Great Day

This morning I got Livy and Carly up for school, breakfast and out the door. We got to talk about cereal, Clifford, drawing and the obligatory excitement about seeing the preschool bus come and getting a sticker from busdriver Bob (who wanted to talk politics this morning). I then ran out towards Yelm to spring Henry from his Kennel stay since we just got back from snowball fights, snowmen, coco and a horsedrawn sleighride out past Leavenworth. The girls want to know when we can go back to “our” cabin.

Last night I stayed up cutting new lead and tying new leaders for my spincasting outfit. Gear fishing is not nearly so clean as fly fishing but it opens up a lot of water that you could otherwise never reach. A corky drift rig, sandshrimp or bobber and jig can cover a lot of different types of water. It also requires that I carry a small tackle bag to the river. On the way to get Bob I picked up some sand shrimp.

After dropping off a happy Henry, kissing Chelle and draining a 20oz mocha as fast as I could I pumped up the old iPod and ran for WA8 towards Aberdeen. After a pleasant drive through the Black Hills and Chehalis valley, misted with fog and diving in and out of rain squalls I found my exit right after Montesano.

On the way I marked the cheese making outfit that shows up at the farmers market and their fancy cows. I was glad to see that the huge Maple in the middle of the hayfield survived the windstorms. I saw the tin corrugated roofing on barns that didn’t, peeled back, exposing the tarpaper underneath. At the first boat-launch I counted eight driftboat rigs. The river has been busy. On and on past the logging trucks on their way back from Grisdale and beyond, past the fire department substation to my turn towards Wishkah. At the parking lot I’m greeted by four driftboat rigs, a hatchback and one small truck. Based on this I estimate 3 people fishing the slate cliff.

I pull on my waders, don my fleece and pull down my wool stocking cap. My gloves are fingerless so I can tie knots quickly with warm hands. I walk the path along the dogwoods and barbed wire until my boots scrunch into the gravel of the bar across from the cliff. The slide from two years ago has been cleared with the years floods. There are two great oak trees that span half the river in it’s place, on their sides, sweepers dancing in the current. The big slabs of slate are there but the tailout is broader and wider. It’s flanked with another tree, a fir, that points stright down the river, right in the middle creating a chute between the broken rock and the cobble stone current.

I start with the sand shrimp at the jam where the creek dumps in. The slack water there has held cutthroat in the past and I know that the steelhead must sometimes rest there. I wade across as far as it’s safe to make the cast shorter and promptly fling my shrimp across the river and into the far bank, right off of my hook. I rebait and throw again. I work this way, cast step cast, down to the first slate slabs. A tiny one person driftboat appears out of the fog, curiously works his way behind me, anchors and works behind the slabs.

I lose a rig to a hidden log and switch to a purple corky and pink yarn outfit. Eventually the drifter weighs anchor and moves along. As I turn the bend I can see the first of my comrades in company. Down past the first set of slabs and in the holy water bewteen the next set. I work this water hard, near to far and ensure that my drifts are near the bottom. Winter steelhead do not move far for a lure, unlike their summer cousins. Behind me I notice a new player, an old-timer, working through the logjam just like I was. Casting and stepping in time with me.
Eventually I approach the first fellow that I saw, working through each foot of water as best I can. He and I exchange pleasantries. From him I hear that one of the other folks working the run has put two fish on the bank. He’s kind and friendly and shares what he knows (two were caught here yesterday afternoon, the fellow down below is throwing small corkies, things have been slow). He ends our conversation saying that you never fish the same river twice as he goes back upstream for another try.

I skip over the next guy fishing right in front of the big oaks. No hits he says, slow and weird, he says, nobody getting anything. It’s interesting to see how people react to questions on a river. Either he or the first guy are wrong. Only other way it makes sense is that they didn’t see the same stuff. I drop below him and work through the big tailout. Right after I start working the old-timer who I saw cast-stepping behind me hooks a fish where I stood no longer than 5 minutes ago. I laugh!

Mister “no hits no nothing” complains about the rain and heads out. I walk back down past the old timer to see what he’s using. Fishing teaches you how to approach strangers wonderfully. You never know what you’re going to get but you’re almost never ignored.

“I’d ask you how you’re doing but it’s pretty obvious you’d say pretty good” and I motion to his fish.

“Yep”

“Do you mind if I ask what you’re using?”

“Just a bit of eggs with an orange corkie, ya know this used to be a really good spot except for all the boat traffic. Now you gotta get here at first light and there’ll still be boats right on you”

“Well”, I say, “it beats working!”, (nobody every disagrees with this on a river)
“Sure as hell does”

The we wish each other good luck and I start over at the top of the run. On the way there I stop to admire his fish. It’s oceanic silver, running about 8lbs. Pretty fish. I switch to a bobber and Jig and start working through the pool again. Eventually the old-timer leaves. I have the pool to myself.

I run the bobber and jig all the way to the end of the pool with no bites. I then look downstream. While I was talking to “no hits, no nothing” I watched another angler down below the tailout, working just below the doug-fir lying like an arrow, pointing downstream. I can see how he got there, walking across a 2 foot deep run of cobblestone bottom and I see why he was there. There’s a slick between the chute and the next riffle. About 30 feet long and 10 feet wide right up against the grass covered bank where the water runs slow.

I switch my rig to an orange corkie and yarn and wade downstream. At first I have a hard time getting a good drift, my lead is a little light for this run. I tied my leader long for this work and am wondering if it’s too long to stay down in the slow current of the slick. I cast and step, cast and step. Once my line hangs on a rock and I strike, thinking it’s a fish. Cast and step, cast and step. In my cadence I have a rythm to which I sing in my head a Slim Pickins song.

“Make me down a pallet on your floor”

Step, Drift

“Make me down a pallet on your floor”

Step, Drift

“I’m heading up the country, cold ice and snow”

Step, Drift

“I’m heading up the country, fourty miles or more”

Step, Drift, Pull

The pull is almost like the rock but it pulses, I set the hook hard and I see the fish flash. I tend to my drag while he pulls line off in his first run, trying to get back up into the slick where the safe slow water was. When the pressure doesn’t stop he turns and runs downstream into the current that runs over the cobble. It’s not deep but it’s persistent and faster than a man would walk and I begin to worry about the riffle below and the two logs to the near side. I wonder how I’ll walk myself upstream, into the current, back to the beach where I started while trying to manage the fish. Even as I’m fighting him I can see his red flank twisting and the white flash of his mouth opening, the orange corkie clear in his lower jaw. I let my rod bend deep to buffer my line as much as I can and slowly and carefully start walking back upstream. He runs straight below me so I apply pressure to the side, trying to force him the other way but he won’t budge. I pull straight up and he planes back over to the side. Walking upstream is like sloshing through quicksand. I finally get back to the beach and plant my feet on dry land. I pull him up and in the shallow’s he starts to panic and makes on more run for it, very close to the logs at the start of the lower riffle. I patiently work him back to the beach and walk him up onto the sand and pounce on him while he flops looking for the water. He’s a 6lb buck and the red on his flanks makes me think he’s a late summer run. I dispatch him as quickly as I can and bleed him out to save the meat. I take off my hat and gear bag, breath deep and feel the rain on my face. I hang him on a branch and work the slick one more time. Then it’s back down the path to the truck where I clean him and stow my gear before heading home.

I show the girls the fish, Carly wants to touch it but is too afraid in the end. She explains that “he got dead” and Livy want’s to know if she can help with the smoker oven. He’s filleted, the head, spine and tail frozen for crab bait later in the year. One piece is kept in the fridge for dinner and one more vacum sealed for later. The other two sit in brine as I type, waiting the 10 hours to soak up the salt, sugar, honey, maple syrup, garlic, ginger and red wine that will get them ready for the smoker. Livy will help me check and then eat as much of it as I do. I’m going to make an omlet on Sunday.

Chelle heads out for some groceries and a trip to the gym. I cook up a piece in a frying pan with garlic, salt and pepper, make some rice and the girls and I eat. Livy’s homework takes longer than I expect and now I type. Pleasantly bushed. Meat in the freezer and the first fish of 07 written into my card. I’ll sleep really well tonight.