I came down off the ramp and dropped der hammer. German
Engineering shot right up to 85mph. Even with 245,364 on the clock, 4.5Gs still
“ain’t no thing” for the 1.8. The big pipe hanging out the back screamed,
“Death to the polar bear!” in a low throaty rumble. It seemed unfortunate to me
that something as awesome as internal combustion, could also be so totally
evil. I knew there must be a way to save the planet and still enjoy German
Engineering and loud pipes, but I would have to figure that one out later. I
was on I-5 South, next stop Steelhead Paradise. It was 6:35am.
The water was looking good. I started at my new favorite
tailout. Because I am addicted to misery, I often like to fish spots where
landing a fish would be near impossible. And so it was here. The whole river
comes down and drains though a narrow slot on the opposite side. The fish, hang
out on the far side of a rocky spine which splits the whole thing in two. You
fish from one position at the top, there is really nowhere else to go. If you
hooked one and it took off down river, you would be completely screwed. But, it
would be a truly beautiful tragedy. I had hooked up twice in one sitting here a
few weeks ago. Both times the fish came unbuttoned shortly after the line came
tight. The feeling resembled a knife through heart. I started casting. It was
8:25am.
I thought about a girl that I work with. She is way too
fucking gorgeous, and it’s a real problem. I work at a tea factory, so my buddy
back East immediately dubbed her, “The Tea Baroness” when I originally
mentioned the situation to him. Clever nicknames aside, that chick gives me
funny feelings. In the interest of the children, that’s all I’ll say about
that. I will however say, that I don’t think it’s right or fair that I should
have to look at something like that, just to earn a lively hood. It’s inhumane.
Besides which, when I asked her for some time, she didn’t even have the decency
to say she didn’t care. Instead, she gave me some line about not dating people
she works with. Frankly, I don’t remember saying anything about a date. All I want
to do, is pour her a glass of wine, and throw another log on the fire, while
rubbing her feet and watching “Jerry Maguire” on a bearskin rug. Right away,
she’s gotta throw the word “date” out there. Dames.
I ripped my line off the water and bombed a Peyton
Manning-esque cast straight to the back of the end zone. I watched it swing. I
watched the water dump over the glassy lip and descend into frothy madness. It
was so juicy, there had to be a fish here. It was cold and my hands hurt. I
pulled in the line and watched the fly at my feet. I wasn’t all that jazzed
about it, so I switched it out for a classic, the “Summer of Love”. I fished through
once more and left. Apparently, there was not a fish here, or so I told myself.
On the way back up, I picked up the Big Gulp cup that I had walked past the
previous four times. When I got back to the car, I threw it on the floor amidst
fly boxes, a reel, a car charger for a cell phone, my pack, and other various
refuse. I think there were some flies down there loose, as well. Whatever.
I hiked in to another sweet tailout. It’s harder to come in
on the trail side, but that’s the better side. I did what I had to. When I got
down there I was less than stoked to see a rig parked up top, on the road side.
I held out hope, but sure enough, as I made my first cast, the wader swathed
heathen appeared. He was picking his way down with what looked like dual spey
rods. I prepared myself for a bad time. He got down there and waded in, I was
ready to holler. He was futzing with his line, and to my delight when he
finished he just stood there, and waited. Goddam right. I finished up, and as I
reeled in, he started. It’s nice when you can have that.
As I left the bait water and headed for points onward and
upward, I noticed a guy drifting a bobber in the gigantic pool that the
hatchery birds school up in. This was now two more people than I had wanted to
see. I was feeling a little stressed, so I dug around in the glove box, and found
my Misfits Collection I disk. I popped it in. As soon as I heard Glenn Danzig
crooning his desire to adorn his wall with my decapitated head, I instantly
felt better. Now we were in the spirit of things. I drove on.
It has been suggested, or more to point, flat out told to
me, that fishing above a certain bridge after January is bad business. I do my
best to play ball, with the exception of the spot directly above said bridge. It’s just too sweet. I worked it twice with not so much as bump.
This was all the sea lions’ fault, and I knew it. I hoped someone would file a
lawsuit soon to get rid of those things. I mean, the nerve of those guys!
Congregating at manmade structures that impede fish passage and taking
advantage, all to satisfy their basest survival needs. It was not cool. After
all, people never fish at dams, and even if they did, sea lions have killed way
more fish than people ever did. It’s a scientific fact. I left there in my
usual condition, skunked beyond all recognition.
As I made my way back down, Glenn was singing about a time
when he had apparently turned into a Martian. “Man, that guy sure has had some
wild times”, I thought. Just then, I passed yet another rig. I had had enough.
It was time for some secret spots.
By their very nature, secret spots do not have parking
nearby. I shut off the car, and started carrying my rod down the road. When I
got to the spot, I climbed down in.
I was standing there,
surrounded by great slabs of stone that rose straight out of the water to
heights far above my head. Like the fish that moved silently past them, they
were monuments to the beginning of time. I could not hear a sound except for
the crashing river, and the soft trickle of water moving between my legs. Even
the Ouzel which sat on a nearby perch twittering away seemed somehow muted. The
air hung deathly still, and the hollow cold which engulfed me contained a sweet
sadness that was so hauntingly beautiful, I could barely stand it. I am often
moved to tears by the sheer magnitude of this place. That does not happen
anywhere else, ever. It’s fair to say that my fascination with Steelhead is
largely driven by my jealousy over the places they get to live. I fish these
spots too long. I cannot bear to leave them.
I lit a cigarette, and watched yet another swing commence, I
was so hungry. Not only for a grab, but also for a sandwich, which I had
neglected to bring. There is no karma in fly fishing. There is only the river,
the fish, and the gods. All of which are equally fickle, and largely
unconcerned with the desires of a Pennsylvania boy with a fish jones, an aching heart, and an
empty stomach.
It was getting to be that part of the day when hope fades
into resignation. Nonetheless, I decided to hit just one more spot. It was
doozey. In order to get the spot where you fish, it is necessary to pick your
way across a rock reef. I was beat. A couple times I stopped and looked at what
lay ahead. I tried to decide whether this was going to be worth it. My feet were
less than sure, and I did NOT want to go swimming. It was pointless, of course
I was going to risk it.
I got out there and started casting. This was a good spot. I
was throwing cache-handed Snap Ts off of my left shoulder. I watched each one
sail out and unfold over the water, before dropping the fly with a tiny plop. I
was just about to start thinking about the Tea Baroness again, when something
stopped the fly. I felt drag build on the line. Without thinking, I raised the
rod. For a split second the line came tight and then went slack again.
Something had moved. “OH MY GOD!” I wheezed. I started shaking uncontrollably.
I couldn’t believe it. Everything had gone to ruin. I had worked so hard and so
long, only to fuck it up when it mattered most. I swung the fly through again
and again. Maybe I could get another chance. I knew that I couldn’t. I tried to
tell myself that it had just been a snag, but the fly never stopped again. It
had been a take, and I knew it. I switched flies and went through again.
Useless.
The wind was coming up now, and the light was fading. I would
have thrown everything I had into that hole, but the thought of crossing back over the
reef in the dark was purely terrifying. I had to go. I picked my way back
across. I was leaning hard on my staff. I got back to the car and changed.
There were some very wet spots on my pants, apparently the result of a run in I
had had earlier with some blackberries. Oh, well. I stared at the water, and
smoked a cigarette. I thought long and hard about calling off from work
tomorrow and sleeping in the car, right there. But no, it was no good. I took
one last, very long look at the water, and I got the hell out of there. It was
4:33pm.
When I got home, I found the front door just as I had left
it, in darkness. I was just about ready for a beer and a round eyed woman. But
I would settle for just the beer.