fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Family


by 3 Comments

a matter of perspective (…or there always seem to be more fish in another spot)

The reality of fishing is that more often it’s about people, the adventure that comes with it and what we’re taught than about the fishing. Sure, without the fishing you probably wouldn’t have made the trip at all, and the timing and location naturally center on when you think the fishing will be best, but regardless of the amount of planning every fishing trip is shadowed by uncertainty.

[singlepic id=974 w=220 h=165 float=center]

Funky Fall Photo

Last weekend fall was in full force and winter’s influence was yet to be felt, but in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and foothills the name of the season regularly has little to do with the weather. Weather is never limited by the season there, or anywhere else, as I’m sure all five of my readers can attest.

Anyway, it was just after the first snow showers of the season that my son and I were enjoying an ‘end of trout season’ fishing trip on moving waters in the foothills in and around Twain Harte. It was the uncertainty that comes with fall weather that kept us to the west slope of the Sierras. This same weather was enough to keep a good many of the less hardy fishermen away, but that didn’t mean we’d be alone. These rivers and streams are within an easy two-hour drive of a few Central Valley cities and less than four hours away from the San Francisco area.

Regardless of a great summer, spring and early fall of fishing, there’s always a sense of urgency to land that one last fish of the season. As a father who readily allows his inner child to emerge there’s always a friendly competition between me and Sean. There’s little doubt that he can beat his old man at arm wrestling but, at least so far, he hasn’t when it comes to catching trout.

[singlepic id=973 w=474 h=355 float=center]

One of the last trout of the season.

Fall on a few of the small rivers feeding into one of the reservoirs offers the thrill of hunting wild browns on the spawn. The last few years I’ve been lucky enough to land one of these browns, including a well-developed 14-inch male with a nice kype. That day, of course, the camera was not-so-handily still at the cabin.

Friday found Sean and me warming up at the small canal where nymphing generally means hooking more wild browns than stocked rainbows. The afternoon was cool and comfortable and overgrown sections of the canal could pass for a small stream elsewhere in the foothills on either side of the Sierras. During the summer, families equipped with spinning rods and bait casting rigs in every bright color imaginable usually line the banks, but this day our company was mostly limited to dogs and their owners out for a walk. We rigged up our rods, picked up a few fish as we walked upstream and called it a day when the growling of our stomachs was louder than the babbling water.

In the usual fashion, it was easier to wake up early knowing that we’d be hunting for browns, so we were out the door before the vaguest light of sunrise. The darkness gave way to the grayness that lends everything a ghostly appearance. We pulled on waders by flashlight and soon ambled down to the creek. The downside and upside to this creek is the abundance of easily fooled hatchery rainbows which we’d have to sort through as we sought Salmo trutta coming up from the lake.

The fish would be hunkered down and absolutely not looking up until midday, dictating an AP Nymph and a red chironomid pupae for me, two of my ‘confidence flies.’ Sean was similarly equipped as he headed downstream. I waded upstream to a deeper run. The rainbows didn’t disappoint, though most seemed to short strike the flies.

Eventually Sean moved downstream, confident in the stability, flexibility and healing ability that come with youth. Many of the downstream pools, pockets and runs are ignored by others, dismissed as to overrun by blackberry bushes and overhanging trees or deemed too small to harbor many, if any, fish. That meant more for us. Sean found the fish, hooking a few, though landing them seemed to be another matter.

[singlepic id=976 w=474 h=355 float=center]

Sean and a nice rainbow.

I eventually joined Sean and we spent the late morning and noontime hoping to get into a brown between catching rainbow trout. A few of the fish that we didn’t land acted and looked suspiciously like brown trout; these un-netted fish appeared better proportioned, more of a torpedo than a football, like fish that, living in the wild, had to work for their food, unlike the stocked rainbow that tended to put on more gut.

[singlepic id=975 w=474 h=355 float=center]

Me and a nice rainbow out of the run in the background.

The next few hours we returned upstream to pools and deep runs where the cookie cutter rainbows stacked up but offered a challenge through the fact that shortly after midday they developed a severe case of lockjaw. We met this challenge by changing over to small green midges and scuds. We did well enough, though Sean was remained a bit displeased that I was out-catching him. Despite my son’s complaint that I landed more fish than he, a gentlemen fishing just downstream offered perspective.

This older gentleman and a younger guy, wearing waders that were too clean and waving barely used rods patiently waited for hookups that never came. Chipping away at that patience, every ten to fifteen minutes, were the fish hooked and landed by Sean and I. Apparently it became too much. The older of these two gentlemen quietly waded to within a rod’s length of me. Tentatively and allowing that it was okay to refuse to answer, he asked, “Could you tell me why you guys are catching all these fish and we got nothing?” With a baffled look that turned into a grin, I think Sean learned that even without keeping pace with dad, he does quite well.

As for how I answered the gentleman from downstream, that’s something for next week.

[nggallery id=73]


by 2 Comments

thinking ahead, and behind

As the days between fishing trips grow more numerous, my thoughts wander. Thoughts coalesce into an inexact catalog of flies that need to be tied and new patterns to be attempted, the fuzzy details of the rod to be built during midwinter, and a rough outline of next year’s fishing trips, mostly of the multi-day variety to out-of-the-way or unfamiliar water.

Then there are the memories. Recent thoughts floating to the surface center on How It All Began.

Flying fishing came later in my life. Prior to that, my limited exposure to the sport was the occasional, distant fly fisher who seemed less fisherman and more of an aerial artist using fly line as his brush. Having more than once employed the fly-and-bubble technique with my spinning rod, I knew that this technique mysteriously allowed the casting of impossibly small flies.

Fly fishing snuck up on me. It was a conspiracy of the fishing gods to bring together opportunity and motive.

My son and I had made an impromptu late August trip to a small stream in the Eastern Sierras. Still an hour or so away from our destination, as can happen in the high mountains, a torrential rainstorm obscured the view of Mono Lake. The spirit of youth overcame the concern of age, and we found ourselves seeking a campsite at least moderately protected by aspens.

I was left to lash a tarp between the trees and the minivan while Christopher bounded though the rain towards the somewhat swollen creek. He’d later tell of how folks he met along the way dismissed his chances of finding any willing fish.

He proved them wrong. Casting a now unknown fly and allowing it to drift below overhanging bushes, he found his first trout with his new fly rod. It was a decent brown, a trout that neither of us had the pleasure of meeting face to face. He returned with a contagious joy. The campsite didn’t seem so damp after all.

Again, as can happen in the Sierras, the next day dawned bright and cloudless. The storm had passed, leaving behind a freshness. Vivid green aspen leaves sparkled with water droplets. From the damp ground wafted a pleasant earthiness. The creek ran clear.

A couple of miles along a graded dirt road, among yet more aspens quaking in a light breeze, is a bend in this stream; upstream, where it emerges from tangled braids of nearly impenetrable brambles. It’s one of those typical Sierra streams, small enough to wade across in three or four strides without getting your knees wet, peppered with small, rounded granite rocks and flowing with gin-clear water under dappled sunlight filtering through pines and aspens. This day, trout were stacked up in riffles near the opposite bank.

Small, lightweight Panther Martin spinners got their attention. In a relatively short period I had landed more than my share by tossing a spinner on the opposite bank, gently pulling it into the water, and letting it drift almost haphazardly downstream to the pod of rainbows. Despite using an ultra-light, 5’6” Fenwick rod the thrill of fooling these trout abated after an hour and half of non-stop catching.

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

It was time for something a bit more challenging. I asked and borrowed my son’s L.L. Bean fly rod with God-knows-what fly attached to a leader that was probably too short. Though it was more akin to lifting and dropping a wet noodle than a real cast, I got the fly onto the water and floating downstream into promising riffles. I cast again. And again.

A quick splash was the first indication of a decent cast. A few more casts. The fly drifted further into the riffles and nearly out of sight. Another splash and I hooked my first trout on a fly rod. It wasn’t big, maybe six inches. It was one of the most beautiful brown trout — and the first — I have held in my hand.

Thinking back, it wasn’t so much the landing of the fish that first sparked my interest in The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. (For the antithesis of meditative fishing, see Unaccomplished Angler’s “Sturgeon on a dry fly.”) Despite the numbers and statistics thrown around by yours truly, it was the contest between me and the fish — the act of attempting to fool a fish with what it thought might be real food — that hooked me.

As many trout as I’ve been lucky enough to land, each time I’m on the water it becomes clearer that I won’t live long enough to truly understand these fish. They remind me of this with their unpredictable reactions to my best presentations, and baffle me with their willingness to take a poorly presented fly. In that lies the challenge that lures me back.


by 3 Comments

a fly fisherman’s distraction…and the upside to becoming an older parent…

Over the last few years, I’ve burned quite a few bytes in this blogspace glorifying my fishing exploits and motorcycling adventures. Not so this time.

The fishing gear was left behind last weekend despite my Pavlovian response to throw a fly rod in the trunk whenever a trip takes me more than 100 miles from home and toward the Sierra Nevada mountains. Yes, our destination was in the foothills of the Sierras; we’d even be near the South Fork of the American River.

However, there is one way to distract this fly fishermen from fishing. Food.

Grapes at Wofford Acres Vineyards

Apple Hill has been a favorite tradition of mine (and the kid’s) for many years. Near as I can figure, I’ve made the 100-mile trek to the hills just near Placerville, Calif., for at least 15 years. This time, however, we’d be without kids; the upside of becoming an older parent. This called for something I’ve thought about many times. An overnight visit.

The Wife and I left home a bit later in the day than expected, driving east on Hwy 80 through Sacramento. Though the early apple season can bring with it unpredictable weather, it also offers fewer people and a more relaxed pace. A clear sky, warm sunshine and winery visits can reinforce that relaxed feeling.

The first stop was the surprising Fenton Herriott Vineyards. They make an interesting semi-sweet/dry Gewurztraminer (not your father’s Gewurztraminer). We were also impressed with the Barbera and Syrah. The next stop was Lava Cap Winery, which didn’t quite tickle our taste buds. Subtle and slight would be my description.

Unknowingly saving the best for last, we followed a single-lane gravel road that when filmed in black and white might otherwise signal one’s pending arrival at out-of-the-way lodging in an Alfred Hitchcock film. (The road is appropriately named Hidden Valley Lane.) In our case we ended up at Wofford Acres Vineyards. This small winery produces some very good wines, including one of the few Sauvignon Blancs I like, a nice “Dulcinea” (Viognier/Rousanne blend), and a Rhone-style red named Iowa Hill and a Pinotage/Petite Sirah blend labeled Redbird Canyon, both of which we liked quite a bit.

And it was only by honest mistake (and thanks to a clue in the way of trout lithographs hanging by the door) that I learned from the wife/owner that the husband/owner enjoys fishing, downhill and just a few miles away on the South Fork of the American River. Because the actual fisherman wasn’t presentLike the good husband, I quickly dismissed any further discussion about fishing in the area.

(When it comes to wineries, the fun factor can play a big part in an enjoyable visit. During our visit to Wofford, they were supporting a breast cancer awareness campaign with barrel tasting for the charity and by wearing supportive t-shirts. The winery supports a good many other causes, including prostate cancer awareness in the spring, when they wear “Go Nads” t-shirts.)

Winter Fishing Food?

I’ve found that there’s no middle ground when it comes to unsolicited dining suggestions. The “suggestor” often doesn’t have a clue as to the taste preferences of the “suggestee.” However, a suggestor’s sheer enthusiasm can often overcome any hesitation.

In a conversation with one of the wine tasting room staff, it was revealed that we were out-of-town interlopers visitors without a clue as to the better dining establishments in town. She nearly jumped up and down to tell us that we must have dinner at Z Pie. The Wife didn’t hear anything after “gourmet pot pies.” It was settled without a word between us.

So it was that we checked into the supposedly haunted Cary House, walked most of downtown Placerville, and ended up at Z Pie. Tucked in an alley, it’s a rather unassuming restaurant. While the tables have white linen tablecloths, brown butcher paper is laid down over the tablecloth, lending the place a decidedly informal atmosphere.

Z Pie's yummy Italian Sausage Pot Pie

The menu surprises with much more than beef or turkey pot pie. Choices include Southwest Chicken, Spicy Black Bean Chili and Steak Cabernet. The Wife jumped for the Lamb with Rosemary while I, apprehensive about a bland dinner, choose the Italian Sausage pie. Both were excellent choices. A gloriously crust, no doubt helped by large amounts of lard, flaky away to reveal wonderfully tasty fillings, with plenty of meat throughout. All in a package that’s just the right size. I couldn’t help think how one of these homey, stick-to-your-ribs pies would make a wonderful lunch on the shore of a favorite fly fishing stream.

Feeling good and not quite too full, I enjoyed an after-dinner gelato while The Wife picked out a glass of wine at The Synapse tasting room. It was nice to simply enjoy time being away from the every day, though I suffered a bit a through a musician unsuccessfully attempting to bring his own style to Beatles songs. He did a much better job with his own music and lyrics.

A plate of comfort

The next morning brought a nice drizzle, as if to make sure we knew fall had begun. That made our next stop that much better. We rolled up to Creek View Ranch, our favorite pastry place and the reason we skipped breakfast, just in time to see the sign flipped to “open,” allowing us to grab a couple of apple cider doughnuts (aka the breakfast of choice for fly fishermen on the road everywhere) and an apple fritter, each full of more apple goodness than should be possible. And those cider doughnuts…the best! A thin crispy crust gives way to a light, soft dough. We sat down on the patio of the old house that now serves as the bakery/gift shop, and enjoyed noshing on warm, gooey goodness, watching a light mist of rain swirl through the trees.

Our weekend finished with the usual stops for juice (Bolster’s Hilltop), a walk through craft booths (High Hill Ranch), and to pick up our traditional Christmas ornament and a lunch of corn dogs and a shared tri-tip sandwich (Boa Vista Orchards). Not once did I push to visit the local fly shop, even as we swung by Z Pie to pick up a frozen pie. We’ll soon see how well it bakes up at home. And no matter the outcome, we’ll be back. Maybe marking a first — our second trip to apple country during a single season.

Yes, we will drive for food.


by 1 Comment

fishing and fun at the cabin

As pledged, I took a 10-year-old boy fishing during our Labor Day visit to the family cabin knowing that it necessitated adapting the use of flies to his abilities. These abilities didn’t include the use of a fly rod.

A later-than-usual departure put us on the water after meat fishermen had occupied most of the best spots. But, predictably, a long, fast run was left wide open.

Connor Labor Day 2010

Connor showing his style...follow those flies...

After reaching this run by making our way through shallow water, I rigged up a fly ‘n bubble on the spinning rod, and rather than the typical dry fly, dropped two weighted nymphs off the end of the bubble. With Connor standing next to me, the demonstration began. I showed him, with a few false casts, how to cast/lob this rig without tangling it. I pointed to the upstream location that would offer the best presentation, then cast to it. I talked about how the bubble and flies should travel to where fish might be positioned. I cautioned him to always stop briefly at the end of every drift, and to slightly lift the rod. I demonstrated this technique. And the bubble disappeared and we got my child-like surprise — a fish on the first cast.

I was excited, so was Connor. After releasing the decent-sized rainbow trout, I handed the spinning rod to Connor, who did a great job of listening, so was able to cast and position the bubble ‘n flies for decent drifts. There was constant urging to take a step or two forward to get a bit more distance, and a few tangles that required my assistance, but he did well.

Well enough to entice half a dozen strikes, and hook most of those. However, there would be no landing of these trout. The fast-moving water, the suddenness of the strikes and perhaps simply a young boy’s excitement might have been a bit too much. I seem to recall that it was tough at that age to remember to keep the rod tip up.

I don’t know if it was this lack of landing fish or just the distractedness that comes with being 10 years old, but after about and hour and a half, Connor was ready to move on to something else. I quick hiked up to a higher position allowed for a cell phone signal and a call to the cabin for taxi service. I did get some additional and somewhat silly fishing in after Connor left. The bite was on through noon and I was able to fool a good number of fish.

I also was able to fool a few wild brown trout during a walk with The Wife and I took along a nearby canal. This is where the family schnauzer, Nevada, got his first face-to-face meeting with trout. I don’t think he liked the fact that I put his newfound friends back in the water.

The rest of our weekend was filled with wine tasting, swimming in the lake, eating good food and generally enjoying time being away from the everyday.

In the end, I’d call Connor’s fishing experience a good one. The proof of success will be in whether he again asks to be taken fishing.

Labor Day Rainbow 2010

A nice 'bow on an Ice Cream Cone Chironomid.


by Leave a comment

the best lesson

While I’ll be attending my son’s graduation ceremony in a few hours, in my mind Christopher has already gone through a “graduation” of sorts. Over the past few years he’s taken many small steps, and some big steps, towards gradually becoming a young man anyone might be proud to know.

It’s not been an easy path. But that’s a story for him to tell.

What truly matters is that he’s been considering and examining the next steps in his life, long before his ceremonial graduation on the Sacramento campus of Universal Technical Institute. The ability to look ahead — and appropriately move forward — seems too often shoved aside by young people’s thoughts dwelling on life’s unfairness, a sense of entitlement, laziness, or any combination of these and other excuses factors. This ability to forge ahead is an essential life skill, one of the most important talents one can hope to have in his or her arsenal and one equally applicable to a person’s professional and personal lives. As a parent, it’s a skill that I’ve always hoped would come easily and early to all of my kids.

An education of sorts, for me, coincided with Christopher’s growth during these years. It’s easy, common and sometimes important for a parent to judge a child’s behavior by their own standards. It can be just as valuable, albeit difficult, to consider how a child is viewed by the outside world. Once parents do, they can find pride in knowing that an employer calls upon their son or daughter to fill in when other employees don’t show up. There’s pride in knowing that a son gets up, works a four- or five-hour shift, then drives the 63 miles to campus for a day’s worth of learning, all on his own. Not to mention that he’s one of the top five students in his current course.

In a few hours we will set aside some time to appreciate Christopher’s accomplishments. Greater than those accomplishments, however, will be the (hopefully always) present ability and the wherewithal to move forward, reaching for that better future.  Without looking forward, into many possible futures, it’s likely that my son wouldn’t graduating today.

Good job, and congratulations, Christopher.

Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-raising, they are unemployed.” ~ Erma Bombeck


by 2 Comments

my summer vacation 2010 — post #4(the post that almost wasn’t)

I had expected my previous post would be the last regarding my summer trip to the rural side of the family, but I did cram in a bit more fun. So, we’ll wrap it up today.

I had certain designs for this trip and can happily report they were fulfilled.

Except for the fishing, I really didn’t put any preplanning into the other days I’d be in the Evergreen State. But there were two goals nestled in my subconscious.

[singlepic id=952 w=200 h=267 float=center]

The Washington Nephews.

Top of the list was reinforcement of my Cool Uncleness. I won’t lay claim to being the first guy to publicly acknowledge a premeditated goal of becoming The Cool Uncle. And nowadays an Internet search will yield copious advice on how to become a cool uncle. I feel, however, that while one can study cool uncle strategies and tactics all day long, but it means so much less if it doesn’t bubble up from the heart.

Only the ‘phews can gauge my success, but I can honestly say that, at the very least, I’ve given them memories that shouldn’t vanish for quite a while. Just ask Nick and Nathan about the crazy snow dance.

Tuesday allowed me to fulfill the second goal: securing Encores direct from Boehms Candies in Issaquah. It’s a tradition: never return home to The Wife without Encores in hand. Not a bad deal, considering I get to enjoy some as well. I’m a bit worried, however, that this custom may soon loose some of its allure. My sister-in-law mentioned that occasional one can find Encore on sale at a local grocery store. On the other hand, there’s that extra bag of Boehms’ chocolates that enviably finds its way into the trunk, only to disappear during the next two hours or less.

Despite having resided in Issaquah for approximately nine months way back when, I never did visit the (somewhat redundant) Triple XXX Rootbeer Drive-In. It’s less than 1,100 feet away from Boehms, so I availed myself that afternoon of the opportunity to pop my Triple XXX Rootbeer cherry.

The Triple XXX root beer, like many root beers, has its own distinct flavor, but is much closer to the mainstream root beer style we all know. I opted for the Chevelle S/S 396 burger. It was good. Not drive-out-of-your-way great, but good.

There was no way I was going to tempt fate by ordering the “Famous Incredible XXX Burger.” (Check it out at the top of the menu.) A gentleman across the isle — a big, tattooed, barrel-chested guy — ordered it, asked the waiter to take a picture of him, his wife/girlfriend and the burger. He then tired to eat the whole thing. He failed. Were my 20-year-old and 22-year-old sons with me, perhaps with my nephews batting clean up, I might have tried.

[singlepic id=953 w=474 h=356 float=center]

Hmmmmmm...wonder what happens if I turn the key?

That evening offered an opportunity to do the uncle thing at the National Night Out celebration in Monroe. I met up with my brother, his wife and the nephews to view the various organizations and demonstrations. There were two highlights: a water rescue and my brother showing the young ‘uns how it’s done at the U.S. Marine booth.

[singlepic id=951 w=220 h=293 float=center]

What style, what grace.

It seems that the carrot works better than the stick when it comes to Mark. The Marines were offering various trinkets to folks who could complete five or so pull ups. But for Mark, it was all about the hat. I don’t recall the precise number of pull ups required to win the hat, maybe 12, but it was a count higher than most men over 40 might finish without straining something. There was a particular coolness and grace to Mark’s pull ups; the shades, a tilt of the head, and the extension of the belly as a counterbalance. He did get the hat.

My last full day started as usual with breakfast with the folks. My sister-in-law graciously volunteered to pick me up and drop me off to see a movie, the picked me up to spend more time with the nephews. Little did I know, the nephews swore off playing any video games until I could play with them. (I think that shows some dedication on their part!)

I was a bigger gamer back in the day, and still dabble now and again. However, that afternoon we were playing Super Mario, a game that arrived on the scene long after I had moved on to first-person shooters. But as with anything habitually practiced, gaming muscles seem to have a memory. Soon I was keeping pace with these half-pints and we were all having a good time. Then an opportunity arrived to ratchet up the Cool Uncle factor.

Don’t ask me the level we were playing ‘cause I don’t know; but it was difficult. After a few attempts to get through, Levi was knocked out of the game. Kaden and I were trying to climb our way up, jumping from moving stones to swinging platforms and through zombies. Kaden’s character fell to his virtual death. Four eyes were flitting back and forth between the television screen and this uncle from California. Sweat beaded on my brow. This was no time for button mashing. With a little bit of luck great deal of skill, I completed the level to an exclamation of “Awesome!” from Levi and “That’s what I’m talking about!” from Kaden. I think Kaden was even more excited when he discovered that the newly opened level was underwater, where he could swim his character while fending off fish and avoiding huge scallops.

I figure this is a memory that will stick around for a while. At least until another Cool Uncle memory comes along. A nice thing is that this coolness goes both ways. I’ve got some pretty awesome memories of time I’ve spent with nephews. (If you’ve noticed, I’ve not mentioned nieces. I don’t have any.)

The afternoon faded away. The nephew’s dad returned from work. We loaded everyone into the truck and it was off to a last dinner out with the folks and my brother’s family at one of the many fine family dining establishments in Duvall, Wash.

____________________________________
The Evidence
(Use “Compatibility View” in Internet Explorer if pictures overlap.)

[nggallery id=71]


by 2 Comments

my summer vacation 2010 — post #3(and what I will do again)

…continued from part 2:

Sunday was only the day between the days that I’d be fishing. Saturday was set aside for salmon. Monday would be time for more gentlemanly and sporting fly fishing; dad’s first experience of fly fishing, ever, and my first visit to the Yakima River.

[singlepic id=938 w=230 h=307 float=center]

Looking downstream on The Yak.

The plan called for hooking up with guide Derek Young in Snoqualmie at eleven o’clock that morning, meaning a leisurely drive from Duvall under gray skies. As with many of my guided fly fishing trips, there’s months of anticipation and correspondence, including probably too many questions from me, followed by the first face-to-face meeting.

Derek’s one of the growing number of guide/acquaintances who are forcing me to come to grips with age. Used to be I’d expect a guide to be a fellow with at least a few years on me. No so much anymore. Young(er) is fast becoming my description of the guides I’m meeting.

We climbed into Derek’s truck after quick introductions, and took off east on Highway 90 towards Ellensburg. The drive offered a good opportunity to set goals and expectations for the day, peppered by an abbreviated education of the scenery passing our windows, its geography and its history. The miles were marked by a slow transition from the wet side of the Cascade Mountains to the dry side, and overcast gave way to clear, blue skies. A quick stop was made in Ellensburg to arrange for shuttle service, and then it was off to our put-in point.

As one who typically wades into trout waters, larger rivers can be intimidating. The Yakima was no exception this day, running somewhere near 3,000 cubic feet per second. Derek placed The Green Drake, our boat for the day, in the river. Rods were rigged and safety stressed. We’d be doing a float of about five miles through the Farmlands section of the river, with a first stop shortly downstream to warm up our casting arms.

[singlepic id=939 w=474 h=356 float=center]

Derek holding court.

Dad took up the seat on the bow — often referred to as the ‘hot seat’ as it’s the first part of the boat to pass fishy water — and I perched on the stern. It was warm, verging on hot, but the cool water of the river, with sort of glaciated green cast to it, offered natural air conditioning.

It was a short ride downstream before Derek pulled alongside a small island near the far bank. Derek was recommended not only a great guide for the Yakima, but as a teacher. Besides getting me on to some fish, the hope was to ‘learn’ my dad a bit about fly fishing. Throughout the day Derek would work alongside dad, offering guidance on casting, reading the water and answering questions about insects, the river, trout and darn near anything.

I wasn’t left entirely on my own. Remember, most everything I fish in California can be waded across without much trouble, but with a bit of direction and some pointers Derek sent me toward some fishy spots. Meanwhile, Derek would get dad acquainted with the tools of the trade and casting.

[singlepic id=941 w=474 h=356 float=center]

Class in session: dad and Derek seeking fish.

This first stop put me in position to target the bank with an upstream cast, tossing dries under some overhanging branches and along grassy edges. Either that sixth ‘guide sense’ kicked in or upon seeing I was without much love, Derek suggested I cast towards the middle of the river, targeting a seam created by gravel bar.

Sure enough, it was fish on. These small Yakima rainbows were rising to my CDC PMD. (For non fly fishers, that’s a Pale Morning Dun tied with Cul de Canard — that’s French for duck bottom — feathers, highly waterproof feathers that sit on top of or near the preen gland of ducks and geese.) Half a dozen or so ‘bows came to hand. An occasional ten- or eleven-inch hatchery Chinook offered a pleasant surprise. I sure hope that years down the road I still feel that sense of magic that comes with fooling that first fish in unfamiliar water.

During the float to our next stop, dad was characteristically full of questions and Derek was the man with the answers. As mid-afternoon approached, we pulled up at the end of a side channel. I was told it was my turn to learn a little something. Fly fishing’s so far been a single-handed affair for me. But I wanted to swing flies, and that meant trying out an Orvis switch rod.

The fly rods familiar to most folks entail a single handle in front of the reel. Switch rods, the lighter cousin to the larger and heavier two-handed Spey rods, can be cast with one or two hands, and like Spey rods, offer additional length and casting power. Derek waded next to me to demonstrate the grip, rolls casts and Spey casts. And caught a few small trout during the demonstration. Yeah, a little humbling, this not-even-trying-yet-still-catching thing that guides do.

[singlepic id=944 w=240 h=180 float=center]

Me, attempting to swing a wet fly.

Left on my own, while Derek and dad targeted the side channel, my tentative casts with the switch rod put a wet fly out and down, with the tip of the rod following the swing. The idea is to cast and swing a few times, bringing the fly into the edge of downstream riffles, then taking a step downstream to repeat the process. Casting’s not been my strong point over the years, but both my roll and Spey casts got a bit better. Good enough to hook two Yakima trout.

Though I could have stayed and swung flies for a few more hours, it was time to pull anchor and float to lunch our next stop. Upon sidling up on the rocky finger of another island, dad and I tested the waters while Derek set up the table and chair and laid out a great lunch of sandwiches, salad, fruit and the enemy of waistlines everywhere, chips. I don’t know if it’s the physical exertion of fishing (apparently dad came to realize that fly fishing is much more than tossing a line in the water and sitting back in a ratty lawn chair with a cheap beer), or simply being outdoors, but food takes on more vibrant flavors when consumed riverside.

[singlepic id=958 w=474 h=356 float=center]

Lunch on the river. Doesn't get much better.

Fighting off the inclination to nap, Derek led us to another side channel he knows to hold fish. He again demonstrated the not-even-trying-yet-still-catching trick, getting a few trout to rise to casts to indicate where we should lay our flies. I was able to reach up and under the overhanging branches to bring up a fair share of rises, but the strikes seemed a bit half hearted. But, being one who tends fish with flies underwater, it was fun to elicit splashes at the surface.

[singlepic id=947 w=230 h=307 float=center]

A Yakima Rainbow pull up with a nymph.

Knowing that I pride myself on adequate nymphing skills, Derek rigged up a rod with two nymphs, one a stone fly of his own modified design. After a few passes through a deep pool just downstream of our lunch spot, a few strikes indicated that fish were home and hungry. A few more passes and two fish came to hand. (Now dad knows what I mean when talking about “dredging up some big fish on nymphs.”)

The day began with the hope that good hatches would show up around sundown. They never materialized. The last mile or so involved my chucking nymphs toward the banks as we floated by. The take-out came up fast. The boat was trailered, rods disassembled and our weary bodies loaded into the truck.

I’d like to say with certainty that it was a big fish that broke off a few flies in the logjams during the last mile or so. Maybe. Maybe not. I hope to find out next time.

There will be a next time.


by 7 Comments

my summer vacation 2010 – post #2(or what we won’t do again)

…continued from part 1:

My intention was to follow up our first Alaska fishing trip with a second this year.

Intentions, however, have a tendency to be fleeting. The rising cost of airfare, family commitments, and life in general pushed aside any still-unformed plans for a triumphant return to Alaska.

Which is when the idea of trying for salmon in the waters off Washington began to germinate.

Suggestions of a multi-day stay in Westport faded away amid concerns of storms closing down fishing. In the end, the agreement was to hire a charter to chase Puget Sound king salmon.

[singlepic id=936 w=230 h-173 float=center]

Why is this man smiling?

That’s how I found myself restlessly laying in bed, not really sleeping, waiting for the alarm to buzz at 3:30 a.m. If there’s anything that makes me revert to the giddiness of childhood, it’s anticipation of a day of fishing.

It’s that same anticipation that lends an almost laughable seriousness to the pace of my preparations. I was up, fed and ready in fifteen minutes. Dad was still seeking that eyelid-opening fight sip of coffee.

What happens when you're filming and people think you're taking a still photo.

Greg, dad’s neighbor, was one of three guys joining us, with my brother rounding out the six pack. Greg impresses me as someone who also takes fishing seriously. The plan was to be on the road at 4:00 a.m. Greg was backing the Tacoma Double Cab into the driveway at 3:50 a.m. Dad shoveled down some breakfast, and with coolers loaded, we hit the road long before any reasonable commuter would even roll out of bed.

I called Mark to let him know we were on the road and the drive dissolved into friendly chit chat. A second call revealed that Mark was a short distance ahead of us, and we caught up with him on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, crossing Lake Washington. A quick stop allowed Mark to park his truck and join us; then it was north to the Shilshole Marina.

At the dock, under heavy overcast, we arrived before the charter captain as well as Rowland and his son Jessie, the last of our group. The captain and deckhand showed up a few minutes later, leaving instructions to head down the dock when our last two fishermen were on scene. Rowland and Jessie pulled up a bit later, and down the dock we went.

The water was dark and the boat not ready. Perhaps a sign, but one easily ignored in our excitement. Soon we boarded and began to motor towards Whidbey Island. Less than half an hour out, lines were in the water. During that time it also grew clearer that the captain had enlisted a friend to act as first mate — a friend who wasn’t too familiar with the captain’s usual techniques.

[Now would be a good time to lend some perspective. When Mark, dad and I fished for halibut in Alaska’s Cook Inlet, Captain Daniel and First Mate Dylan operated as the proverbial well-oiled machine. Their boat was squared away and each knew what to do and when to do it, with little wasted motion and maximization of the fishing experience. Maybe we were spoiled by this experience, but it’s the bar by which my brother and I now measure any charter boat and its crew.]

The question arose as to who would be first up, and my gracious companions agreed that as the organizer of this little adventure, it would be me. I didn’t have to wait long. The tip of port-side rod seemed to stutter, then went down. I grabbed the rod, set the hook, and it was fish on. Trolling means there can be 100-plus feet of line out, and our first look at this king was quite a distance out, but close enough to elicit ‘oh my God’ or ‘holy mackerel’ from my boat mates.

[singlepic id=929 w=474 h=356 float=center]

The King Jumps

After what seemed like thirty minutes but in truth was probably closer to five, I had gained line. About thirty feet off the stern the fish slowly crested the surface, then dove. It quickly took back some line and jumped, nearly lifting its entire body out of the water, shaking its head. The plug suddenly flew towards my head. I ducked. I cursed. I wondered what I did wrong.

Humbled and shaking my head in disbelief, I slumped in a chair. A buzz of excitement lingered in the moist air, only to die away when it was discovered that the hook broke. My disbelief shifted.

Thankfully, the morning bite was on. In short order it was Mark’s turn up. The starboard rod went down and he was fishing. His fishing was cut short when the line broke. My disbelief grew.

Dad was next up. All eyes were on him to change our luck. Fish on and he was in the fight. He uttered something about the fish being gone and was admonished by the captain to keep reeling. Sure enough, like kings will do, this fish was running toward the boat. Slack was taken and line tension regained. Finally, a nice looking fish was brought onboard.

It was soon clear that the fishing this day wasn’t going gangbusters. Some boats were still without even a hook up. The rest of the morning disappeared as we continued to troll, leaving behind the bulk of the “fleet” to chase bait balls in deeper water.

Time gets lost in the gray of an overcast ocean, but within a couple of hours Rowland and Jessie were able to land fish.

No way this fish was getting away.


Big Fish of the Trip

[singlepic id=933 w=227 h=303 float=center]

Rowland & His King

[singlepic id=935 w=227 h=303 float=center]

Jessie & Big Fish of the Day

Jessie’s king was crowned Big Fish of the Day. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone can be certain if Greg missed the hookset on a few fish or not.

The trip back to port always seems much longer when a boat hasn’t limited out. Did we have a good time as a group? I think the answer is yes, it was a good guys’ day out.

However… Reflecting upon our halibut experience in Alaska didn’t help Mark and me to find a way of reconciling what we’d come to call hardware failures. There won’t be a next time. We’d rather put the money towards the next trip to Alaska.

I’m already eyeing dates in 2012.

Early morning, rocking boat; just about enough put anyone dad to sleep.
Greg (at the end of the video) thinks it's pretty funny.


by 3 Comments

my summer vacation 2010 – post #1

My PNW vacation is over. Family were visited, friendships started, fish sought and some caught. In between there was beer, uncle time, time to myself, and general re-acquaintance with the place.

Thrust back into the routine, I’ll be back at work today, and have the weekend to recover, in between yard work and car washing. In the rear view mirror are great memories that began a week and a day ago.

This trip was marked with my first experience flying with fly fishing gear, including two rods and matching reels. Despite worries that TSA personnel might consider fly line a strangling risk, not once did I have to submit to questions or a strip search of any kind. I did, however, leave desiccant (a white, nondescript powder to non fly fishers) at home to avoid the whole anthrax issue.

The retired folks who raised us took time out of their busy schedule to provide transport to my lodging, which, funny enough, they also provided, and without any hint of compensation. (We’ll get back to that.) I’d love to say that Mother Nature welcomed me to Seattle with blazing sunshine, but, well, it’s Seattle: overcast and gray. I interrupted the ride home with a stop for lunch in celebration of Mom’s birthday. My brother and his family, in a surprise appearance, joined us. It was a fun family meal.

The first beer I've met that I didn't like.

That evening, thanks to wifely permission, “little brother” Mark and I headed out for a bit of a beer adventure. I’d like to say that I never met a beer I didn’t like. That’s no longer true after our experience that evening with a flight at a local bar and grill. Of seven beers, we deemed only one barely acceptable for our palates. And we’re not beer snobs. Thankfully, it was the time together that mattered more than the beer, and after moving along to another source, we found better-tasting brew. I remember later appreciating that my brother’s wife put out the air mattress, and laying down. That’s it. Sleep came fast.

Next I knew, it sounded as if cartoon characters where running around the house. Nephews Kaden and Levi were up and it was time to begin some “uncling.” I don’t claim any particular knack for this art, but there’s a certain pride that comes with one’s nephews (or nieces, but I don’t’ have any) knowing you’re the uncle. It’s even better when they remember you because of fun times. (Insert comment here about me acting their age.)

Fair is fair, so Mark and I stayed with the boys to allow their mom a bit of away time. As an uncle who grew up when the biggest video game was PONG, it was natural that I’d join the ‘phews in a game of Super Mario. With a timer set to ruin our fun at any moment, we jumped into the game as I struggled to recall how to play; all the while watching the boys go Donkey Kong all over me. Called back to reality by the buzz of the timer, we gobbled down some breakfast and assembled for a walk in the woods along the Skykomish River.

[singlepic id=918 w=474 h=356 float=center]

The Nephews at the Skykomish River

If there’s any one thing that I like about the upper King County/Snohomish County area, it’s the easy access to nature, whether woods, rivers or mountains. It was a good time walking on trails in the Al Borlin Park, which parallels the Skykomish. A good place to get some fresh air, throw rocks into the river and just be outside. Also an opportunity for an uncle to show off his mad rock-skipping skills.

We closed the day with a late and long lunch at the folks’ place.

Then it was time to hit the sack early. Alarms were set for 3:30 a.m. in anticipation of Saturday’s salmon fishing. For some of us it would be fishing, hooking, but not landing; but that’s the next post, which should be number two of three.


by 3 Comments

in the middle of something

Because I’m writing this ahead of time, by the time you read this I won’t be here.

The there where I’ll be, and am as you read this, is roughly 18.5 miles east northeast of downtown Seattle. It’ll take a plane, a train and automobiles to get where I’m going.

We’re on day two of our visit with the folks who raised us and the brother who bothered us, and his family. Tomorrow starts at oh-dark-thirty to chase Oncorhynchus tshawy in Puget Sound with dad, bro and friends. It ain’t Alaska, but a beer budget limits the distance we can travel; but it should be fun.

Sunday is open to possibilities. One hope is that thanks to imposing on the generosity of former strangers, there might be some learning on local waters. Maybe some Snoqualmie trout.

Monday morning will find us on the way to unfamiliar waters with dad and fishing guide Derek, with hopes for a day made up of more than a few firsts. A first fly fishing float on the Yakima River for both of us. The first fly fishing at all for dad. Our first gourmet shore lunch. (No pressure, Derek.) If all goes well, a first Yakima River cutthroat for me; dad, too.

In between there are no great plans, more of a continuation of a previous visit with relations, young and old. (I’m beginning to believe that long-distance relatives you want to see should be seen at a frequency no less than three months and no greater than eight months.)

It’s pretty certain that beer and good food will figure into things.

Happy summertime, y’all.