The Caddis Fly: Oregon Fly Fishing Blog

I don’t know why I bother to set a 2 A.M. alarm when I have never been able to sleep the night before a south coast salmon fishing trip. After a late afternoon phone call from Greg Roberts confirming the river conditions, a plan was formulated to round up my troops and get down there fast.

Rob Russell’s post on going fishing despite the foul weather predictions, helped to leverage my brain’s mistrust of Oregon’s notorious deluges on the south coast. My friend Rob showed up at my house a little after 3 am. We trailered up the Koffler and ran across town to pick up Don. Three short hours later we arrived at the ramp only to see that at least 4 other boats including Ethan, Kyle and Nate had beat us to the water and were already fishing.

I thought ,” oh well, I hope those infamous chrome magnets leave us a fish or two”. We rowed up to the break above the ramp and set up in the bucket. On Rob’s first or second cast his line came tight and he lifted at the tug only to come up short. Don repeats the process with a short strike. The wind began to howl and holding the boat in the current became increasingly difficult even with the 20 lb bow anchor.

Moving on, we dropped down through the shoot and put a nice big dent in the right side of the boat (by the way, there is a big rock in the lower right side of that drop). Moving down stream slowly, we hunted for fish with both our flies and our eyes. We rounded a corner and saw a motherload of fish hovering in a living wave of chrome that was 40 feet long, 5 feet across and 5 feet deep.

With a stiff current it was necessary to get the flies down in a hurry , so we opted for lead eye flies on a type three head. Rob again hooks up with a nice jack of around 4 lbs. In the net and with high five all around we released the slightly colored jack to join back up with his herd.

A hook up and release,on my boat, means that I get a chance to fish and in short order Don and I both hookup and both lose our fish. With no scales on the hooks we deem the hook ups as bites and not foulings. This action seems to spoil the hole so we poke on down the ditch.

As is typical with this sort of fishing, we share the water with the other anglers and often times don’t get to fish the water we want. Several of the “great holes” are occupied with guides and clients so we push past and can see the hordes of ghostly ,chrome shapes moving about against the currents.

With high hopes we scan and search the waters and find another hole filled with fish. This group appears differant then the previous fish in that its members are floating high and happy in much the same manner as “eater” groups of tarpon. Don’s first cast is intercepted by a gorgeous mint bright hatchery buck. The fish comes to net after a expertly waged battle. Of course Rob and I want to know what the magic fly is and Don replies “I don’t know some damned chartreuse thing Jay Nicholas gave me at his guru lecture”.

I row back out into the leaf swept water and drop the anchor just upstream of the bucket. “Hey Don”, I say, ” your turn to stare at butts”. He begrudgingly relented the angler position and again I resume my optimistic vigil. Seconds later Rob is hooked up with another beautiful chromed out hatchery buck that puts up an impressive fight against his bent 8 wt. rod and heated drag. Again, high fives and hero shots.

The boat is rowed out and the bucket is again covered with graceful shooting head presentations. On the forth strip of my first cast I am covered up with an obviously large chrome bright monster that promptly rips the chartruese clouser from its jaws with some ultra aggressive head shakes. I am pretty disappointed that I blew what easily could be the only shot that I might get this afternoon. With shoulders slightly sunk I resume my cast and strip routine which is promptly interrupted again by another obviously large fish.

Don quickly rows us bankside and I jump out in a hurry to give chase.After several tours of the pool the large bright buck comes to the net.

The fish stopped biting after the 3rd member of the tribe was extricated from their ranks. The hours had passed too quickly, as they always do, and we had some serious pushing to do if we wanted to get off the river by dark. The shallower holes of the lower river seemed void of fish which helped our war-torn spirits pass by all the gorgeous water without a cast. To say the day was a success would be the grossest understatement imaginable. Another mind boggling day of good friends ,great fishing and magnificient fish with the promise of another day.

-BAC

Day 4. Load- 4-Runner . Drive. Walk down beach in dark with Gordon. Difficult keeping up. Wade across river mouth. Start casting. Keep positive. Hope. High anticipation. Poor catch yesterday translates to fewer fishers today. Same guy fishing Skagit Compact line on east side of lagoon. Acts like he knows something I don’t. He’s probably right. Very slow retrieve. Red/white Clouser. Go figure.

A good fish grabs me a hundred yards into lagoon. Head shakes, boils, hook pulls free. Drat. Gordon gets rubbed. Then nothing. Bob shows up around mid-morning, wades around bluff to west bank and observes. No fish rolling. No fish caught. Only one fish fouled by a spinner guy.

Rain pelts us. Wind drives rain into faces and down necks. Waterproof GoreTex? Bah.

Bob and I wade across shallows exploring. Water is too deep to cast well. Prototype Burkheimer two-hander helps. Seal corners fish against bank, gets one. Seal drifts around lagoon for two hours, showing off fish. Anglers mutter bad thoughts about seal. I agree. We fish on anyway.

Only a few fish are showing now. Surf seems rough. Too rough? Who knows? Probably. Mid afternoon. Bob and I are soaked through our coats. Cold. “Let’s go,” we agree.

Back at Motel. Depression. Doubt. Despair. I call Ed. He is landing one of many fish on the River Styx. I call Rob. He’s fighting a fish somewhere, not here. Ed and Rob question my sanity, then remain silent, as true friends would. “OK,” I say, “I’ll drive up tonight”. I go over to Bob’s room. “The fish could come in tomorrow,” he reminds me. “Yeah,” I say. He’s right. What if I’ve invested all these days only to leave one day too soon? “Let’s go check out another river,” I say. “OK. Give me fifteen minutes to get ready,” Bob says. I’m focused. My quest for South Coast kings is on again.

We run on over to the usual place and find three guys packing fish to their trucks. “How’s fishin’?” we ask. “Great,” they reply. “Should-a seen the twenty other fish we hooked.” One look at their gear, combined with what we knew about the river’s low flow, and we knew what they’d been up to. We walked a hundred yards across the field to the river before saying anything. “Snaggers,” Bob says. “Jerkwads” I say. “Yep,” Bob says.

We find three bait and spoon guys camped at the hole where the shameful event had transpired. We watch them fish. It’s clearly impossible to fish our flies where the fish are holding. We talk a little. They lament the shoddy behavior of the three goons. We all shake our heads. Bob and I eye the holding water and wonder – wonder what might happen if we could hang a fly in that hole. But we say our goodbyes and wade off downstream along a river almost bereft of water. Salmon are there, but un-fishable. This day is ending; we hike back to the rig. No point coming back here tomorrow. A guy might catch a fish or two, before the goons move in. But the low water makes for the most unappealing conditions, so we decide to pass.

Day 5. up at 5 AM. Mess with tackle. Emails on blackberry. Coffee at quickie mart. Small pack of Hostess doughnuts – only a small departure from diet. Rendezvous with Bob. Load his rig. I worry that his chew cup might spill, but it doesn’t.

Bob drives his big diesel pickup down the beach. His chew-cup is nestled in the coffee cup slot between our seats. We begin fishing. Despite our leisurely arrival, the crowd still isn’t large. A few fish are showing around the lagoon. No rain today. Surf is calm. The sun comes out.

We fish into the morning and the day grows more and more unlike the previous. Only the rare fish is showing. I shed my still soggy raincoat and one stinky layer. A seal cruises around the lagoon from the river mouth to the shallows above. I wonder what it would be like to foul a seal, and loosen my drag a little, just in case. I get grabbed on a small Clouser near the upper end of the bucket. Bob sees the fish, but the hook soon pulls out.

Up the beach comes Matt, my dear old (young) friend. Long time no see, we say. Hugs. Casting and chatting side by side. Bob gets grabbed on one of his new Rogue River flies. I get a photo of Bob with rod in punishment position. Again, as has been the case so often lately, the fish is gone. He gets grabbed twice in four casts, but all escape. One boiled to surface to head-shake. Big and bright. More so than any I have hooked so far. We gather and grouse about the joys and anguish of fishing size 8 hooks for big kings. Still, we tie on yet another small fly and resume casting.

Matt, bob, and I fish together. Change lines, change flies, change angle of cast. Matt hooks a big stick and plays it expertly to the beach, where he gently releases it. His dog barks and plays with driftwood. We all watch a newcomer fight a fish. His spinner is hooked in the leader – attached to a side-hooked Chinook of twenty five pounds.

Four or five guys coach the newcomer, and soon the fish is hand-lined unceremoniously onto the beach. A crowd gathers around the fish on the sand. “Its snagged, so you’ll have to let it go,” one finally says. Someone hauls the fish to the water and holds it to make sure it will swim off. Not the best way to treat a fish. Three guys fishing near us drink beer and munch chips – having a great time watching all the activity. They razz each other about work, women, fishing talent, and life.

Resuming my fishing, I connect but decide the fish is fouled (no head shake), so I hold tight and the fly pulls free before leader breaks. I cast again and get grabbed. Matt sees the head shake. Good take, we agree. The fish isn’t large, fifteen pounds or so, but is bright. The fish surges close to the beach and we can all see the hook in its mouth. Soon, though, out pops the fly and I’m empty again.

Note to self: That was a Rob Russell fly – must tie two hundred dozen of that pattern this winter; meanwhile, make best use of the five flies I have left. We can see schools of kings cruising around the lagoon. Up they go – down they go. They can see our flies but don’t want anything to do with them. Is the seal driving them around? Maybe. They’re not eating – just driving us crazyier and crazier – as if that was possible.

Matt is late getting back to his family in Port Orford, but our little flurry of action entices him to make twenty more casts. “Just twenty,” he says, resolutely. Thirty or so casts later, we hug and he rushes off the beach.

Bob and I fish around the lagoon. “Ready to go?” I ask, sensing the answer. “Yeah,” bob answers, plastic shopping bag in hand. I reel in and shoulder my messenger bag. We march to Bob’s truck and I wonder how my gear bag could be so heavy. Could I possibly be over-prepared? Nah.

We are back at the motel shortly and I muse over the hour we could still be fishing if we were on the beach. Ryan, Jeff, and Paul will be arriving soon. Bob and I dine at the Crazy Norwegian. Good food. A gathering place for Port Orford’s citizens. We talk over the day’s events and plans for tomorrow. Return to motel and once again gear up for morning. Make reports to Ryan, Jeff, and Paul. Return to my room. Lights out. Will tomorrow be the day? Sure hope so. Dreams of Clousers and solid hook-sets.

JN

“It’s been terrible,” Bob Rees confided, the wind buffeting his cell phone mouthpiece. “Been this way all season,” he added. Bob would know. He’s one of Tillamook’s most established guides, as well as being a vocal advocate for wild fish, clean water, and coastal rainforests. He shares information with several other area guides, including his close friend Chris Vertopulos. If Bob says the fishing is slow, it’s really slow.

We hung up and I stared at the wall, momentarily dazed by the blunt reality that our November chinook run was a no-show. Over the prior two weeks there had been a few “bites” at the Jaws, the Coast Guard Station, the Ghost Hole and Bay City. Those little windows of activity were the exception. The rule was eight hours of cold, wet nothing. Needless to say, it was proving to be a rough year for Tillamook salmon guides.

I decided a long time ago not let bad reports keep me from the river. I have slipped up on occasion, using an extreme weather forecast as an excuse to sleep in, only to kick myself later. Weather fronts often move onshore early or late, or fail to drop as much precipitation as anticipated. Those of us who have fallen prey to overblown hydrological predictions eventually learn a valuable lesson: when in doubt, go to the river. You can always go home. But once you’re sipping coffee in your kitchen at 9am, the day belongs to the smart ones who showed up. Fair weather anglers, or those waiting for good fishing reports, consistently show up a day or two late, only to hear the old refrain: should have been here yesterday!

So Dad and I packed up the fishmobile and headed north for Tillamook. Given the potential for downpours, we went overboard on clothing, with two rain jackets per person, tons of extra fleece layers, socks, gloves, hats, and a wool scarf. There was extra food in the lunch cooler, and a big thermos of hot coffee to warm our insides. We had single-handers, two-handers, spinning rods and baitcasters, a dozen fly boxes and three boxes of tried-and-true Kwikies.

Morning broke quietly in Bay City. The usual salmon-induced fervor was absent from Highway 101. Tillamook Sporting Goods was a ghost town. Dan Dixon, a legendary Spey stick, now managing Tillamook’s premier fishing shop, was glued to the shop TV. Ed Ward was demonstrating the Perry Poke, and Dan was soaking up every bit of it. The store copy of Skagit Master had just arrived, and I could see a fire burning in Dan’s eyes. “Have you been throwing the long rod?” I asked. “Nah,” he said. “There’s nobody to Spey fish with around here.” He passed along what he’d heard from the prior day, and we agreed to swing some flies together come winter.

At Donaldson Bar we wadered up and pushed the drift boat into frosty green water. Conditions were perfect. The shuttle driver moved my truck down to Memaloose Point, committing us to a long float out into the bay. Despite the poor fishing reports, we were virtually guaranteed to run into a batch of fish somewhere in those six or seven miles of river and tidewater.

By noon we hadn’t seen or heard of a fish. At least a dozen other boats reported the same. We snacked a little, then settled into flat-lining k-16s (no wrap) through a beautiful steelhead run, when Dad’s rod flattened. A hot king flashed below, then tumbled across the tailout. Gorgeous buck, sea lice all over its body, about 14 pounds. We celebrated with a fine Ninkasi beer–Total Domination IPA. The day was getting brighter by the minute.

Our now jovial boat floated under Sollie Smith Bridge, considered the last take-out for non-motorized boats, and down toward tidewater. The first two runs were open, and we fished hard without a bite. After that, we found power boats in every spot, some anchored, some back-trolling on kickers. One boat had a fish, the rest were waiting patiently. We pushed on through and enjoyed a scenic tour of the estuary, pulling out in the early afternoon without a sign of fish.

With two hours of daylight remaining, I suggested we head north to drift the lower Kilchis. Dad had never seen a chum salmon, and the Kilchis was running clear enough to resemble a giant aquarium. The Logger Bridge was busy with bank anglers, none of whom had seen or heard of a chinook caught. From there down, we didn’t see a soul. Dad threw spinners as we drifted through the Kilchis floodplain. Some tailouts were thick with chums, others vacant. It was clear that chum numbers were down, along with chinook. Just before dark, as we neared reach of tide, Dad’s spinner stopped and shook violently. He set the hook into a solid chum, and in a few minutes was cradling the painted doe in the shallows. Mission accomplished! We took out in the dark and grabbed some dinner in town.

Our second day dawned in steady rain. We shuffled around, even stopped for breakfast at a greasy spoon, in hopes that we might wait out the worst of it. We talked over our options–the Kilchis, Wilson, Trask, or Nestucca. They all seemed good, but my gut told me the Wilson was still the place to be for chrome kings. This time we launched up river at the Siskeyville ramp, taking out at Donaldson Bar. Again I was confident that we would run into a batch of tide fish somewhere in that gorgeous section of river. But the miles came and went, the rain fell steadily, and the air temperature dropped a couple of degrees. This was tough fishing.

Sometime in the early afternoon we passed the ghostly remains of the Guide Shop. I looked up at the hilltop longingly, hoping to see Toy waving down at me from the deck, dreaming of the sweet smell of burgers on the grill. This was just the kind of day when we would have anchored the boat and run up the hill for beer or a cup of chili. Or one of Toy’s giant chocolate chip cookies. Gary would already be downstairs, warming up after his morning session on the river. Dad and I shook our heads as we remembered so many good times past, then moved somberly down into Widmer Bar.

Curt & Rob Widmer, the famous brothers who brought Hefeweisen to the Northwest, have cousins in Tillamook. The long, beautiful Spey run that carries the family name is some of the finest fly water in the county. Unfortunately, it also gets flogged severely by gear dudes daily. It’s a rare treat to find it vacant and rested, as we found it that day. I suggested we swing Intruders from top to bottom, but the cold was setting into Dad’s legs and arms, so we back-trolled plugs instead. Things were looking grim as we neared the end of the run. I couldn’t believe we had gone so long without a grab. Then Dad hooked up to something solid.

I pulled to shore, threw out the anchor, and watched the battle. The fish shook it’s head back and forth, rising in the water column until it broke the surface, showing broad silver sides. Then she sounded and ran up the river as if she wasn’t hooked. “I think it hung me up on something,” Dad said, worried. I took the rod for a moment, expecting to feel the scratch of mono on rock or wood, but all I felt was a giant fish. “You’re okay, Pop,” I assured him. “A fish like that is going to take some time!”

Cars honked from the road above as drivers caught a glimpse of the action below. And the fish put on quite a show. She made one run to the very tip of the tailout, threatening to leave the pool, then paused and slowly glided up the far side of the river, right back into the deepest part of the hole. “Holy crap, that’s a strong fish!” Dad was all smiles. Then she came to shore, slowly at first, then on her side. “We already have a fish from yesterday,” I reminded him. “What do you think about letting her go?”

“Absolutely, son,” came his reply. Then he stepped over to the fish and put a hand around her peduncle. “Boy, I don’t know. That’s a great fish,” he said, rethinking his position. I reminded him how few fish we had seen over our two days, that this doe was carrying thousands of eggs. No more words were spoken. I took a picture as Dad revived the incredible chinook. Then he released his hold. She hesitated for a moment, looking strong and massive, then shot off into the deep green pool. It occurred to me how rare an experience this had become in recent years. As our runs have declined, I have had to work harder for my fish. Consequently, I have killed most of the bright fish that have come to the boat. I suddenly understood how backwards my thinking had become, realized what I was missing, and remembered how great it feels to see such a fish dart away to safety. That moment awoke something in me that had been sleeping for a long time, and I know I will release a lot more fish in the future…

-RR

Introduction
A Journal should begin at the beginning, I suppose. This Journal doesn’t, so the reader will need to figure out what comes first, what follows what, and sometimes, how everything is connected.

I don’t keep a daily Journal. Some fly fishers do, I’ve heard, recording information like water temperature, hydrograph trend, barometric pressure, wind direction, water clarity, how much Jack Daniels they drank the previous evening, and all sorts of drivel. Then they diligently record how many fish they caught, flies used, and so on.

The goal, it seems, is to discover correlations among these variables, correlations that explain fish behavior in relation to environmental conditions. I tried this a few times and found I had no interest in the practice of daily journaling of fishing data. I finally let go of the idea that I should journal in the same way others have.

Part of my departure from preconceived journaling models came as a consequence of two key revelations.

First, I realized that I’m usually too tired at the end of a dawn-to-dark day on the water to write anything down. This matter, I decided, could be resolved by writing a retrospective Journal. I decided it was OK to be journally obsessed on my own schedule.

Second, I didn’t want to produce a Journal laced with foul language. Sentences like “this fellow was one of the less liked characters in the group”, could be interpreted as “like dude, this (censored) (censored) was real sickness, and more than one of our (censored) was thinking about (censored) (censored) ways to kick his (censored) (censored) with titanium cleats”.

See the elegance of this solution? I could now journal in a manner consistent with my own good character while simultaneously allowing for liberal interpretation by individual readers, providing cognitive acceptance consistent with the secret dark musings of many fly fishers.

First Journal Entry: Coastal Quest 2009 – day 3 of 7
I’m walking down the beach at six AM. Two pickups pass me in darkness. I walk near surf seeking not-too-soft sand. Start on East side of lagoon. Twenty guys have claim staked before I can see without a flashlight. Anchovies, shrimp, spinners and flies. Wedge between four fly guys I see every year. Nice people.

Day brightens. Chat. No one catches anything. Feel line rub in close, scales on hook. Spinner guys land two fish. Not the chrome I’m seeking, but they whack ‘em and stash ‘em on the bank behind driftwood and tackle. Chinook are rolling everywhere. A Jack eats a shrimp on a bobber 100 yards downriver, pulled unceremoniously ashore and whacked.

Wade upriver to fish gravel bar where I see people gathered. Fish are close. Spoon-guy fouls seven in a row with a siwash hook. Older guy. Just wants to catch a salmon. Invites me to move close to cast. I do – but no grabs.

Trudge down to the ocean. More bronze fish lay on the bank, no chromers, none behind the fly-guys. Fished surf two hours. Ineffective. Waste of time. “Use a Type IV,” Steve told me. Bah. No line would have made sense in messy surf today. Where are the schools of 400+ kings cruising at the river mouth? Saw only one chrome fish try to enter river. Seals working rip at mouth.

Barrett and Rob arrive mid-afternoon. Smiles, hugs, stories about no grabs and where fish are holed up in un-fishable places. We concentrate on west-side. Barrett gets grabbed and comes up empty. Rob gets followed twice. I get grabbed; we all see fish and head-shake, then nothing. Sadness.

Rob walks over and says, “pick out a fly for me.” I point at a onesy in his box, Barrett agrees, and Rob ties it on. Very first cast, he gets grabbed. We all see fish boil up and shake. Many photos later, a nice hatchery fish slides onto sand.

We fish on. People give up and haul plastic shopping bags and Igloo coolers to pickups. Daylight is waning. Cast and cast. Change line, change fly, adjust retrieve, move around. I see a fish boil and cast. There’s the grab, head-shake, and blistering run. Ooops – slack line. Loop knot severed by bead chain eyes. Dang. Double dang.

Six-thirty, too late to continue fishing now. Trudge across river with Barrett & Rob. “Want these eggs?” Rob asks gear-guy getting ready to mount dirt bike. “Yeah, thanks,” bike-guy says, and roars off into the gathering dark. I’m grateful for ride up the beach. Twelve fish checked all day for over 60 rods. Two-thirds were copper.

Microwave dinner from Ray’s Food Palace. Barely edible. Don’t care. Finish with Bunny grahams and granola. Call Rob and Matt. Send them anywhere but here. Call Ed – ditto. Dead tired. Hurt all over.

My conversation with Nate is short; he recognizes my exhaustion. Prototype Burkheimer two-hand rod shipped from factory today. Will arrive at Motel tomorrow. Set alarm for 4:30. Pack Odwalla bars. Water. Waders. Two rods. Fifty-seven lines. Two thousand flies.

I’m stubborn beyond reason. Sleep in three poly shirts (again) to counter day’s lingering coldness. Wake in middle of night. Something smells like nasty old socks. It’s my right arm. Oh yeah, I did hug a salmon last week. Drink water. Try to hydrate. Go back to sleep for awhile. Why do I stay here? Hope? Intuition? Salmon obsession?

JN