Cutthroat Fishing on the North Fork

To what purpose is it to be artificially happy on the surface?

Anne Parillaud

Interesting phrase. I was looking for a noteworthy quote that might somewhat abstractly provide a suitable aesthetic with which to segue into this post.

Then I ran across this one. It's got all the right words and contains enough alliterative value to provide those who are willing with a little food for thought. It also happens to quite accurately capture the essence of my Saturday journey to the North Fork of the Coeur d'Alene River.

And yes, for a few hours last Saturday, I was indeed 'artificially' happy. Now if the reader(s) feel that further explanation be forthcoming, well then I apologize because maybe, then, this isn't the post for you to read. I'm thinking that possibly some of the fly fishermen who are still bothering to read these will understand, and if they don't then I'm probably a much sicker puppy than I care to admit (connecting invisible dots), although as the plot here thickens it should become crystal clear...

... maybe you're all way ahead of me... as usual.

After I take the Kingston exit off of I-90 and head north-north east up the river road for what seems forever and believe me it does seem like that because this is Cutthroat country and aren't cutthroat always up and ready to eat, so why am I driving and driving further up into the valley I'm right next to the damned river, have been next to it for miles already so why don't I just stop anywhere, tie on an Adams and have at it?

Well, the reason I am driving and driving is pretty simple, and I'm just about to explain why, so get ready. Cutthroat up here this time of year (rhyme) sleep late. Seriously late. Unlike me. I never sleep late. In fact, I'm such a creature of habit; framed in that age-old (Moss) custom of by-God flying out of the bed and onto the road real damned early, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping a steaming hot steel container of dangerously strong black coffee the whole way knowing full well that even though I'm going to be there at 0-dark thirty wide-eyed and waiting, the sleepyhead cutts will still be hunkered down, waiting for a much more 'civil' hour before taking, in one lengthy session, their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Knowing that I'm way too (heavy) early doesn't keep me, as I drive, from eyeballing the river every chance I get (which is often), for rings, seeing's how the road except for a turn here or there shadows the river as far up as one can drive, which makes, especially in the dimmer hours of morning or evening for a sometimes anxious moment or two when God's various creatures of the forest decide it's time for a drink and I'm busy looking for cuttie noses at 50 miles per hour. Makes me glad I'm driving my father's Sub Urban.

Rings. Pardon me for a moment or two here while I expound on the subject of rings. I promise to try to keep it short, maybe even sweet, but that's not for me to say, or is it? But the rings, as applied to that remarkable occurrence on the water's surface when trout feed on or just underneath it, has probably, more than any other phenomenon, been the magnet, the eloquence, the clarity, the very reason I exist. Or exist for. There is not a single body of water, be it a lake, river, ocean, pond, swamp, or even puddle, that I shall ever pass whereby I will not gaze upon its surface, even though I know better, looking for those rings. There is something indescribably intimate in their quality, their paradigm of renewal, that is rekindled within me when I search, when I see them. When there are rings, all is right and good. They are the quintessence of the balance between harmony and hope, the past and the present. I know that sounds a bit theatric, but I'm just being honest. I have these memories from way back, when I was very young; being in the boat with my dad as we tooled slowly deeper into Distillary Bay at Priest Lake. He'd suddenly stand up, pointing excitedly. "There! 2 jumps!", he'd exclaim, throwing the old Chris Craft into neutral so he could see which way the fish were moving. And I remember how he'd stay, well into the evening, cold cigar clenched between his teeth, casting to the rings as cutthroat fed their way up and down the shoreline. Those are good, good memories.

But there were no rings in sight as I made my way up the river. Just the deep, dark green and autumnal yellows reflecting off the calm, even-flowing surface. It was a cool, humid morning, with the clouds dipping lower as I traveled. By the time I arrived at my descent point, I was in them.

On the way upstream I compile a list of spots where I plan to stop and fish as I work my way back down later today. Why I still do that, after all the times I've come here and done that and not even come close to fishing half of them before running out of daylight, I don't know. But I do it anyway, and the list is always chock full of great runs and fishy slots and I invariably swear that today it will be different, that somehow the hands of time will finally stand still long enough for me to accomplish just that.

I never learn. I don't even come close. But, beyond putting blinders on me I don't see how that's ever going to change. Besides, I come here often enough. I know those places are out there even if you put me in the trunk and drug me, or drug me and then put me in the trunk. Doesn't matter. I'll still make a list, and I'll keep you on the water with me until we have to braille our way back to the car. The clock's always running. I don't have that much left on mine, what's left is screaming by faster and faster with each passing thought, and come to think of it I'd better get on with this before I forget what it is I'm writing about.

I rigged up, threw a banana and some dried apricots into a ziplock, finished the last of my coffee, and set off down the trail. I intended to hike it to the bottom of the run and fish my way back up. But, as per usual, halfway down to my projected starting point I spotted a set of rings and that was that for 'the plan'. Damned rings.

Plans, like rules, beg to be broken. Fly fishing, for me, has been one great big lesson in breaking rules. I've gotten awfully good at it. And even if they don't always break, I can usually put a pretty decent bend in them. Having a 'plan' is like that, too. Don't get me wrong, real-life plans are a necessity most times. And there are any number of folks I've known over the years who derive a serious amount of satisfaction from 'having stuck to the plan', no matter what the results, sometimes disastrous. I don't seem to have much luck with seeing them to completion. That's because I have a genuine fear of the possible consequences. Even though I've taken the time to construct a certain set of scheduled parameters, there accompanies this 'plan' a wariness, a fear of exclusion, a creeping worry that I'm missing something. Should I really keep it this way? Is it okay to have no room for adjustment? The thought occurs to me that maybe if I had more success, or derived at least a modicum of satisfaction from sticking to The Plan, then maybe I'd be more prone to sticking with it. But then it becomes kind of a 'chicken or the egg' type thing. What came first? My abhorrence of plans, or my lack of confidence in them? So, even though I can make plans with the best of them, at this point in my life, especially when it comes to fishing, sticking to 'the plan' actually means to not always stick to 'the plan'. It in fact becomes an almost frenetic need to stray from it.

I'm so happy we got that all sorted out. It may be awhile before I understand just why I felt the need to do that, but anyway now I can get back to the story.

I'm standing waist deep in the clear, cold, slowly moving current, watching, waiting for another set of rings to appear in front of the granite slabs that lie helter-skelter against the bank some 60 feet or so across the river from my position. Tied onto my 6x tippet and currently residing in the palm of my left hand is a classically tied #22 upwinged Mahogany dun. It's the same pattern I use for blue-winged olives, pale morning duns, and most all of the mayfly patterns, no matter what size, that you could possibly think of. For slow moving water where you know the fish are going to take a real good look at it before they pull the trigger, it's one of the few dry patterns I consistently have confidence in.

Nothing. Going on five minutes now. Up above the river stream a never-ending line of pick-up trucks, heading up into the foothills, chainsaw blades sharpened, looking to load up on fuel for the coming winter. They're close enough that I can see the faces of the drivers, who, from this distance, seem so intent, staring straight ahead, that I am not noticed as I stand here. A sudden urge to wave at them surges through me, causing me to smile immediately at my foolish impulse. I wave anyway. No one turns to notice, and nobody waves back.

I'm hearing a voice. It's that little voice I hear when The Plan is about to change. It's telling me to reconsider my choice of flies. It's telling me to go with one of the big dries I tied last night, and it seemed to make a damned good bit of sense. The Spruce Moth.

They don't happen every year. Only once every six or seven, some say eleven, years or so. They're cyclical. I'm not totally sure why. I hear this, or read that, but no one seems to have it pinned. Along with this idea comes the need to actually see one of these large, clumsy moths fluttering about. A quick survey of the area reveals nothing of the sort, in fact, I'm not seeing any flying insects short of an itinerant midge here and there.

The voice in my head says go ahead. Do it anyway. I listen, and obey.

I cut back my leader, double-terl the #12 Spruce Moth onto my tippet, and pull line from the reel. I begin false-casting downstream from where once upon a time I saw those rings. Distance gauged, I cast, watching my tight loop extending, reaching out in the direction of those granite slabs. The newly conceived #12 Spruce Moth obediently followed the leader out to full extension and settled softly on the water maybe a foot from the middle of the granite slabs, and began to drift...

... and then I see the Spruce Moth disappear in a serious set of rings emanating from a large cutthroat as he emerges from the water, mouth open, to eat my Spruce Moth! I lift my ten-foot Sage. Tight. Sixty feet of line, taut, and straight from the surface of the water running slowly past those granite slabs to my rod tip, some sixty feet away. Perfect. GREAT PLAN.

Hm... no rings. Big fish! Amazing. Then, that familiar old song plays in my head; maybe that was a fluke. The dumb one again. Fish on the first cast so now I'm done... All those things run like a broken record through my mind now as the big old male does his best to free himself from whatever it is that this Spruce Moth is holding him with. To no avail. Several minutes later I release him back to his realm, check my moth for damage, and make another plan.

I decide to work my way downstream. The cast is a pretty consistent sixty feet to the opposite bank, where there is a deep trough running nearly the entire length of this run. I cast, get as much drift as is possible with that much unmanageable line on the water, and then pick it up, striving to retrieve as little as possible. Loading the rod off the water provides great torque as the resistance to the line increases. The more line that is left on its surface, the faster the line speed. I get maybe thirty feet further downstream and have just landed my moth a foot or so off the bank when it gets crushed. No subtlety in the strike whatsoever. I must've put it right in front of him, because he hammered it. Another nice, slightly smaller, buck.

Hm.

I never got to work the upper half of this run. It took over an hour to finish out the final fifty-odd yards, because I hit a fish about every twenty feet all the rest of the way, during which time my artificial began to take on a decidedly haggard, worn-out appearance. No wonder.

During this time, I saw few fish come to the surface, but I did observe several Spruce Moths beginning to flutter downward out of the taller evergreens, playing roulette with the water, and the fish.

I'd read a fishing report the day before, extolling the virtues of having a plethora of small flies in order to be adequately prepared for a day's fishing this time of year. The information was important and was gathered from sources who'd probably been here recently, but most likely later in the day. Right now, in these low-cloud hours before noon, the air temperature was not yet a catalyst for any hatch activity, other than the miraculous midges whose metabolics are a genuine wonder. They'll pop out of the water in the most extreme cold. They were present this morning, but not, as far as I could discern, a factor. Give them a few weeks. They'll be the only show in town.

I made the quick hike back upstream to the Sub Urban and drove down to my next spot. Sticking, so far, to the plan. This particular slot was away from the road, so a little overland trek was necessary. Before setting out I replaced my battered hero with a fresh, new recruit. It was warming up. The clouds were slowly burning off. I walked quickly, sensing a change in the conditions. By the time I stood above the two fast-moving riffles that emptied into a long, swirling pool, there were several different models of winged insects hovering over the surface. I decided to observe for a few minutes.

Still nothing. No rings. I made my way down the rocky incline to the water, and was momentarily startled when I spied a large, darkly-mottled moth bouncing several times on the surface, skittering wildly about above me, before diving straight onto the top of my head. I made a grab for it as it took flight again, and got lucky. October Caddis. How fortuitous.

In my usual pre-fishing tying ritual, I'd spent the hours before bed tying several Spruce Moths. I also played a hunch, and tied two new versions of an October Caddis. Another 'gotta have it my box this time of year' fly. I have a decent pattern in my box, but was never really satisfied with the body color. I'm the type of fisherman to leave a possible winner in the box if I'm not confident with everything about a pattern I'd employ in a given situation. Last night I'd rectified the body color problem, so the hand capture of the airborne Caddis had made me a little giddy. I couldn't wait to dig mine out and get it going. But, first things first. I had to figure out where to best attack this section of water.

I made a quick decision to cross the river upstream of the highest riffle. There was a flat, shallow shelf some eighty feet above me. The water was only thigh deep and slow. Soon I was on the inside of the long, slight bend of the swirly pool, observing the hydraulics of the lower riffle as it entered the pool producing a textbook bubble, or 'buffet' line.

It was an easy cast, made from a pretty steep incline in knee-deep water upstream some thirty feet to the middle of the lower riffle. The Caddis plopped down in the buffet line about ten feet above the beginning of the pool, and I immediately saw the dark shape come up out of the green deepness. Sometimes the ability to have such a visual occurring during the take is a disadvantage. It can get you so jacked up that you react before you normally would; kind of 'jump' the take, I call it. I didn't have to worry about that this time. That fish was not going to be denied. He was onto that fly and back down out of sight before I could pull it out of his mouth. I took three more from that same spot in similar fashion before turning my attention downstream to the tail end of the swirly pool. The lower end was a spider's web of small submerged logs, some jutting above the surface, some just below. I found that I could get a decent drift by 'using the force', which basically called for letting the current dictate where the fly was going to float. If I trusted the current and stayed off the line, it drifted freely, and usually without obstruction. Those were the productive casts, too. I think it was because the fish had more time to get a visual to decide how to attack it, but I'm supposing. I tried a few different casting angles, and took a nice female right at the bottom of the pool as the water speeds up again over another rocky change in elevation. By now the sun was bright, and the light filtering through the tress around me made for some interesting effects on the water. By that I mean I thought I began to see things, fish namely, lurking in the shadows, and so deemed it time to move on.

There were lots of small mayflies struggling into the air as I moved into position at my next pre-determined area. A nice long swift. Deep. Lots of granite and igneous slabs canted this way and that on the bottom, making for a hydraulic stew of convolutions. My Caddis settled on the surface and rode only about ten feet down through the uplifts and holes before it was eaten. Strong fish, aided by the fast-moving water, taking lots of line in his first frantic downstream run, then hunkering down to bulldog in the safety of the underwater eddies.

It was about halfway down through the next line of soft riffles that the switch was flipped. I'd been lulled by the consistency of success with my Caddis. I'd gone to sleep at the wheel, letting the adrenaline blind me to what was beginning to happen on the water. Namely, the fish were finally dialing up another target. The tiny mayflies. The sixth or seventh empty drift began to arouse some concern. Now, when I land as many fish as I did during the morning hours of this expedition, it might make it easier for one to say,"Hey. You had it all your way back there, so it's no biggie if you pack it in and head home".

By the time I reached the approximate halfway mark on my 'list', it was close to 4. The sun was directly downstream now, and sinking fast. That's the thing about fishing in the fall. When the sun reaches a certain angle in the sky, gravity seems to kick in and pull at it, and it dives with speed to the horizon. I looked again at my watch. Jeezus. By now I'd been through 2 Mahoganies and a small parachute Adams. All had worked, although now I was seeing a more variation in the size of fish I brought to hand. The little guys were busy competing for a mouthful, and they more and more frequently out dueled the larger, less territorial ones for the prize, which was quite often my fly. No matter. I was still having a ball.

It's close to 6 now. The sun is burning itself into the hill to the west. There is a breeze freshening out of the north. I can feel the temperature dropping with each passing minute.

I have had to forego many of the places on the list in order to be here, on the flats, by sundown. I don't feel bad. The flats are less than a mile from the I-90 onramp. It's where I love to finish the day here on the North Fork.

The river is wide and slow here, spilling off a series of slightly inclined rocky shelves to run in stately fashion down the next several hundred yards. The fish stack up here in the fall months, the benefactors of all the insects that have hatched, lived out their amazingly short existences, and come back to the water to die. They all end up here, and although there are insects literally covering the surface, it is some of the most difficult fishing encountered anywhere on this river at any time. The name of the game is know the menu. Not only that, you have to know which menu item is preferred by the most fish. And when it will change, because it always does. It's possible to take the itinerant fish here and there with an off pattern, but the real success comes in nailing the crowd favorite. Nail it a few times in a row and you're a legend. Good luck with that.

And as the sun finally drops totally behind the hill, I reel it up, and call it pretty damned good. What a day it's been. Nothing like a little humbling at day's end to send me back home with a proper perspective on the whole thing. I needed that.

I'll be back. Soon.

MY style.

My style is all to myself.

John Lee Hooker

About a mile and a half up the road from the lot where I usually park my car is the cemetery. The ashes of my father, grandfather, and uncle are all interred here, close to the eastern edge which, as fortune would have it, borders the river. In fact, the inscripted stones marking the final resting places of whatever was left of their ashes after the many wide-ranging dispersals are no more than a hundred yards from the trail I take down to the river. I stop and say hello every time I fish here, about once, sometimes twice a month. I've always thought it somewhat of a blessing to be able to have the two, my dad's burial site and one of my favorite fishing spots, in such close proximity. Dad was always up for a good fishing story, one of the few who seemed to know that I wasn't blowing smoke, as is the inclination for many fishermen when relating a fishing experience. He'd always want to see what I was fishing with, and tell me that 'one of these days I gotta go the river with you so I can see what it is you do'. He never did, although I am of a mind now that he's pretty close by most of the time.

Sunday was a transition day for the weather. The warm, sunny days of the past week are suddenly behind me as I stop on the trail above the river observing in the cool morning stillness of a lightly falling rain.

Two hundred yards of the best looking water on the whole damned river. That's what I thought the first time I ever saw this run, that being probably fifteen or so years back, and the first thing through my head every time since. A series of large boulders lying in haphazard fashion construct labyrinths of current as the flow slows from a quick, oxygenating descent upstream. No two casts, no matter how true my aim on successive ones, will produce drifts or swings that are even remotely similar. That fact makes this an extremely challenging, and fun, stretch to fish. It also possesses, for that very reason, what I like to call a 'redemptive' quality, in that, because of it's nature, it can be refished using a different method, or not, in case of a frustrating first pass down through it. I speak from experience.

On this Sunday, in knee deep water I work my way carefully through another submerged maze of slippery rocks to a subtle promontory, or shelf. From here I can effectively reach out some sixty to seventy feet with a decent roll cast. I can't possibly stress enough now important it is to have in your arsenal the ability to cast proficiently in this fashion. There is no space behind for a standard cast. None. A roll cast is the only way here, as it is on so many of the other runs and slots I fish. I will sometimes go for days without a single standard cast. That's the way it is here. And that suits me just fine, because it eliminates many fish from being hassled by any fly fisherman other than those who are as proficient as I have become, or those fishermen who are floating the river. And yet, it is then that the method to my particular madness gains in credibility.

As I patiently work the flows that bend around the promontory I occupy, a group of fishermen in pontoon boats, spread out so as to allow each of them freedom of movement and area, come into view upstream. They are well to the other side of the river. I divide my attention as best I can, keeping busy managing my casts and an eye on my arcing swings, as well as the fishermen.

I'm about to wave back to the gentleman in the lead boat when I see a flash and swirl some fifty feet downstream from me. That's right where I know my soft hackle is. I lift my rod, pin the line, and feel weight. About that time a rainbow leaps into the air.

"Is that yours?", the gentleman in the lead boat asks, as I work to get this fish on the reel.

"Sure is", I reply. "You guys doing any good?"

He shakes his head negatively. "Not yet. Couple of bumps. That's it."

"Nymphs under an indicator?" I ask, being polite, but I know that's what they're doing.

"Yeah. Two beadheads. Big and smaller underneath. What're you using?", he asks.

"Soft Hackle. Just swinging it."

He nods, watches me for a moment or two, then grabs the oars and gets back into his drift down the other bank. I release the sixteen-inch trout and check the soft hackle for damage. Looks good.

This gentlemen would be the only one of this flotilla to have anything to say to me, although I know his fellow floaters were also watching. I figured that had a lot to do with how busy they were as they went past. Casting, mending, picking up and recasting into better positions for drifts.

I can't help but notice that they're all fishing the same way. I see, on the water, moving downstream at the same speed as the pontoon boats, orange strike indicators. Interesting. They're all using them. They're all fishing the same damned way! Every one of them! I can't help but smile when I wonder if they're all using the same flies! Every once in a while a line is picked up and recast, but their descent down the river is constant, unchecked. The orange indicators float high and stay very visible until soon they are out of sight around the corner below me. Six hundred yards of river gone just like that! Oh well!

It's a little like steelhead fishing, what I do, except that if I want to stay where I am and swing it three or four times in the same general area, then I go ahead and do it before I move downstream. Or maybe I decide to go with a bead head to get down a little deeper? Well, I go ahead and do that. Whatever I decide to use, I am convinced that the swing is the way. The swing saves the day, time and time again. And that's how I fish my river more than ninety per cent of the time. Yes, there are opportunities for dry flies. That's always a bonus to me when I can target fish who are rising. But, even then, dependent upon what bugs I see on the surface, I'm not above swinging a lightly weighted soft hackle past them first. I love the visual when I see the swirl.

My style? I think back through the years, to those times I still vividly remember, when I rarely used a roll cast. I didn't really have one. What sticks out in my mind is the frustration I felt. Not only in not being able to reach areas I knew held fish, but realizing that even if I did, I wasn't really going to have a decent shot at them. Now? Now I have two weapons, not just one. I have the roll cast, a product of years of on-the water practice. And, I have the soft hackle. Also a product of the years. In my mind it will always be my go-to fly. It will almost always be the fly I first double terl onto my tippet.

On an uncommon day.

After my spectacular failures, I could not be satisfied with an ordinary success.

Mason Cooley

It is in these last days of September wherein my memories of this year's fishing on my river will be most vivid. The weather has been perfect. Clear, sunny days of morning coolness rising to moderate afternoon temperatures, and little or no wind. Makes it easier to forget the gray, cool inclemency of August, and even most of July. And although I know all good things must eventually end, I revel, especially now, as always, in the present.

An uncommon day of fishing on the river could be taken two ways. One might possibly think I would be about to describe a day filled with frustration, angst. A day lost to misfortune and error, a day wrought with failure.

Not, happily, today.

Every now and again, a day like this comes along. I've always thought they're bound to, mingled in with the others, lined up indiscriminately into our futures as far as our minds care to comprehend; the good, not-so-good and just plain bad, invariably quite indiscernible until they each step forward and reveal themselves to us.

Today I marked the sixth straight day of fishing. As I said, with the weather being so good, I would have been crazy not to have been down there. There is an old saying about the fishing always being good but sometimes the catching is a little slow? Well, a fly fisherman not educated in the ways of my river could possibly find purchase in that old adage were it not for the fact, usually ignored, that my river is decidedly not the kind of river that most of the folks who like to wet flies in are drawn to. In fact, it can be downright stingy when it comes to giving up any knowledge as to where, or how it should be fished. I don't pretend for a second that I have any more, or any better knowledge than any other person who's spent as much time down there as I have, although, in all honesty, I have yet to meet anyone who has. But, sometimes, usually after a couple of good days, I will allow myself to think I do, until the next day arrives and I'm quickly reminded that while experience is the best teacher, clearly I have not accumulated nearly enough of that. That thought haunts me still, after how many years?

So maybe today was a carrot, a reward for my persistence. A gold watch for so many years of service. A gesture. An acknowledgement of the hours spent. A royalty, or dividend, designed to allay any of the many anxieties I may have incurred through all those years.

Or maybe, just maybe, I am actually, finally putting my experience to good use. I think for now I'll go with that, at least until I'm inevitably forced to face reality again.

It didn't really all just happen today, this realization. The past few days have been extremely satisfying, weather-wise and fishing-wise. No, not a lot of fish brought to hand; no inordinately high fish counts. No wild, reel-screaming fierce battles; well, on second thought, there were a couple of those. No, it's more in the realm of a quiet sense of accomplishment I come away with each day as I ascend the trail back to my car.

I started my day early. Up at four, showered, disdained again the task of shaving, threw the oatmeal and raisins together and readied the french press, undoubtedly the best way to enjoy good, strong, black coffee. I cannot even imagine a morning, especially a fishing morning, without my coffee. With all that under control, my thoughts center again on a plan of action for today's fishing. I like to at least think I'm going to a pre-determined area before I actually arrive. Whether or not I end up there is always up for further rumination after I rig up and start walking, but at least having a destination in mind frees me to concentrate on other stuff before I get in the car. I grab the half-dozen soft hackles I tied the night before, and debate sitting down to tie a couple of my classic, lightly weighted ones. A quick check of the box dissuades me from this activity. I call it all good and pack my gear out to the car.

The drive down to the river takes about fifteen minutes on a good day, and today had started, and still seemed, to be one of those. And, I felt it. It felt like a damned good day, but, I've had that intuitive sensation before as I've driven. Those feelings haven't always been realized; the reality often being very nearly the opposite. But today, well, I felt good. Optimistic, even. My son Aaron, the doctor, the fly fisherman, the Iron Man, the ultra-distance running machine, and I have spoken about this. He has spoken of this same sense of well-being, this aura of confidence in the hours before he competes. He goes on to say that this particular pre-race state of mind does not always translate into a successful race. There are so many peripherals involved that may or may not come into play along the way. And, in some ways, an attitude of too much confidence can cloud his mind. It will not then react quickly enough to what his body is telling him. While I don't pretend to compare how much preparation is involved with doing successfully all that he does, what he does, to a day of fishing, I do see the parallels. I do understand the logic, and I have suffered the consequences, albeit not comparable.

But, all things taken into consideration, I still felt pretty good about today.

I stuck with my pre-drive decision as far as fishing locale for this day. As I drove across the bridge the river was invisible, hidden beneath a veil of swirling fog. At this time of year, the dew point here, because of the higher humidity, is just a smidge higher than the surrounding elevations and that combined with the cool pre-sun hours precipitates the misty cloud that envelopes the river. It will burn off soon enough, but I intend to be on the river to snap a couple of pictures before it does.

Into the parking lot. Waders, boots, glasses, fly rod rigged, fly (always start with a soft hackle) attached. I lock the car, double check for keys, and set off briskly into the fog.

It's about fifteen minutes, twelve if I really stride, to my destination for today. I'm heading downstream about a mile or so to a long run that I've purposefully stayed away from for several days. My thinking is that by doing that, the fish have had that many days to recover from my last visit here. That happens to be one of my cardinal rules, too. Never go to the same spot two days in a row. Or even in the same week. Plus, I know that no one else has been here disturbing things, which is probably wishful thinking. I think it anyway. Sometimes I am surprised, but most times not.

The fog has thickened as I gingerly work my way down through the moss-covered rocks. The sunlight filtering through the foggy blanket mutes the colors, turns the river, everything, gray. I pause briefly, debating whether or not to get the camera out now and get those pictures, but the call of the river is loud, appealing, and I easily surrender, strip line from the reel and roll out my first cast.

The hydraulics here are a convoluted maelstrom. The bottom of the river is a hellish combination of rocks, of all sizes and shapes. The currents flowing over and around these rocks are twisted and re-routed, causing uplifts and funnels, downdrafts and eddies. It may be a tortured section to behold, but beneath the surface, because of the rocks, there are many favorable holding areas for what I have found to be some of the biggest trout in this river.

My first roll cast lands my fly some twenty feet out, the line is immediately turned this way and that. I mend furiously, upstream, then down, trying to keep at least a vague semblance of an arc in the line as it is washed downstream, all the while being as sensitive as possible to any difference in feeling in the fingers of my line hand. I love this. I love the mystery of the swing anyway, but add to that the dimension of the swirling currents which make keeping in direct touch with the fly nearly impossible no matter how effectively you mend, well, now this is fishing!

Just as the bends in the line begin to lengthen somewhat, I see the furthest section from me that is still visible suddenly dart upstream. I pin the line and lift the rod, and the pull is strong, spasmodic, and has weight. My ten-foot Sage bends radically, while my Waterworks screams. I feel awesome. Here we go.

Several casts and swing management efforts later, I lift my soft hackle out of the water, examining it for damage. I have not touched a fish since the first cast. Another old adage comes to mind. "Fish on the first cast? Go home, my man, because the gods have ordained that you are through for the day."

As I ponder the significance of this development, I watch a medium-sized Caddis leap off the surface of the water. It gets maybe six inches into the air when lo and behold a trout flies out of water and deftly snatches the Caddis right out of the air. Impressive!

My thoughts at that point went straight to wondering if that was a newly hatched adult, or if it might have been a female re-emerging from the water after laying eggs. We have several models of Caddis hatching here at any given time, and roughly a third of them re-enter the medium from which they emerged from to lay eggs. My guess (probably because I had a pattern I wanted to try and here was a first-class reason for digging it out) was that yes, it was female who was laying eggs, and I now had the perfect opportunity to wet the fly I'd been working on which imitated that very thing. I'd gotten serious for awhile about the idea a few years back and it'd kind of been on the back burner ever since then.

It took a few minutes of intense hunting through my boxes to find it. I had one. Just one. Buried in with my classic soft hackles. The elk hair gave it away, and I dug it out, extended my leader a bit, and rolled it out to the far edge of a set of standing waves...

Every day that I am able to fish is a good day. Some are 'gooder' than others and some are more easily forgotten. Then there are the days, quite few and far between that defy description. This was one of those days. The next hour and a half will live forever in my mind's eye. It was almost an out-of-body experience. Never mind the fact that at one point I hooked fish on three successive casts; that these fish can't possibly be stacked up like this anywhere in this river let alone right here right now, and when have I ever had such a spot-on pattern as this at just the perfect time!

Looking back, I am pretty surprised at how much punishment that fly took. And, it kept hooking fish even though it had long ago ceased to look anything like how it did originally.

I never did get those pictures taken, but it was foggy for quite some time. Guess you'll just have to take my word for it.

I was a little busy.

My river. More thoughts.

Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.

Camille Pissarro

Most of the folks who live in or around the city of Spokane are aware of a river running through town. They know it flows from the east. A good percentage of these same folks even know that it flows out of a lake as it begins it's westward run, although they couldn't tell you the name of that lake. That percentage continues to decline when it comes to knowing where all of this water running through our fair Lilac City goes. Then, slash that number in half or better and you have a decent approximation of the number of people who have ever actually seen it, omitting of course those who visit, or frequent our downtown Riverfront Park and see the river, penned, aesthetically structured, civil, calm, and even, on good days, litter-free.

To be sure, there are a plethora of places in the region wherein one may enjoy a more intimate connection with the river. Among those who care about such things, these areas are well known. They range from carefully constructed viewpoints along some of our 'scenic' drives, to direct access to the water both up and downstream of the 'metro' area. When ESPN comes to town, most often to broadcast Gonzaga University Bulldog basketball games, a gratuitous live shot of Spokane Falls nearly always accompanies the network breaks. And, as our city fathers would have it, it is beautiful. They mandate that lots of water, billowing in its oxygenated, voluminous whiteness, be flowing for those shots. I had the misfortune one sunny afternoon several winters ago to be fishing when they 'opened the gates' for a 'Chamber of Commerce' event. I think if I remember correctly it was for a nationally televised ice-skating championship. Whatever it was, the rising waters isolated me on an island for a few hours. It was almost pitch dark and I was mighty chilled by the time I decided I'd seen the flows recede enough to chance a wade back to shore. I was thankful for my headlamp and the extra heat packs I carried.

While there are some folks in town who have visions for the future of the river, there are many more who couldn't give a damn. There are those who use the river for recreation. Included in this group are those who recreate with respect, and many more who choose to use it both as their own playground and garbage can. There are even those who come along once a year and try to pick up all the crap that the latter group leaves behind. They spend all of one day in an all-out, no holds barred campaign to clean up what the masses of repugnant hordes spent a full year distributing. I am amazed at how much garbage is collected, but as I see it, and I am there year after after year, they are fighting a losing battle. I hate to say it, but the ignorance and disrespect far outweighs the noble efforts of this small, but brave band of river lovers. I count myself as one of them though I do not take part in this annual outing. I do my part every time I go fishing there, hauling out a sack full of litter, retrieving one of Joe Albertson's shopping carts, an old bike frame, or even a stolen and discarded computer, from the river. But the task is daunting, because it seems that with every year the repugnant masses grow in number. I see that firsthand, and I begin to worry that it is by some sort of design that this is occurring. I wonder if some our 'visionaries' are talking out of one side of their mouths while laughing out of the other side. By that I mean I have to wonder if my river has been conceded to the hordes, the thinking here that it's a way to kind of 'compartmentalize' their activity to a relatively obscure, uninhabited area bordering the river, out of sight and hopefully 'out of mind' to the rest of our good populace as well as those money-spending visitors. I know the police are reluctant to patrol certain areas of the river even though they are well aware of the higher incidences of crime having to do with car prowling and vandalism. With that being said, criminal activity is bound to increase in places where there is no presence. I am painfully aware of this, having had my car smashed and pilfered on more than one occasion before I resigned myself to parking in a college parking lot filled with security cameras and patrolled regularly. Makes for some very long hikes, but I'll take it. It's better than fishing with your mind on your vehicle.

I've ranted enough. Nothing's going to change. The repugnant few who are always responsible for screwing things up for everyone else will continue their assault. The river 'keepers' will follow along behind, filling bags full of their droppings. Our city fathers will gather and trade their visions. The city council will ponder this and/or that, and convene panels to study this situation and that. Concerned citizens will write letters and attend meetings. The environmentalists and conservationists will fret about the phosphate levels and the destruction of fish habitat. The state of Idaho will continue to stall on any kind of positive action or legislation that might signal even the slightest inclination to acknowledge their participation in the eventual demise of fishing as we know it on the Spokane River. But, nothing will change. It never does.

What took me however long to type out above goes through my mind in a nanosecond nearly every time I return to my river. And it's not easy to live with. I admit it. I am not sure how long my river can fight the abuse and the lack of positive action.

But then I think of how lucky I have been. How blessed. How resourceful. How persistent. When I first began exploring the river how ever many years ago, how could I have possibly understood the level of knowledge or the joy I would derive from this place. This river taught me how to fish. This river taught me how to think. This river taught me so much more than just about fishing. It was the best therapy in the world through countless turning points in my life. It was my sanctuary. Better than that, it is my world. All things revolve around my ability to get here, to be here, to feel the strength of its flows cradling me. To puzzle, to outwit, to succumb. To be reborn, again and again.

And then, as my fly line arcs again in the current, it occurs to me that, given half a chance, the river will survive. That these waters will hold and grow trout as long as I am able to be here to stand erect in its waters and cast for them. And it will be good. It is always good. It is in the nature of things to be good. And it is always, eternally, only for us who know this to be true.

On a Saturday in the rain.

I was trying to daydream, but my mind kept wandering.

Steven Wright

The rain came down harder. I stood and watched for awhile, sheltering beneath a cluster of pines, while the deluge raised a white sheen on the surface of the river below me.

I think we all have madness in us, it's just that I've realized mine and found a way to let it out.

John Glover

The idea had come to me the day before as I made my way very carefully across the river through a stretch of shallow but fast-moving water to an unfished slot still quite reachable given the fact that flow levels have, for the past two weeks, been on the increase.

A sudden movement at my left foot had startled me and I froze, scanning the rocky bottom for whatever it was I thought I'd seen. Thinking I'd probably dislodged a rock as I shuffled along, I prepared to continue on my way when I saw it again. And this time, clearly defined against the pale green algae on a granite slab it hugged, I saw the sculpin.

A sculpin is a bottom fish. It inhabits rivers, lakes, and is also found in salt water. They are throwbacks to a time when we were first emerging from the water. Very primitive in appearance, with spiny scales and fins. Ugly, too. At least that's my impression, although there are trout here, mostly larger ones, who will prey upon them. For those so inclined, they are a delicacy.

Over the years I've fished TDR, there has been enough interest on my part in finding a viable lure to spur a certain amount of time spent at the vise trying to conceptualize and then somewhat faithfully construct an artificial sculpin that would consistently get results. I italicize the word because there have been patterns fished that have provided some success, but most of them remind me of something a friend of mine said after I related to him an experience I'd had with a newly concocted pattern.

"So, you hooked the dumb one...", which, in my mind, although I remained stoic, seemed to be painfully close to the truth. Each new composition would usually

be found attractive by one, sometimes even two, but seldom three fish, at which point said compositions were, after a few more frustrating attempts removed from the box and remanded to the obscurity of the ever-filling OHW(one-hit wonder) glass sitting in an unobtrusive corner on my tying desk. And usually at this point, any further experimentation with or on concepts dealing with the sculpin were also summarily dismissed, at least up until this very recent day when I fairly stumbled on the real thing. That got the juices flowing again. My memory is blessedly short when it comes to failures of this nature, and since it seemed like a reasonable amount of time since my last frustrating foray into experiments along this line, well, maybe it was time again. I had this vivid image in my head of that sculpin and coupling that with the beginning of fall where fish will start looking for more to eat, well, how could I not give it another shot?

So, what you see at the top of the page is what was double-terled to my shortened leader at the end of my type 3 sinking line as I stood there beneath the pines watching the rain pelt the river's surface last Saturday. It's a simple pattern. I took a very elemental approach, not wanting to get caught up in too much detail. I tend, at times, to focus more on that than I need to. So maybe I'm learning? Time, as always, will tell...

I was not at the location where I discovered the sculpin, but that's a no-brainer, at least on this river, because wherever there's really good-looking water (especially right now), there will more often than not be no fish. They're all, save for the occasional territorial loner, pretty stacked up in the safety of deeper, slower water that is less affected by the up until recently scant flows.

And that's where, for the most part, they will remain until late fall's hatches of caddis and blue-winged olives draw them back into the shallower runs and riffles.

The section where I have decided to fish my new concept is deep, close to eighty feet across with a fair a current, and only a short distance downstream from a briskly flowing riffle. It's also attractive because I have room for a backcast, almost a necessity when fishing a sinking line. I say almost because it is possible, with some patient practice, to roll cast this line somewhat proficiently for distance. But today I want to cover as much water as possible, so that's another reason to be here.

In my mind, as I now wade through the rain to a pre-selected grouping of rocks, there are large, fierce, hungry rainbow trout lying in stealth in the depths, waiting for a sculpin to make a mistake and show itself. I will present mine and hope it passes muster.

The rain continues to fall, soaking me, as I strip line from the reel and pull my sculpin through the water. Examining it as it goes, I can't help but be impressed at it's similarity to the coloration and profile of the real thing, but it matters little how I see it.

I start short, working the area closest to me. Just like the books tell you to do. I continually remind myself that there's a reason for this, as I tend to let impatience rule the length of even my first casts. Within me lives this beast who wishes to, whenever possible, push the limits of distance into the next county. I love casting. I dearly love casting a sinking line. It's weight makes it easy to feel the rod flexing, leveraging, and when power of the haul is properly applied, it is a never ending glory to watch as the narrow loop extends out seemingly forever. But, as I stated, I am, at least for now, denying myself this 'evil' pleasure in return for a more mature, practical approach.

There is also the question of retrieval. How do I want to bring it back to me? Do I want to begin stripping at landing? Shortly after landing? During the swing? After?

It occurs to me that there will probably be time to try all of these. So for now, I content myself with moderate casts of what I take to be about fifty feet, and beginning my retrieve after a couple of seconds.

I settle easily into a rhythm as I change the angle of each cast, the rod telling me when to pull, the river telling me when to retrieve, lifting my rod to roll out the line as I begin again, and again. I lose myself for a time in the sheer joy of the mechanics, although I am not aware of them as being such. It is in the repetition, of movement, of feeling, of sensation, from where I gain the deepest satisfaction, and it is here where I will always go to find the most resonant solace which is really the ultimate drug. It is not the first time, nor will it ever, I pray, be the last time I lose myself in the sheer joy of the cast and the retrieve.

And then, in the middle of my retrieve, the line in my hand is pulled back. Hard. Joltingly hard. Then again. And again. The line laying in the water at my feet races out the guides through the eye and into the river, arcing after my sculpin, which is now racing away and downstream from me. I raise the rod tip to the chorus of my reel screaming at my backing knot as it races toward the water.

Directly across the river in the shallows a foraging duck suddenly leaps, squawking, wings flapping, into the air as the water in front of him explodes, spitting a dark-olive rainbow up into the afternoon rain. I watch the fish cartwheel back to the water before realizing that fish is attached to my sculpin which is attached to my fly line which is attached to my reel which is still screaming as backing peels off, only in a different direction! And then, slowly, as if in some sort of delayed realization, the fly line begins to conform to what I am feeling. The fierce, jerking pull is coming from clear across the river now as I watch the line begin bend back upstream to follow the path of the fish as it once again shoots skyward in a spectacular display of power. Still he takes line. I pin the line to the rod, testing its ability to stop him, and my rod tip instantly goes to the water. He refuses to yield. There is, in this fish, an unimaginable amount of power, an urgent need to escape, to survive. Every ounce of its strength, every fiber in its being is directed to this end. I hang on, in awe.

The rain has stopped. The sculpin is back in the keeper, and I just stand there, for awhile, and smile. One strike. One beautiful rainbow, brought to hand. The biggest rainbow I've yet been blessed enough to do battle with. Anywhere. And of all the trout I've ever had the chance to fish for, to tempt, to puzzle over, or to bring to hand, this one will forever bring that single, defining moment of joy. There is no finer way to be humbled than to experience the jolt of that take.

He won. He got me. He stole a piece of my heart. Took it with him as he swam away, back into the depths of the river on that rainy Saturday afternoon.

Maybe some day, after I'm gone, all the pieces of my heart, which are in different places in this river will find their ways back together. Maybe they already have. This is where my heart is. I can think of no better place for it.

Reflections on moving water and other things.

I've cried, and you'd think I'd be better for it, but the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine the rest of my life.

Connor Oberst

It was a well placed cast, made even more satisfying by the fact that it had been accomplished at all due to the obstacles presented dare I even entertain thoughts of such a feat. But now, as my Elk hair Caddis drifted high and free down through the convoluted hydraulic, that sense of accomplishment was quickly suspended. The shadows contrasted so sharply with the brightness of the mid-September sun that tracking my fly was more and more difficult as it wended its way through the rocky riffle...

Getting the elk hair to settle at the top of the hook while being securely fastened is a practiced art, and I use as few wraps as possible to accomplish this. No more than four; the lessons learned from years of trial and error still and always fresh in my mind as I work. A tight bundle that sits in its proper attitude on the hook while not flaring is the goal. It is then, for me, a much more viable fly in such a situation as the one I am now presented with.

There are only so many things we can control. In fishing with flies. In life. In my head, this would be a a perfect place to insert a witty quote dealing with the vagaries of learning how to deal with the impact of that reality. But maybe that's not where I'm going with this at all. Or maybe something along the lines of an Eastern philosophy concerned with a real man being able to bend. And not break. Something about rolling with it all...

Halfway through the rocky riffle is a trough where the flow slows visibly. From many past explorations I know this slot is deep. The bottom of the river here is a moonscape of jagged, algae-covered granite. My Caddis rides high in the shadows. I am silent, rejoicing a bit in the glory of simply being able to watch its journey downstream above the algaeous moonscape.

When the sun casts my shadow on the wall above the vise, I am struck for a moment. For a very brief instant I see my father's profile. Or is it my son's. Is it really mine? Of course it is mine, though it does not appear that way when I look away and then look back again. There is a reason, I surely think, that I saw this. I cut off another chunk of elk and comb out the secondaries.

I am about to throw in the towel on this drift. My blonde caddis is rapidly approaching the limit of its rather extended drift. I have done as much as I can to prolong it. But something within me hesitates. Stay the course a little longer. I reach for the fly with my rod tip...

Too little. Too late. I'm sorry, folks, but that's what I'm left with, although the 'too late' part is still up for discussion. And if there is, there better be some dynamite clarity accompanying that, with passion. You're up against the wall now as far as I'm concerned. Time is short, and the clock, as it has for a lifetime, is ticking. I'm a good runner. And I never tire at the wrong time. What is it I hear so often? Finish Strong?

There was nothing left. I could not extend its drift any longer. The joy of the classic cast now forgotten. The last inch of slack straightened. I watched, waiting to see the telltale wake of a tethered fly...

I never saw it. My little blonde caddis suddenly disappeared in a furious boil. Instinct replaced anxiety, and I lifted my rod. Tight. Again. Harnessed to my obsession, again. Reprieve. Sanctity. Freedom...

I walk back along the trail. The setting sun is behind me. And for a the briefest instant, as I walk, I am my father.

Or is it my son?

On not writing.

All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things.

Bobby Knight

I'm sitting here watching the little vertical line that marks the starting point blink. Telling me I'm ready to write. Hm.

A rising stream of disjointed thoughts flow through; have been flowing through my head. I try to make sense of them, thinking that within this twisted hydraulic there must be some thread of connectivity. And there very well may be although I know, owing to similar occasions in the past, that I will likely spend blessedly little time in attempting to sort them out.

Summers do that to me, a facet of my life that I'm not unfamiliar with. According to some, I spend way too much time fishing and way too little time absorbing whatever else is taking place in and around the rest of my life, which, in the long run, is really much more acceptable, especially now as my years pass. And, I know that when I do look back, the pages of my history will be bookmarked with the glories and frustrations that deal with fish, flies, and moving water rather than that which most everyone else would consider the really important stuff. I'll let them handle all that. They do a much better job at it than do I.

I used to wonder, back when I still had some misgivings about my emerging mindset, why it was that I was lacking the desire to channel more of my energies into the churning grist mill. That is, to me, the daily application of certain behaviors, routines, and practices that so many of us appreciate as daily life. And maybe I don't need to elaborate any further than that, as one could probably very easily discern from what I have just written that I certainly have a misguided approach to what it should mean to live and coexist on this planet Earth, although I still prefer 'careening mudball', and my thanks again to Thomas McGuane for permanently etching that image in my brain. It fits too well and will never be discarded.

I'd be lying if I said that I never give any thought to what is happening outside of my fishing life. Truth is that I, in weaker moments, expend a certain amount of energy doing something that time has so far failed to teach me, or has actually taught me it's just that I seem to have this very human habit of drifting into thoughts of people, usually loved ones, who are either in my life or who have gone, sometimes long gone. I periodically am caught trying to figure out what, if anything, is right or wrong with the current situation and why it is what it is.

And then another author pokes his literary head into my thoughts with, 'It is what it is...', and I smile, maybe brush back a tear or two, silently thank him for his undying wisdom, and grab for my fly rod.

I will never figure people out. Oh, I'll lapse now and again, and spend time trying to do just that. Even when I could be tying another soft hackle, or mending a leader, but it'll happen. I'll be lost in my world, in the hackle of a Caddis, the faces of those I hold close circling above and through me.

And I'm sure they wonder about me, but, there I go again, thinking I understand. Better sit down and tie another fly. Stick with the things I do understand.