Klickitat River Fishing Report

Last week I hauled my box of ridiculous steelhead flies the Klickitat River in South Central Washington.

A gauntlet of boats lined the sand bar on the mouth of the Klick, focusing on an introduced tribal coho fishery.

We picked a pullout in the first few miles of river, and my buddy Julian and I started trying out flies. My rabbit string leech looked like a baby tube sock in the water. I put a marabou fly in my mouth, it smelled like like McRib and tobacco, decided the scent worked and tied it on.

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Clouds funneled in through the gorge, brushing over the sharp, shear walls, and a few skinny, disinterested steelhead held near the bank, in slack water at the edge.

A craggy dead tamarack, bigger than any other tree on the horizon reached up like a skeletal hand on the west bank of the river, perch for a big golden eagle.

Is that the bottom?

Julian hooked up. The fish jumped twice downstream, a little dark but thick as my leg. It came in to bank, and the big TMC 7999 popped out of its beak as I reached for it.

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I continued down the run, knocking October caddis loose from the branches of the alders. The clouds at sunset turned the color of a rotting salmon.

Friday night we were by far the most obnoxious people in Hood River. Recommendations: Do sing Karaoke at Jacks, don’t ask for money back from the cigarette machine, and don’t try to pay for scorpion bowls with all nickels. And don’t expect to ever catch a cab. There are two in town, and they’re not really interested in picking you up anyway.

Late the next morning roared over the Columbia River in the Honda Civic, blasting Red Fang (probably the single greatest cultural contribution from the city of Portland).

Would the prehistoric dog of war apologize for low-holing you? Julian asked, stepping in below me in a fog of rye whiskey fumes. We’d had a hard time finding a place to fish — all of the pullouts abandoned yesterday were packed with jerks like us.

Strong winds pushed up the canyon and leaves snagged on every cast most. Fat snowberries jiggled on the breezes. The desert hills looked like perfectly tanned breasts covered in golden translucent fuzz.

Minds erased, we stopped at Cafe Drift coffee and fly shop in the town of Klickitat. The place looked like it belonged in the Pearl District, and was staffed by the nicest people I’ve ever met. The guys made a really big deal about Trey Combs having something to do with the enterprise, but I think the only decent coffee in 100 miles, and surreal art installations are the better selling points.

There we met Ben John, a 73-year old Creek (Seminole) Indian and one of the longest standing guides on the river. He was packing up to leave town, but we convinced him to stick around for one more day. We met up with him at dark for drinks at the local dive in Klickitat.

The owner/waitress sold us on ordering two-pound rib eyes. Ben John tried to warn us off, but we’d already seen a couple of those beasts come out of the kitchen and it was too late. We hadn’t even made it halfway back to Hood River before realizing our terrible mistakes.

We tried like hell to go to bed early, but the beef was on top of us. We were both in pain, cold sweats. And the motel was haunted, the scene of a recent murder. Sometime around 2am the door banged open and the sound of high heels clattering on pavement and cackling women floated into the room.

Poltergeists? Meat ghosts? Ladies coming back from the bar after last call? We were torn between running outside in our matching red underwear, and hiding under the sheets. Sober, haunted and steak-sick, we never slept at all that night.

Julian snapped. He cut holes in his bed sheets and ran around the motel screaming, Let me in, let me in, I’m a ghost!

A few hours later we met up with Ben John before dawn, and made our way to an unofficial put-in near a perfect tailout. A white patchwork of clouds blew upriver, and the current ran down river, the whole world was in motion and I worked down the river, cast and step, in perfect brain-clouded sync.

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My Redington CPX Switch rod with a Scandi head and Air Flo polyleader tip put the fly within an inch of the far bank of the river, every cast. I was like a fish, flicking a fin to reposition itself in the current – no wasted motion. I was that graceful for about twenty minutes. Then I lost the big one.

It grabbed and bucked, a flabby silver flank arced at the surface, and then it was gone. It had hit just inches off the bank, seconds after the fly landed, and I had too much slack in the line. I fished that stupid looking fly the rest of the day – a weird black wool yarn body, tinsel ribbed, red ostrich herl wing, mallard flank. It was the only one I had, and I must have been drunk when I tied it.

I lost it near dark, long after my casting had gone to shit.

I’ll need to start restocking the fly box this week, trying to recreate that one. And throw out those stupid string leeches.

-MS

Thanks to the Gorge Fly Shop for intel on the Klick.

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5 Responses to Klickitat River Fishing Report

  1. Sean says:

    “The hills looked like perfectly tanned breasts”? Dude, you’ve been on the river waaay too long!

  2. Oregon Fly Fishing Blog says:

    Sean: Good point.

    On an unrelated note, if you don’t have a switch rod, buy that Redington CPX — it’s on sale for $275!

    -MS

  3. gregH says:

    Well crafted adventure and write-up!! Nice.
    GH

  4. MR says:

    If the hills look like breasts, what does a “switch rod” look like?

  5. Oregon Fly Fishing Blog says:

    It looks like a tiny spey rod. Now get your head out of the gutter and take me Taimen fishing!
    -MS

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