Caddis Fly Shop: Oregon Fly Fishing Blog

Elk River, 2009

Saturday morning. Down the beach we went at daybreak – Bob, Ryan, and me. Paul and Jeff had abandoned us at the motel in the dark, sneaking away without even knocking on our door to see if we were awake.

Fellow salmon fishers, most carrying white plastic shopping bags, were lining up around the lagoon when we arrived. It was Saturday, the tides were building, and people were staking their claim for first-light fishing. Paul, Jeff, and a substantial group of fly-guys were clustered together between spinner, anchovy, and shrimp fishers. They were positioned to cover a trench that snaked along the inland side of the lagoon, an area where the most fish had been hooked during the week.

Our little group chose the sand side of the lagoon because it offered a little more room between fishers and still, we hoped, a chance to show our flies to a salmon. There was no wind that day, and a heavy salt mist hung in the air dimming the day.

Fifteen minutes passed. A few fish were boiling around the lagoon. Given the freedom, I moved around, shifting position over two or three hundred yards; casting short, casting long. Hoping for a grab on the drop. Retrieving with tiny three-inch twitches, striving for smoooooth retrieves, as slow as I could manage. I moved up the sand spit away from the ocean and kept my casts in the forty-foot range, remembering that there was a little trough close to the sand. I switched out my comet for an un-weighted Clouser, and cast at a downriver angle so my fly would stay in the trough as long as possible.

Suddenly, there was my salmon.

I had extended my retrieve to its absolute limit. The Clouser had lifted to the surface, my rod tip was raised high, and I was about to roll my line forward, begin working line out, and cast again.

But as that little Clouser rested on the surface, barely under tension from the leader and five feet of fly line, a deep-shouldered king rushed the fly, head-on. There he was, moving fast, mouth open, head and dorsal fin out of water, determined to eat that fly at my feet.

Instinctively, because there wasn’t time for intellectualizing, I turned away from the water, away from the fish, and ran, leaping over a drift log on the beach behind where I had been casting. By the time my line came tight, the fish had already turned, the hook set, and the connection signaled as the fish paused, made that glorious side-to-side, whole-body gyration we call the head-shake, and peeled off three hundred feet of line and backing while I tried to maintain a semblance of smooth tension on a protesting, sand compromised reel.

I was smiling. Hell, I was elated.

Eventually, I backed away from the water, maintained a long line and low rod-angle, eased the salmon to water’s edge, and ran back to secure my grip around its peduncle.

I knelt in the water and pulled the fish’s head back into deeper water. I was alone there, no one within a hundred feet either side of me on the sand. The Clouser was buried in the roof of the mouth, barely visible. Then it was time to kneel waist deep in the lagoon and complete the release. I felt the salmon’s strength return quickly, and let go.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. A crowd of salmon fishers gravitated to the place where I released my fish. I moved to a new place where I fished alone, got grabbed hard on my second cast and played the salmon for ten minutes before the hook pulled free.

Reeling in, I turned to find the place where I had fished alone now occupied by no fewer than two-dozen people. Big sigh. That’s just how it goes. By tradition, I could have waded back and claimed my original casting station, but I decided not to. My day was already perfect.

I returned to an abandoned place on the beach and fished-out the afternoon. Just before dark, Ryan was ready to go. “Just a few more casts,” I pleaded. “Do you have any un-weighted Comets?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, opening my fly box. “Give this little beauty a try,” as I handed him my smallest Boss. Ryan shrugged, tied the fly on, and hooked-up on his very next cast. Ryan hooked his fish where I had just fished at least an hour with the same fly.

It was dark when we got back to Bob’s Diesel truck and drove up the beach. I celebrated with Mary’s oven-baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy, and a Henry’s Root Beer.

Back at the motel, everyone gathered to prepare for Sunday’s fishing. It should be the day, they say.

Sunday morning. I’m up at 5 AM. Everyone else is drinking coffee and messing with the day’s tackle, pulling on waders, loading pickups.

Not me. I’m throwing my gear in the 4-runner. I’m headed home. I’ll get Dutch Brothers coffee in Coos Bay, an hour away.

Highway 101 is deserted. There isn’t a hint of wind. I imagine my friends casting to fresh kings surging across the beach into the lagoon. Me? I’m going home.

-JN

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