Guides

I cannot bear to leave them.

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.

JUICE

What is Juice? A tasty and refreshing beverage concocted from any variety of fruits? Cran-Ras anyone? Well, it can be, but that's not what we're talking about here.

Juice is putting your knee to the board and grabbing the rail as a 10' right comes curling over your head. Paddling out with an offshore wind behind you. You come over the swell and the salt spray comes down all around you. Juice is the 8 wave set that rolls in after everyone has been sitting on the boards for the last 20 minutes. Just like that, guys are taking off, hooting and hollering as the those big rollers come crashing through, one right after another. It's electric.

Juice is a 90' cast that turns over perfectly and drops the fly directly in the seam.  Juice is the swing cut short by the solid take of a Wild Steelie that ain't messin' around. It's wading out in the half light of dawn, pulling out line, anything could happen. And really, just the fact that you're standing there is good enough, but still, you could end up kneeling in cold water holding 24" of Steelhead until it goes thrashing out of your shaking hands.

Juice is laying high snares over solid 4-on-the-floor beats. You drop that shit, and feel all the ants running around under your scalp.

Juice is that spot in the powerband between the top of 3rd and the bottom of 4th. Let out the clutch, and that bitch just pulls.

Juice is the first kiss on the REALLY cute girl that you've been crushing on FOREVER. Enough said.


Juice is Led Zepplin's "Heartbreaker".     Those first few chords. Yeah.


Juice is letting an attacker beat you, and then bringing your stick over his head and checking his back hand so hard that he loses the ball and his stick. Coach hates this move. Sorry coach, it's Juice.

Juice is a Kirby Morgan 2700 on your head as you're cutting steel with fire underwater.

Juice is the skate sessions we used to have in the concrete drainage behind King's Supermarket. 6 or 7 guys all on the same page, all pushing each other and ourselves. Your doing stuff you never even thought of before. Some of those guys we didn't even know, but it didn't matter at all, it was just flowing. Those were the sessions that went until it got so dark we couldn't see anything. No one wanted to stop.

Juice is pure awesomeness manifesting itself in your reality. When everything is dialing in, and you are in the center of the dial. It's just fucking clicking. As a general rule of thumb, if you've got goosebumps, you've likely got Juice. Simply put, Juice is why I get out of bed in the morning. Because really, no one ever got Juice in bed. Well,  not unless that REALLY cute girl stayed over.

Tao 1

Tao can be talked about, but not the Eternal Tao.
Names can be named, but not the Eternal Name.

As the origin of heaven-and-earth, it is nameless:
As "the Mother" of all things. it is nameable.

So, as ever hidden, we should look at it's inner essence:
As always manifest, we should look at it's outer aspects.

These two flow from the same source, though diferently named;
And both are called mysteries.

The Mystery of mysteries is the Door of all essence.

Epic Steelie cures hangover

I had been working the Sandy off and on all winter, and had really only gotten into one hatchery fish, which was taken at Oxbow Park. At some point, my lack of success, and the bait chucking masses got the better of me and I had a meltdown. I posted my tales of woe to another forum, and came up with an invite from a guy that I had actually met previously to come up and fish the upper river with him. I, of course, graciously accepted. We ended up fishing the weekend of St. Patty's Day.
The morning of, I was a little off. We had been up late the night before drinking and talking Steelhead, so I was a little groggy, and I had a little headache going. Your basic hangover. There was also a strong upstream wind at the first spot we fished, and I was trying to acclimate myself to the floating mono running line I had rigged up the night before. I was finding it hard to maintain. Still, I soldiered on, fished the water completely, and then we retired for some breakfast. Dave had already taken one behind me, nymphing. Feeling a bit better after some steak, eggs, potatoes, and a spot of tea, we set out again. The second run he put me on was a dream. Slow green braids twisting around some choicely positioned boulders. If there was a fish anywhere, it was in there.
I started casting.
About ten casts in, I got tired of the dumbell eyes I was tossing and traded up in favor of a simple un-weighted Hoh Bo pattern. I resumed casting. After about about ten swings, and nine steps down, the line came tight. A second after the fish rolled on top, I heard Dave let out a deep "YEAH!!" from behind me. It was on. The first run was a killer, the fish took out at least 250 feet on me, waaaay into the backing before it finally quit. The rest as they say, is history. This is why I don't mind waiting two or three months between fish.

 

All photos by Dave Kilhefner.

Sammy Hagar is NOT OK!

I just want to get that out there right away. There is really no excuse for him, or his sound. The fact that his shit was actually released under the name "Van Halen" only compounds the issue. Seriously, what the fuck!? It's a huge problem.

The radio would actually be an alright place to hang out if it wasn't for Sammy Hagar. As it is you are constantly being ambushed by suck. You think you're getting Van Halen, and then you get this clown. It's fucking enough already!! For this reason, I have taken a vow. For the remainder of my days I must be, HAGAR FREE! No matter what the cost, I refuse to listen for more than the few seconds it takes to fly across the room and change the station, shut off, or destroy any device that would attempt to assault me. The time for gnashing teeth and wringing hands has passed. The time when grin and bear it was an acceptable answer has come and gone. This is not the place for tolerance. Because, at the end of the day, tolerance IS acceptance. And there can be no acceptance, for Sammy Hagar. Fuck him.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0j0xBfRasw