Hollywood

“How’s fishin’, bud?”

I looked up into the bright sun, squinting in the direction of the man’s voice. There, looking down from the bridge with his signature smile, was Mike Laverty. “Hollywood,” as he is referred to by his friends. Mike is tall, dark, and nauseatingly handsome. He’s cool, stylish, and successful. Has a smokin’ hot wife. Drives a sweet car. Mike’s a stellar salmon and steelhead guide, and he’s one hell of a nice guy.

“Hey, Mike!” I replied, genuinely glad to see him. “Haven’t had a bite all day.”

Mike’s smile turned to a serious look of concern as I explained how the gear guys were catching a few fish, while I was happily sucking wind with my fly poles.

Then his eyes wandered around my drift boat. From his perch, probably 20 feet above, he scanned the craft, then focused on the rear hold. A smirk grew on his mouth, he paused, then,

“I like the firewood.” Now he was smiling, while my smile faltered. I had a couple of nights’ worth of split firewood stacked neatly in the back of my boat. Anytime I was camping, the boat became a vessel for found wood and other helpful items.

“Yeah, it comes in handy when you’re camping,” I said, with the slightest hint of irritation. Now he was grinning.

“I’ll bet…well, good luck, man!” Mike and his fair lady shared a quiet smile, waved goodbye, and walked on.

I released an involuntary sigh, resisting the jealousy that follows Laverty like a fog bank. My little pastime of camping and flyfishing for unicorns stood in stark contrast to Mike’s slick, jet-powered universe. His was a world I had once considered, then rejected in favor of the “analog” experience. I laughed at my exposed insecurity. Then, flashing back over the years I’d known Mike, I connected the dots. Mike’s comment meant nothing to him. Just a random encounter with “that weird wild fish guy.” But to me, it was the perfect punch line to a 17-year-old joke…

Happy Idiots

The year was 1994. It was a brisk January day on Tillamook’s Wilson River. My best friend, Marc, had joined me for his first steelheading trip. Our watercraft: a 12-foot, bright yellow “rubber ducky” raft with a home-made rowing frame constructed from 2″X6″ fir beams. It had a sketchy anchor system and a little 10-pound lead pyramid dangling off the back. The boat served it purpose, allowing me to explore Tillamook’s amazing rivers. It had some minor deficiencies, but the boat was not the cause of our problems on the day in question.

We poked down the river slowly, drifting corkies along the bottom, learning the contours of the Wilson’s long pools. At Windy Bend we pulled onto a small island across from an ancient maple tree to stretch our legs. I pitched the anchor, giving a few feet of scope to hold the boat in the east wind, then walked to the head of the island. Marc and I fished our way down the bar, enjoying the morning. Near the bottom of the island, my line stopped, then jerked lightly. I set the hook and was met with a strong, fresh steelhead.

Sometime during the battle, a gust of wind came up and pushed our little raft off the beach. The anchor dragged, but held.

“Hey Marc, grab the boat! It’s getting away.”

He did, and just in time. But as he hauled the boat back up the rocks, the inside oar jumped its lock and raced downriver with the strong current. I was still trying to land the steelhead.

“Marc, grab the oar!” I yelled, but it was too late. Marc made a couple of weak attempts to hook the oar with his gear, but it was gone. I dragged the fish onto the bar without ceremony, and we jumped in the boat.

Once underway, the severity of our problem became clear. With only one oar, I was unable to direct the boat, and I’d never be able to aim us toward the drifting oar. A hundred yards below us were two guys in a drift boat. I yelled to them in earnest, “Hey! Could you guys grab our oar? It’s about to drift by your boat!” Just then, our steelhead came to life, flopping wildly around our feet.

The bigger of the two gents leaned over the gunnel and caught the oar, to my great relief. Seconds later our bright yellow boat spun by the drifters, completely out of control. The oar was expertly handed off, and our boat was soon steadied. We caught our breaths, high-fived, and made a bee-line for the gravel bar below Donaldson’s Bar. Once back on dry land, we cavorted and sang songs. We had a steelhead to celebrate, and we had survived our first major flub-up. Life was good, and soon we settled back into a fishing rhythm.

We fished our way up the gravel bar until we were blocked by a dense thicket of willows, then turned back to the raft. We were laughing and singing, living in bliss. Then it occurred to me that our raft was gone.

“Marc, where’s the raft?” I asked, looking around. I could see a long way down river.

“What do you mean? I don’t know!” Marc replied, still smiling.

I grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled straight at him, “MARC, WHERE’S THE RAFT?”

His smile disappeared as his eyes nervously searched the beach. The truth hit us square in the head and I took off at a dead run to find the boat. Soon I was bounding over blackberry bushes, tearing my green Hodgeman neoprenes to shreds. Soon I came to a cliff wall and could go no further. I could see another quarter mile down river, and the raft was nowhere to be seen. The same drift boat that had saved us an hour earlier was anchored in the Maple Tree Hole below.

I yelled to the boat, again, “Hey guys! Did you see our raft float by?”

The two normally stoic guys paused, looked at each other, and burst into loud laughter. Soon they were keeling over from what appeared to be laughing pains. Then the tall one called back to me, pointing in my direction,

“It’s right there!” They were falling over themselves.

I looked below and saw the raft, pinned to a bank of leaning alders, several feet from the steep shoreline. My only hope was to climb out on one of the trees and drop into the raft, a death-defying feat on a cold winter day. But I did just that, landing lightly on the rower’s seat. The jolt broke the raft free, and when I went for the oars, trouble returned. There was only one oar in the boat! This time I pulled the single oar out of its lock and paddled the raft like a chubby canoe to the opposite bank. Then I dragged the boat as far upriver as was possible, paddled back across, and by this method, finally arrived at the beach where I had left Marc. He was waiting patiently, oar in hand.

That afternoon we caught up to our two saviors, finally getting a chance to thank them properly, and getting a good look at them. Sitting in the front seat was Mike Codino, retail manager of Fisherman’s Marine Supply in Oregon City. At the oars was Mike Laverty, author, guide and all-around stud of the steelheading world. Our paths would cross again occasionally throughout our respective fishing careers, but the memories of that day would belong to Marc and me.

Back in the present, I looked up at the bridge just in time to see Laverty and his wife pass out of view. They were laughing about something, but I’d never know what. I tried not to flatter myself.

-RR