Caddis Fly Shop: Oregon Fly Fishing Blog

There’s nothing like swinging a fly through the bucket, knowing you’re in the zone, then feeling that solid pull. The more you swing, and the more big grabs you feel, the more you learn to recognize those fleeting moments for what they are: pure potential. “That grab, and the first head shake,” says author John Larison, “That’s why I fish anadromous.” John says this as he’s muscling a twenty-plus-pound salmon to the beach. After ten minutes of strenuous battle, the fresh chinook rolls over and comes to hand. “What a fish!” he yells out. John is beaming, his heart racing. I snap the photo and offer my hand in congratulations.

Just moments before the big grab, he and I were swinging flies side by side through a deep pocket in the bay. “It’s coming across just like those slow, deep-water winter steelhead swings,” he noticed. “God, I love that!” On the next swing I saw his line tighten up, saw him feel the take and intuitively set up and strip tight to the fish. The ten-weight rod doubled over with a big slow head-shake. John set again and his reel started to sing. The salmon ran to the other side of the bay, turned and made a big lap around the two-acre pool, then shot upriver with the tide, into the wood-strewn shallows. “Oh Jeez,” I thought, “time to get on the sticks!”

We fought the fish across the tidal flats for several minutes, then I rowed John to shore for the final tug-of-war. Earlier in the day, as I was beaching my own fish, John asked about the net. “No net!” I said with a smile. “I leave it at home now unless I’m fishing with kids.” That seemed really noble and high-minded when the first fish eased onto the beach. It seemed a lot less cool when I broke off my Dad’s chromer a couple hours later. And it was seeming quite stupid as John led his first-ever chinook salmon to the bank, veering over snags and clumps of tidal grass. Like so many of my brilliant ideas, this one was stirring up some doubt. But our doubt vanished when the big flashy buck came to shore. This was a fish we would all remember, taken on a swung fly, on a single handed fly rod, with 12-pound leader, no net. For me, the best part was watching John put it all together. He knew the fish was coming. He wasn’t even surprised by the take, even though it was his first time swinging for king salmon. I had started the day suggesting he fish by intuition. “The tidal currents shift so much, you have to trust your instincts,” I recommended. “You need to sense where your fly is and swim it through the swing. If you can feel it, you will know when you are fishing.” Imagine my surprise when it actually worked!

-RR

After four days of intense searching, anchoring, casting, and rowing, a narrow window opened for us. All our efforts came to fruition in a couple of magic hours. My Dad had been casting spinners with growing precision, picking up one solid hook-up each day, along with a handful of nice cutthroat. His best fish, a nice chinook, broke off inexplicably. The others just threw his hooks. I couldn’t get a grab on fly or gear, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had, at least, found the fish. Big fish. A few of the surface crashes were so large and violent they sent chills up my neck. Occasionally I would look up just as one cleared the water. Awesome! I’ll never stop marveling at their massive chain-mail sides. I love the obesity, the bulging shoulders and bellies. And those black-lipped jaws! Anyway, we found them, but it wasn’t working out like we had imagined. There were tons of silvers around, too, jumping wildly. Some areas were packed with them. But in typical coho fashion, they were infuriatingly tight-lipped. Even the trollers in the bay complained.

Between us we had eleven rods: two spey rods, three single-handers, two bobber rods, two trolling rods and two spinning outfits. Ridiculous, I know. And every rod got some attention over those four days. Watching big fish jump all around the boat can really motivate a person to try EVERYTHING. But after a couple of days, as we hit our strides, I focused on my favorite single-hander and Dad on his favorite spinning rod. He was kicking my butt handily.

On the afternoon of our fourth day we drove to a little off-the-beaten-path estuary on a hunch. My go-to spots had all been thoroughly flogged, so it seemed like a good time to try something different. We pulled up to the little ramp, a thin cut in a high dike, and got out to look around. There were silvers crashing right in front of us, concentrated in a tight little depression as the lowering tide drained the shallows. We launched and rowed into position, anchoring up so we could swing a fly over the pool.

I had some trouble getting the right anchor position due to strong afternoon winds, but after a couple of failed attempts, we lined up perfectly and started sweeping flies over the heads of our new quarry. The wind was at our backs, making for comfortable casting. The fish provided ample entertainment. At times we saw up to ten or twelve fish in the air at once. It was a coho party.

Then, as I watched more closely, I saw kings among them. Fresh ones. A few minutes into it, I felt the grab I’d been waiting for. A dull stop, a weak head shake and semi-slack line. I stripped hard and fast, yanking in at least 15 feet of line before the rod doubled over. I set the hook hard, then set it again. That really pissed him off. Next thing I knew I was watching my running line disappear. Dad pulled anchor and rowed me to a small tidal beach. In a few minutes a gorgeous wild coho was posing for pictures. We released the fish and hurried back to our position, knowing we only had another hour before the tide switched directions. That would turn us into the wind, making casting nearly impossible.

Back in position, it was Dad’s turn. He felt the grab and expertly stripped line until he was tight to the fish. Another great battle, this time ending with the welcome sight of a mid-sized chinook, maybe fourteen pounds. We clocked it and celebrated first blood. All the work, the preparation, the gear, the money–it all seemed worth it at that moment. We relished the reward, reliving the battles we had both just experienced, laughing and clinking beer bottles.

We went on to hook and lose three more fish, two nice silvers and a heavy king. The silvers we broke off after blistering runs and acrobatic leaps. No need to land another endangered fish after seeing one up close. The second king spit the hook near the surface, giving us a glimpse before bolting out of sight. Then the tide changed. We turned to face the wind and fought it for a few minutes. But our window had closed, and we knew it. We wrapped it up and headed for dinner.

That night we passed the digital camera back and forth, shaking our heads in amazement. Considering all the gear we had brought to bear on these fish over the last several days, it was incredible that our little flies won the day. And it all happened so fast…

-RR