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 Two - Bust

The thing about dreams is that they sometimes do come true. Sometimes you pick the winning horse. Sometimes you kiss the prom queen. Sometimes you get to play the hero.

Sometimes.

More often than not, however, dreams remain dreams. Your horse breaks a leg before it ever reaches the starting gate. Try as she might, the prom queen cannot pick you out of a police line up, and the closest you've ever come to being a hero is when you camped out to be the first in line for opening night of the Star Wars prequel. Jedi dreams die hard, and on that second day of fishing, our steelhead dreams may as well have been Jedi dreams.

When we set off on Tuesday night for the two hour drive to the river we were giddy with enthusiasm. We believed with every bit of angler-instinct we possessed that the river gods were smiling on us. How could we not? Only three days before we were set to leave, the river flowed at a staggering 1850 cfs. So much water isn't impossible to fish, but it is uncomfortable to fish, and bringing steelhead to hand once hooked can be very difficult in the swirling currents of a swollen Salmon River. But in only three days the river had dropped to 500 cfs - just about perfect for a group of intrepid steelheaders. Surely the fish would agree.

And they did, but only for a day. Day two of our expedition saw air temperatures rise from just above 30 degrees to nearly 60 - a trend that would continue for the remainder of the trip. The sun, high in the cloudless blue sky, shone brightly on the water and cursed us with its warmth. In nearly twelve hours of fishing we managed one fish to hand. For my part, I drew only a single pull after a half day of swinging a 13'6" 8# around my head like a drunken Scotsman practicing his caber toss.

The one fish brought to hand - Photo (and fish) courtesy of Shawn Brillon

So I guess Thursday was a lesson in perspective. Yes, the fishing was difficult. Yes, I found myself frustrated at times, but the old cliché held true: a bad day of fishing is better than the best day at work. Any pressure I felt was pressure I put on myself, and that was pure foolishness. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a bit disappointed, but more than disappointment I ended the day feeling hopeful. I still had three days ahead of me, and as I had the night before I laid back in my bed, closed my eyes, and dreamed steelhead dreams.