The Caddis Fly: Oregon Fly Fishing Blog

It was another perfect weekend for salmon fishing, starting with a drizzly Saturday morning, no other boats around, fish everywhere. Ed and I fished hard, swinging flies, stripping flies, plugging, you name it. Many of the holes that had not been holding fish all season had lots of fresh fish Saturday. But we could not buy a grab. By the evening, we moved down into tidewater. There we intercepted a big slug of kings. They rolled all around us for about an hour, but wouldn’t eat our flies.

Sunday I decided to sleep in. I drove around the river and saw lots of boats. The sight of so many anglers convinced me to drive to another river. But that river was slammed, too. Tidewater? The bay? Sure, why not? The bay was quiet, just a few boats. I put in and rowed to a good vista where I could watch for rollers. I made coffee and fried some eggs. While I ate breakfast I watch the bay like an osprey. There was a light wind from the Northwest, allowing me to see the subtle surface clues that show currents and depth. On the outgoing tide, the bay was looking more and more like a river, and one spot in particular looked like it would swing, with a hang-down into deep water for good stripping.

I moved into position and dropped anchor. Sometimes that can be a chore, but this time it went smoothly. I tied on a #2 red comet and made a long cast. The wind was at my back, making me feel like a casting champ. Lightning struck twice, first with a fat jack, and second with a brute that weighed in at 26 pounds! Both fought hard, but were eventually tailed boatside.

I will cry when springer season is over in a few short weeks, but until then…

-RR

Ever think about what it takes to be famous? Just a little famous. To have your level of skill and knowledge exaggerated and magnified an order of magnitude above reality?

The answer is – not much.

Maybe only one fish for a good twenty days of fishing.

Humm. One fish in twenty days of fishing? Maybe that should qualify for passionate, or obsessed. Whatever. Ask his wife.

Imagine a guy who wants to catch a spring Chinook on a fly. Not by dredging Teeny Nymphs among schools of fish kegged in a slot upriver. This guy wants to cast Clousers to cruising fish in tidewater, swing Chartreuse Leeches in the first few riffles above tide, and entice a grab from fish so chrome they make you squint.

Imagine that this guy is really intent on catching his spring Chinook. He has friends who’ve caught spring Kings more than once on flies, on more than one type of fly, in more than one place. Not just the rare fish that anyone could have stumbled into. He knows it can be done. He knows it takes patience. It could take a day, two days, two weeks, or who-knows-how-long. Imagine that this guy has a very patient wife.

So he puts in his time. He fishes and fishes. He sees fish. He casts to pressure waves. He casts to rolling fish, moving fish, leaping fish, and cavorting, teasing fish. He fishes alone. He fishes with friends. He tells stories about not catching springers. He fishes in sun, in rain, and on every imaginable tide. He fishes days before the fish arrive, the day after the fish move on, and days when they show but won’t grab. He concentrates. He focuses. He visualizes. His hands tremble sometimes, and his heart aches when he casts to rolling fish. But no pulls come. Not one.

He persists. The goal is worth the time. The quest itself takes on life, a ritual of sorts. His imagination never falters. He ties new flies, buys new lines, conjures new strategies.

Then one morning, threading a cast between guide-boats trolling spinner and herring spreads, he gets the grab. It comes when he isn’t even concentrating. It comes when he’s trying to figure out if his flyline is going to get fouled in a guide-boat’s prop. The salmon is just there, an eat-it-and-turn grab that leaves no time for thoughtful hook-setting. Forty feet of running line on the boat deck leap into the air, quivering, searching for a reel handle, a rod butt, a piece of net, a gear bag, a seat edge – anything – to throw a half-hitch around.

Imagine this guy in a state of rapture. A huge smile on his face. Imagine adrenaline. Imagine reel handle busting fingertips, flyline slicing across the current, throwing water into the air.

Then imagine people in several nearby boats on their cell phones.

“You won’t believe it. Yeah, some guy just hooked one on a fly. On a fly! Yeah, here, right between the trollers. Yeah, he has it on right now. Yeah, there it goes. Zxycking amazing! Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Just trolled through there a minute before he hooked it.”

There you have it.

The next morning, our fly-fisher is at it again. Casting to quiet water. Casting to rolling fish. No matter. No grabs. Same old, same old. One thing is different this day, though. Now the guy is just a little bit famous. As he casts, and casts, and casts, he can overhear the conversation as people troll by, pointing.

“Mumble, mumble, on a fly! Guy over there, mumble. Fly, mumble. Yesterday, mumble, right here! Damnedst thing I ever mumble. No, really, it mumble, mumble, actually bit the mumble.”

So life imitates fiction, and fiction imitates life.

Or something like that.

JN

Salmon and steelhead junkie, Rob Russell is headed back to fly fish for springers on the Tillamook this weekend. Here’s his belated report from Memorial Day.

The river was still running high enough for easy drifting. There had been some big days in the river and in tidewater. A reliable friend said there had been twenty salmon taken on Tuesday. Best of all, Memorial Day weekend coincided with the best set of tides all month. That should pull some fish out of the ocean and into the lower river. Every sign pointed to a fantasy weekend, and that was reason enough to be prepared for the worst.

I had originally planned to head back to the Hoh and Solduc for the legendary but seldom discussed spring chinook run, but my friends pulled out at the last minute. I weighed my options. Should I camp solo on the Umpqua and continue my quest for the mythical fifty-pound spring chinook? Or should I head back to old faithful for some low-water king fishing? Then I got an email from Tim. He was heading to the Narrows for the weekend, fishing by himself. “Let’s fish!” I said, and I packed my gear.

I arrived in Tillamook the next evening, glowing in the orange sunset and singing along with the radio. I turned up the Wilson River, blew by the RV park, and slowed down as the charred remains of the Guide Shop came into view. My old home-away-from-home. Tears welled up as a hundred memories flew by. Sunsets spent on the deck, gazing over the edge at the river below. The smell of a burger grilling inside. The sound of the front door bell. Toy’s sweet smile, Pete’s big laugh, and the kindness and generosity of Gary and Ernie. In a breath it was gone and I could feel Mills bridge pass under me.

Up river at the Narrows, Tim and I made our plans. We expected competition, so we set the alarm for 3:30am. Then we uncorked a bottle of Talisker 10-year and caught up on life and fish. Fly boxes came out, voices were raised, and stories were animated with wild hand gestures. But the river eventually lulled us to sleep.

Morning came early. We slugged down some coffee and eggs and got on the road. The boat hit the water at 5:00am, and soon we were gliding down the canyon, eyes peeled for moving salmon. We fished hard in every likely drift and pool with no signs of fish. By 10:00am we were nearing reach-of-tide, and by noon we were nearing the bay. The tidewater crew had picked up some early-morning biters, but there had been a lot less fish than boats, so we didn’t feel like we missed much. The boat was trailered, and we zoomed back to the top for a repeat. By 1:00pm the wind was howling, but we fished hard in spite of the challenge. And we fished well. But we never had a bite other than a few cutts.

The abuse continued on day two, puncutated by one lost opportunity mid-morning. Again we doubled up on the drifts, and covered the river twice. No salmon. Not even a drive-by. That night we grilled a trout that had taken the hook deep. It was delicious, and for a few moments I was thankful for the idiotic kill-fishery that had opened for cutthroat on Saturday. I guess every nuclear blast has its golden lining.

Day three brought an air of desperation, but we shook it off, happily conceding to our worthy adversaries. The salmon have to win sometimes. Just not all the time. It was our fifth turn down the river in three days and we had our program down to a science. We knew which runs fished right, and we savored them. We knew which ones sucked and we blew by them. Two pools held our interest. The first was a total bust. The second was shaping up to be the same. Then, as Tim neared the end of the pool, his rod flattened out and a steelhead broke the surface. What a fighter! It was a wild winter kelt, strong and flawless. It jumped several times, and refused to give up. As Tim got her close to shore, she made one last wild maneuver and straighted the hook. “Perfect!” we said in unison, glad to see the fighter dart back into the riffle, none the worse for wear.

By noon we drifted into the Two Bit Hole, just a quarter mile from our take out. None of the regulars were there. The salmon that had been holding there all week were gone. They had shot by us somewhere in the river, but we would never know where or when. We put the best face on our disappointment, driving home to our friends and families empty handed. As I wound up the Wilson toward home, I remembered that great steelhead, wondering if she was the last winter fish I would see this year. Probably, but these fish continue to surprise me!