Steelhead fishing with Glenn Danzig

 

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 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 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.

 

 

I'm only trout fishing.

The whole place had burned. It had been 9 years since I fished this river. In that time a lot had happened. Evidently, not much of it had been good. An older guy from town who I enjoy having lunch with, warned me to prepare myself for what I would find. I could see why. The whole place was toast. Instead of driving through a forest of densely packed firs, I was moving through a landscape I barely recognized. Burnt snags as far as the eye could see. Only a handful of trees still survived. Campsites and day use sites previously hidden from view could now clearly be seen from the road. It sucked. The river was much more visible as well. At least that still looked good.

There’s never any Steelhead up here this early in the Spring, except that sometimes there are. That didn’t matter to me though. For both monetary and ethical reasons, I had failed to secure the proper licenses for Steelhead and Salmon fishing. I’m not really interested in loading this river with hatchery turds, nor am I interested in murdering sea lions. So, for legal reasons, I was only trout fishing. This was fine of course; I enjoy trout fishing. And hey, if a guy should happen to catch a Steelhead by accident while trout fishing, I hardly think he should be blamed for it. In fact, I’m sure it happens all the time.

I fished a tailout that I remembered enjoying back when I was a Steelheader. The casting was rusty, but passable. I was swinging a green muddler and hoping for the best. I stood there looking up at the burnt trees spread out on the hillside above me. What a drag. I threw another cast, and watched it swing. Repeat. The sound of water gurgling past the rocks on the opposite side of the river mixed with the sound of the white water crashing just below was all that could be heard. It was a little after 7am, and there was a slight breeze that made a jacket necessary. I was standing on a rock with deep water all around me, throwing cack-handed snap-Ts and expecting to catch nothing. I was back. After I had covered the tailout, I moved up and fished the run above it where I caught an 8” rainbow. Trout fishing.

I drove up the road, trying to remember what I was doing. I used to know a fair amount about where to go and what to do, but I was having trouble accessing those files now. Plus, I was still blown away by just how much of the river was visible now. It was throwing me off. I recalled all the time I had spent desperately trying to see the river through the trees as I drove by at 45mph while simultaneously trying not to drive off the cliff. So, this is what I’ve been missing, I thought. Most of the newly exposed sections were inaccessible due to the steep inclines between them and the road. Still, it was interesting to see. Not interesting enough that I wouldn’t have preferred to still have unburnt woods, of course.

I pulled in at a boat launch named after a box of rocks. When I fished with Lee Spencer, many years ago, he brought me here. I seemed to remember not thinking much of it at the time, but I figured, what the hell? Turned out that it wasn’t too bad. The cast was doable, the water looked good, and I could totally imagine a fish being in there. A trout, of course. As I was finishing up a guy who looked pretty strung out pulled up in an Acura. He asked me if I knew any spots that were easy to fly fish. I told him we don’t really do “easy spots” here, but that he should try some “campy water” just downstream.  If this guy was fly fishing, then I was looking for a parking spot on the moon. I figured he would have the best chance of being spotted throwing gear where I sent him, and hey, if he actually was fly fishing, that stretch is pretty low key. Either way, I told him the right answer. He went on to let me know that he had just come from the Molalla where he had been catching monster brown trout. He made this clear to me by holding up his hands so that they were about 4 feet apart. “Sounds exciting” I said.  I wished him luck and drove away. I briefly considered heading straight to the Molalla for some of that epic brown trout action but then thought better of it. I figured 4-foot brown trout were probably more than my switch rod could handle.

I drove down to a spot where a giant yellow rock rises out of the river. I’ve heard this spot called the “California Hole” because there is almost always a rig with CA plates parked there. When I got down there, I remembered why I hated it, and it didn’t have anything to do with Californians, although they can be annoying. A beautiful tail out with rocks positioned perfectly so that a decent swing is not possible from any casting position. Those Californians must be pretty good at fishing if they can manage this, I thought. I walked up and fished the run above. This was nice water, as well. Plus, it was possible to complete a swing. Bonus. I thought about my old fishing buddy, Lurker Dan. Specifically, how he had seen a video in which Scott Howell was swinging a skater through heavy water. Allegedly, he had managed to catch at least one Steelhead this way, and this was enough to cause my buddy to become obsessed with fishing the very top of every run we fished together. This was fine with me, of course, as it left the tail out (where the fish actually were) for me. It had been a long time since I had seen Lurker Dan. I didn’t expect that I ever would again.

Just then, something took my muddler. I started stripping line. The fish was strong. It wasn’t as easy as I was expecting to bring it in, but eventually it was there. A nice rainbow trout of maybe 13”.  A magnificent specimen. Definitely not from the ocean though, which was good. I would have hated to be in violation of the rules. I removed the muddler and it was on its way. I turned around and some guy had pulled his pickup off the road and was watching me. He had probably seen the bent rod and thought it was going down Steelhead style. If he had known I was only trout fishing he probably would not have stopped. As I turned back to the water, I raised my hand in a half hearted “How do you do?” sort of way. The guy drove off.

Before leaving, I stopped at the falls to see if there were any Salmon jumping. To my delight, there were! Every time one of them sprang from the white water at the base of the falls I let out a whoop. There is nothing like knowing that anadromous fish are close. My eyes were tearing up. I was carrying on like an idiot, despite the relatively low amount of fish present. I didn’t care, there were some in there, and today, some was enough. I stood there for a while waiting for the next one, and then the next. Eventually, some other people showed up on the other side, and I figured it was time to go. I climbed back up to the road, got in the car, and headed home.

 

One day in October.

I hadn’t fished in too long. It was pretty much whatever, except that it totally sucked. It had been months. I was doing other things. Mainly, I was working. What a waste. I was working graveyard shift, I was working six days a week. I was thinking that it was time to find another job. The car was broken. I was out of the office, out to lunch. I was under the influence. I was using the little time I had off each week to drink, work on the car, and watch Magnum p.i.  Pretty good, except that October was almost over, and I had barely thrown a cast. What garbage. Tom Sellick is pretty awesome though.

I sat there with my boots in the water watching my buddy finish up. He threw a cast and I looked down. I watched some submerged grass swaying with the current. I watched the bubbles. I had almost forgotten about the water, and the gravel. The ferns, and the sand. The grit. It’s a goddam good thing I didn’t. That would have sucked. I waited. I took a drag off my smoke and turned my eyes towards the old man who had low holed us from the opposite bank. What a dick. I glared at him from behind my aviators. I love those things. They make a cold stare so much easier to pull off. Especially, if you have a smoke hanging outta your lips, as well. Whatever.  Dude was like older than God’s dad. Wasn’t gonna teach the jagoff any manners now.  It wasn’t raining then, but it had been, and it would be. My buddy reeled in and walked upstream. We were done here. Briefly, we conferred on the situation across river. “YO, Pops!” I yelled. The old guy glanced at me while trying to ignore me. I threw both my hands in the air. My buddy chuckled. I turned, grabbed my rod, and we were gone.

We drove up to a spot that is a total pain in the ass. You have to climb down a steep rock pile to get to the water. I mean, its way down there. It sucks, but the fish don’t know that. I sent my buddy to the top, where there are no fish, and I went to the bottom, were there usually are. That’s just the kind of friend I am. The rocks and dirt slid out from beneath my boots. The trees and bushes grabbed desperately at my rod. I cursed, and worked harder. I made my way. I waded in, sweating profusely beneath my rain shell. Breathable my ass! I took it off and threw it onto a rock for safe keeping. I stripped off some line and started fishing. It started to rain all over my jacket on the rock. Pretty awesome.

I worked the tailout slowly. I had a 14’ floating leader and a weighted fly. It was what it was. I love this spot. The water is so glassy, and large fish of all varieties seem to enjoy it. Just then, a spawned out king salmon scared the be-jesus out of me. It had almost drifted right into my legs. When it realized its error, it went darting off. See what I mean? I was nearing the end. I watched the swing. Something pulled on the line, and my rod went flying up. Way too soon. Nothing. I fought despair. The fish had not felt the hook, there was still a chance. I backed up a few steps, and made the same cast. The fly sank, began to swing, and rose again. Again, the fish came up. It took the fly. I stood there watching my loop run out until the last second. Then I hammered it. The fish was on. It ran and rolled. Upstream, I heard my buddy chuckling. What a guy.

The fight was customary. The fish fled, and I let it. I brought it back, and it let me. It bulldogged. I said, “The fuck you will”. I held my breath, waiting for the fish to be gone before I was ready. I brought it in, and it slipped me. I recovered, and I had it again. It was a nice buck of around 24” and wearing fall colors. A pretty standard fish on this river. I was stoked. Just then I heard my buddy crashing through the trees. It was stupid. He had traveled over an insane amount of boulders and bullshit, in the time it took me to land this fish. “Why are you here, man?” I asked him. He didn’t have an answer, he was a little worn out. “OK”, he gasped, “let’s go”. He was apparently talking to his camera which he had removed from his jacket. I held the fish in the water. It finned slowly in my hands. A picture would have been nice, but I had no intention of detaining this fish if it was ready before the camera. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon”. Pleading with electronics is always futile. “Ok!” he said “hoist it”.

I lifted the fish to just above the water line. The artificial sound of a shutter actuating was heard rabidly and repeatedly. I lowered the fish back into the water. It flailed and was gone. I stood up, high fived my buddy, and began getting my shit together. “Ok, man”, he said, as he walked back into the trees “if you get another one you can go fuck yourself. I’m not doing that again.” I watched him begin to negotiate his way back across the rocks. It sounded fair to me.

Through a pane of German glass, all splattered with bug guts.

All that is real is the dirt, and the ferns and trees that rise from it. The things that breathe therein. The stones, and the cold water that runs over them. The fish that swim upstream. And, in the places which they swim from and will return to, the sand, and the cliffs, and the waves that beat upon them for eternity.

By comparison, the sum total of human accomplishment, while amazing and awe inspiring, is on the whole, completely abstract bullshit.

With this thought in mind, I pulled my car to the side of the road and just sat there for a few moments. I was watching eternity unfold through a pane of German glass, all splattered with bug guts. It was a hell of a thing. I raised my hand, and with a turn of a key the idling engine was silenced. I got out of the car. The air was cold and damp, and dark clouds rolled over my head. The radiator fan kicked on. Comforting. I walked out onto the bridge and looked down. Nothing. Still, I had seen fish holding here in the past. I would need more conclusive proof before being able to move on.

This time of year there are a few fish around, and no one fishing. In a word: Perfect. I scrambled down the bank and waded out in knee deep water to the edge of an extensive ledge. It’s weird when you think that there may be nothing but water beneath these things, and that they may break off at any moment. You see that sometimes. Rocks the size of a car that have separated from the canyon wall and now sit partially blocking the roadway. I started casting.

I was airing out the Scandi. The furled leader I had put on earlier that morning was cutting through the upstream breeze far better than the mono it had replaced. Again and again I threw my pink and purple fly out there, sometimes mending, sometimes not, monitoring and manipulating the swing as I picked my way along that ledge in the river. It’s a kind of dance, and it’s the only thing I consistently want to do.

About halfway down, a cutthroat lost his mind and put a bend in my rod. I stripped him in and looked him over. While I had my hook into him, I figured I might as well pump him for some information. Given his unusually large size, and the valiant way he had struggled against me, I asked him if he had come from the ocean. He stated that he had never indeed heard of this “ocean” that I spoke of, and then demanded that I free him at once. I eyed him suspiciously. After all, he was a trout, and trout are incontestable tricksters. Notorious for their ability to make you believe things that are just not true. Then again, considering the circumstances of our meeting, we may have been about even on that score.  I was just about to prod him further, when something rather large jumped just upstream, and I was momentarily distracted. Seeing his opportunity, my captive slipped my grasp and was gone. Just as well.

I finished out the run, and then moved upstream to investigate. It was tight, but I was able to find a rock to stand on. From which, I could throw a half decent cast, and make a half decent presentation to the general area where that magnificent disturbance had occurred. Something big had been there. Perhaps, still was. I fished it for some time, waiting for everything to get pulled down. I yearned to feel that weight, and see a silvery behemoth come vaulting from the swirling head of the run. It was not to be, but I left there feeling good. I knew I would be feeling it again, and in the meantime, I was still here.

I fished my way up, and then retired to simply exploring. I wanted to find access to some spots I had been eyeing for some time. I swapped out the waders for the gaiters, and walked the trail with a cool breeze rattling the leaves that surrounded me on all sides. The sun had made an appearance, and just in time. A little snake fled as I passed, but I assured him there was nothing to worry about. In the book, “Desert Solitaire”, Edward Abbey asserts that nothing worth seeing can be seen from an automobile. I’m inclined to agree. I really like Cactus Ed.

I found the spot I was looking for, but was somewhat discouraged at how easy it was. I like spots I have to fight my way into. At least that way, I can usually count on being left alone once I’m there. On the way back, I deviated to stop by a pool that salmon like to get into and go crazy all summer. I wanted to see if anyone was home yet. I sat in the grass for some time, just staring at the water rolling casually past. It was late afternoon and there were bugs present. I watched them hovering over the surface of the water, completely unaware of just how vital they are. Occasionally, a small rise form was seen in the tailout below. There was magic happening. A little trout no bigger than my pinky finger leapt repeatedly from the water before me. Learning the ropes. It is simultaneously comical and amazing. No salmon were seen to jump.

Before leaving I stopped at the falls. It’s been getting pretty sporty down there lately. Fish are literally flying everywhere. Fins, tails, and heads are constantly seen emerging from the churning foam. I can only imagine the melee taking place below. At this point, it’s still mostly Springers, but a few Steelies were seen to take there shot. With every leap there was a cry of excitement from myself. Nothing reverts me back to childhood faster than sitting down on the rocks watching the fish jump. I could sit there for hours. I just love to be around them.

Eventually, I have to go. Begrudgingly, I said goodbye, and climbed back up the rocks to the car. I fired it up, clicked on the blinker, and checked the mirror. When the coast was clear, I let out the clutch and went sputtering off into eternity. Or maybe just back to town.