avoid conversation, feigning ignorance of the river and answering questions with the usual, "Don't know. It's my first time here." In simplest terms, I was about as antisocial a bug chucker as ever there was. Then two things happened to make me realize my foolishness: I rediscovered steelhead and I joined the ranks of the morbidly obese.

I wasn't always a fat man, although at no point in my life have I ever been skinny, slender, scrawny or svelte. Even when I was a soldier and possessed several clearly identifiable abdominal muscles, I weighed in at 225 pounds on my best days and a little more than that on my worst. I can only trace my family tree back a few generations, but I'm fairly certain that if I followed it to its source I'd discover my forbears hailed from someplace very cold and that they needed every bit of God's natural insulation.

 

While I am grateful for the extra warmth as I stand hip deep in a February cold river, I find the weight does tend to slow me down during the warmer months of the year. I'll still hike as far as I must to get to whatever piece of river I fancy fishing, but I'm not getting there quite as quickly, I'm not hopping along rocks like an outsized frog, and I'm not nearly as likely to go out of my way to avoid other anglers. Some days I'll even pause for a little while and strike up a conversation, and much to my surprise, I've enjoyed the overwhelming majority of those discussions. With few notable exceptions, the other anglers I've met streamside are men and women with whom I would enjoy spending a day on the water. Ironically, these conversations most often occur along the banks of the Salmon River - a stream with a reputation for combat fishing and rudeness amongst the anglers who chase its trout and salmon.

I've said it more times than I count, both on this blog and elsewhere, that steelhead are a special gamefish. They're eager to take a fly, they're big, and they're fast - ridiculously fast. They're also accessible, and within a day's drive of many of the country's major metropolitan areas. This puts an excess of pressure on the most popular rivers as throngs of people embark on a great annual migration to steelhead choked water. The Salmon River likely sees as many anglers as any other steelhead water on either the east or west coast; in all likelihood she absorbs more bug chuckers, gear heads, pinners, and bait dunkers than most any other comparable piece of water. As a consequence, finding privacy on the Salmon River is sometimes a difficult endeavor. So what is a metalhead-loving bug chucker to do?

To my way of thinking, we have two choices. We can accept that the best water on the river is likely occupied, and try to get away from the crowd by fishing less prolific beats, or we can introduce ourselves to the other anglers who frequent the most popular runs. As I've said, there was a time when the second option wasn't even a choice for me. I couldn't bear being anywhere near an angler who wasn't part of my group. My attitude began to change, however, as I realized that the few people I met stream side all seemed to be good people who felt exactly as I did about steelhead - regardless of the method they employed in the pursuit.

I'm reminded of Leon. Leon was an older fella', perhaps in his mid seventies, who I encountered some years ago on a November trip to the river. Leon was nearby when I hooked one especially hot hen that took me into my backing several times before I was able to land her about 200 yards downstream of the run in which she was hooked. Unsolicited, the old fella did his best to follow me downstream - recording on a Flip video camera my attempt to subdue one the hardest fighting fish I've ever hooked. He later asked my email address and sent me both the file and his congratulations. He and I still correspond from time to time.

Then there was Utica. Utica was a 16 year old kid who fished alongside us on one of the rare days when we just didn't have it in us to hike a mile through the snow or pay $50.00 to fish water less traveled. As it turned out, Utica and I were both guilty of the same crime - truancy. He was a student at a local high school, and he was skipping class to hook a steelie. I was a teacher, and I was doing exactly the same. Utica was cordial, funny, and eager to learn. More to the point, he reminded me of the best qualities young people possess, and at the end of the day I was eager to get back in the classroom with my students.

Of course, I couldn't write this piece if I didn't mention Lou. I met Lou in one of the river's many parking areas when I overheard him berating himself for leaving his fly boxes at home; the poor guy had made a long drive and had no flies with which to fish. I opened my boxes and gifted him a dozen or so different bugs and then went on my way. Later that day, I again encountered Lou - this time grinning wide as he had just caught his first steelhead on one of the flies I had given him. We exchanged information and some time later I received a walnut turkey box call, hand made by Lou (who is the owner of Boss Tom Turkey Calls) and inscribed to "The Rusty Spinner."

It may very well be impossible to fish one popular section of the river without running into Char, Dick, Dave or Kenny. They're good guys, regulars on the Salmon who are happy to help the uninitiated if the uninitiated just take the time to ask. The only payment they'll expect is the opportunity to engage in some good natured ribbing every time the initiate loses a fish. I know this first hand.

And as I sit here at the keyboard, I find myself thinking of the fellas from Virginia - whose names I now forget - who inquired about the spey rod I was fishing, and then asked me to photograph them with the fish I caught so that they could impress their wives and friends. We fished together for the better part of the afternoon; I still laugh when I think of them showing off my fish to their sweethearts.

Most recently, I had the good fortune of meeting Sergeant First Class Trent Myer. Sergeant Myer is stationed at Fort Drum with the Army's 10th Mountain Division where he is the program leader of the post's branch of Project Healing Waters. He and I found ourselves fishing within seventy-five feet of each other when I hooked a 20lb king salmon that I was forced to chase right through the water Sergeant Myer's group was fishing. After I brought the king to hand, Sergeant Myer introduced himself, his son Hunter, and their friend Jim - a PHW volunteer who shares my penchant for Orvis Odyssey reels. We talked and fished together the remainder of the day.

My point here is not to be anecdotal, but rather to demonstrate the quality of people we may meet if only we're open to the experience. Solitude certainly has it's place, but if fishing brings us some of the best moments in our lives then I have to wonder how much better those moments might be if we shared them with someone. After all, we're all strangers until we've been properly introduced, and if we're meeting on the banks of a river then chances are we have more in common than not.

Why?

Since the inception of The Rusty Spinner, I've been asked many times over why I go through the trouble of maintaining a blog. Why do I burden myself with all the links and videos, with photographs and with writing? Is it vanity or exhibitionism? Do I feed on the little bit of praise I occasionally receive? Am I a collector of followers? Am I self important? Do I hope the blog will somehow magically morph into magazine articles or a book?

The truth is that The Rusty Spinner has been around in this form and others for over a decade - the blog began as a website devoted to the history and chronology of the Orvis CFO series of reels - and in that time I haven't received even one nickel for my efforts. Any reward I've received has been intrinsic and intangible to anyone but myself. Why do it then? When I think about it, the answer to that question almost certainly stems from the years I spent working in a fly shop.

Make no mistake, being a fly shop flunkie is hardly a glorious vocation. First and foremost, fly shop work is retail work, and sometimes no better than making minimum wage in a second hand clothing store that caters to tweens and hipsters. Stop for a moment, and imagine that special hell.

"Where can I find your free range, organic, "Like a Boss" belts?"

"I was wondering ... do you stock Hello Kitty socks in a men's large?"

"I don't believe this, Margot! They're out of henna hair dye."

"Why isn't there a bike rack out front? I ride my little fixie everywhere, and I have to say ... it feels so good to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Excuse me ... you seem to be out of "I Heart David Sedaris" graphic tees, when will you be getting more?"

What must it be like to be subjected to that kind of inane patter all day, every day, for less than $10.00 an hour? Just thinking of it makes my ears bleed, and as difficult as it may be to believe there are those days when working in a fly shop - a shop packed with all the latest and greatest rods, reels, flies, and fly tying material - is only marginally better than eight hours of selling black rimmed, lensless glasses to people with 20/20 vision.

"Do these waders come in an antique ivory taupe?"

"Will this line make me cast farther?"

"What do you mean you don't sell nightcrawlers? I thought this was a fishing store."

"Where do you fish?"

"My rod broke ... spontaneously and through no fault of my own."

The single saving grace is that this type of chatter was the exception, not the rule. Most folks - men, women, and children - were relatively well informed and comported themselves with a modicum of sense.

"These waders only come in olive? Perfect. One less thing to think about."

"I wish they'd make a line that casts itself because I just can't double haul with a flask in my line hand."

"I know this is a fly shop - and when I'm alone I'll definitely be back - but right now there are four kids in my car - four kids who want to go fishing. Any idea where I could get a tub of nightcrawlers?"

"If you had only two days to wet a line before you left for home, where would you fish?"

"I broke my rod. Like a chucklehead, I left the freaking thing laying across the truck of the car. Smashed her good. I may have had one too many IPAs ..."

And this is what I most enjoyed about working in the shop. Most of my day - each and every day - was spent talkin' fishin'. My customers and I talked bass and steelhead, trout and pike. We talked tarpon in Florida and kings in Alaska. We talked line and tippet, knots and rigging, double hauls and single speys. We talked about the Spring Hole, the Bat Hole, and a river whose name we never used. Working in a fly shop was my opportunity to be immersed in a lifestyle that I thoroughly enjoyed. When life led me from the shop into a teaching career, the one thing I genuinely missed was the opportunity to chat with like minded folks. Hence ... The Rusty Spinner.

The Rusty Spinner is my opportunity to continue the conversation. This blog isn't about marketing. It isn't about making money or getting free swag for ridiculously contrived and complimentary reviews. The Rusty Spinner is my way of throwing my thoughts out into the ether in the hopes someone might shout back. In that regard, my time spent at the keyboard has been time well spent. I've met folks from all over the world through this blog, including a few who live nearby and have become friends, confidants, and fishing partners.

The Rusty Spinner is my way of remaining on the periphery of a world that I've long since left. Writing about fly fishing is likely as close as I may ever again come to my time in the shop and the conversations I had there. As time passes and technology changes, I suppose I am likely to lose this outlet and my connection to that world. Still, I can't help but think that the time I spend here at this keyboard - uncompensated as it may be - is time well spent. Next to the riffles and pools of one very special river that shall forever remain unnamed, there are few places I would rather be than sitting here ... talking to you.

Suicide Runs

My wife tells me that I am obsessed with fishing. I suppose she's right; she usually is when shining a light on any of my many peccadilloes. And one need look no further than this blog for proof of my obsession, but to say I am obsessed is really only half the truth. While I am always thinking of fishing - the fly, cast, hook set, and the ensuing ballet - I am also compelled to get out there and do the deed. I need to fish.

Thinking, talking, or writing about fishing neither satisfies nor sustains me. I need to step into the water and wet a line. I relish that moment when I lay out a cast a little farther than I'm usually able, turn over the leader as leaders were meant to turn over, and place the fly just about where I hoped to place the fly. I need to be there in that the moment when a blackened and scarred snout emerges from the grey green depth. Even thinking about it now, I can feel my heart skip as I wait for that imagined fish to inhale my diminutive and poorly tied hendrickson. I need that moment as I need the love of my family, and could no more abandon the water I fish than I could forgo the water I drink. Fishing nourishes me every bit as much.

Enter the sting of a new year's weather and an`annual winter-run of steelhead. If not for steelhead, January, February and March would mark a barren, dreadful season. Steelhead save us - the afflicted - from ourselves. Steelhead give us hope at a time when many other anglers can do little else but pine for warmer days and open water.

To my way of thinking, there are few game fish that are quite as game as a fresh chromer, even when water temps approach freezing. Few animals are quite so fast, and fewer still as unpredictable. When a steelhead enters the river she is hell bent on procreation. When she is hooked, every ounce of that preternatural, adrenaline fired sex drive pushes her toward escape. The takes are sometimes very soft, a series of gentle, almost imperceptible taps. More often, however, a steelhead will attack the fly with absolute abandon - be that fly a #8 beaded stone or a #2 Purple Peril.   

And what won't we do to satisfy that January jones, to get that mid-winter piscatorial fix? In my little corner of of the world, the closest steelhead are Salmon River fish - two and a half hours away. On average, we make the trip some three to five times a month. That's two hundred ninety miles and five hours per round trip. Two hundred ninety miles and five hours of sore backs and heavy eyelids, bad weather and snow slick roads. Most days, it's a suicide run to get from here to there and back again. To some small degree, we're taking our lives in our hands every time we make the trip.

"Is it worth it," my wife asks. "Is it really necessary to drive all that way for a fish?"

I smile at the question, kiss her cheek, and slough off into the living room to play with the kids. She doesn't understand, but in her defense - few people do. We don't make the trip for a fish.

Suicide runs aren't about steelhead. Suicide runs are about opportunity. They're about possibilities, slim chances, and overcoming the odds. Perhaps more than anything, they're about hope.

Few things could be better, and fewer still are quite as necessary.

River Chicken ...

"When I was a little boy every little squirt wanted to be a harpooner or a sword fisherman." - Quint, Jaws (1975)


While chasing steelhead on the Salmon River, this river chicken paid me a visit to show me how the locals get things done. For the first time in years, I had a video camera in my pocket when a video-worthy moment presented itself.

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

Broken Glasses

Funny, don't you think, how easily we become attached to things. Not people. Not places. Not ideas. Things. Consider, for example, that I own three bamboo rods. This is barely the hint of a collection, and I am hardly a connoisseur, but I do cherish the rods nonetheless. Truthfully, I'm infatuated with them in a way that borders on clinical obsession, especially when one considers that they rarely ever see the water. I tell myself that I'm holding tightly to the trio so that I may someday pass them onto my three children, but that's not entirely true. I would like for my kids to appreciate fly fishing and bamboo rods as I do, but in the end I expect the rods will be buried with me.

My 7' 4# Quadrate ... love that little stick.

But not everyone is drawn to rods as I am. If you're a reader or follower of this blog then I suppose there's a chance you appreciate over-priced tomato stakes as I do, but there's as good a chance that bamboo does nothing for you. Instead, you've likely a favorite fly box or lucky hat. Maybe for fifteen years or so you've been driving the same, slowly disintegrating Nissan pickup - she's carried you to every river you've fished for nearly two decades. You might cherish your old Hardy Lightweights, or it could be you collect flies designed and tied by notable tyers. Regardless, I think it fair to say that you each own at least one item - probably an item in some way related to fly fishing - with which you would never part. For my good friend and fishing partner, Ben Jose, that item is - or rather was - a pair of sunglasses.

Future's so bright ... he has to wear shades.

Sunglasses? Hey, I'm right there with you. I don't understand it either. I mean, they're sunglasses, right? Most of us lose at least one pair a year, but to hear Ben tell it, these sunglasses were special. They had traveled the country and the countryside as Ben's loyal companions; they had been witnesses to some of his finest and worst moments as a fly fisher. They fit like an infant fits into the bosom of his mother: warm, safe, and loved. They were a comfort. They were essential.

They were.

And now they're gone, having been crushed under the weight of a linebacker sized man and a studded wading boot. Their paths collided in the early morning haze of the river, and now this object that was so very precious, simply is not. Ben's prized sunglasses - trusted friends who had traveled with him to Minnesota, Colorado, Idaho, and numerous points in between - are nothing more than mangled plastic and glass.

In the moments after the sickening crunch of polarized glass filled the otherwise silent morning air, Ben was struck by an unexpected thought: his glasses simply did not matter. We were on the third day of a four day steelheading binge. We had caught fish when river reports were almost universally bleak. Ben took his first steelhead on the swing, and we were sharing a great piece of water with the best of bug chuckers. How could Bennie possibly be upset over the demise of his sunglasses when so much else was going so well? For four days at least, sunglasses and bamboo rods just did not matter. Moments mattered and the people who shared those moments mattered. For Ben, the moments that most mattered on this particular trip were those he spent with his father.

Make no mistake, Milo showed the boys how to get the job done

Milo Jose - septuagenarian, devoted husband, father of three, himself one of 15 children, long time bug chucker, and former Exulted Ruler of the local Elks lodge - was joining us for the final two days of our four day annual odyssey. Milo had never caught a steelhead. Milo had never hooked a steelhead.

Never.

Hooked.

A steelhead.

Imagine you have the opportunity to take someone to the river, and put him into his first chromer. Imagine the pressure, the anxiety you might feel, as you stand by your sport's side hoping for that first hookup. Imagine seeing him make that first solid cast. Imagine his fly making just the right drift. Imagine the line going taught as a ten pound, silver jump-jet spools the reel of its line. Imagine the smile on your sport's face, the grin spread from ear to ear. Now, imagine that sport is your dad.

Could there possibly be a better moment, a better gift for a son to give his father?

So what if Milo's first fish wasn't a ten-pounder? This little guy may be even more memorable.

I hope that Milo enjoyed the day as much as his son and I did. I hope that Ben finds a new pair of sunglasses to replace the old, but more to the point I hope Bennie remembers fondly those streamside moments he spent with his dad. More than anything perhaps, I hope that when the time comes, my own son will think enough of me to share with his old man a day on his favorite steelhead run.

The Salmon

I've come to love the Salmon River. Really, I have. It's grown on me, but such was not always the case.

The first time I fished the river's runs and pools, I lost every fish I hooked over the course of two days, and finished the second day by spewing vomit along the highway (a long story). But the memory of that God-awful introduction has faded, and most days I find myself eagerly anticipating my next trip to Altmar and Pulaski.

Yes. The river can be crazy at times. Hoards of people - some not so friendly, most not so courteous - descend on Pulaski every September, and they generally remain until mid October. By early November the crowds thin, and the river becomes much more user friendly. In the interim, however, we bug chuckers need to be flexible and go where the fisherman are not - even if we find fewer fish wherever that may be.

This is easier done than the river's reputation might lead intrepid bug chuckers to believe, but more on this later. Today ... just a few photos of our most recent trip.  God help me, but I love the Salmon.

 

First chromer of the year ... let's hope the first of many.