Watchtower

A man who is a master of patience is master of everything else.

George Savile

It is a bright morning, finally, this second day of summer.

I crawl, squinty-eyed and wary, out of my sodden hole, staring at the sky in disbelief. And why not. This has been, for the area, the third wettest May and June ever recorded. More rain has fallen in this time period only twice since someone decided it would be fun to accumulate this type of data.

It occurs to me, as I stand above my river observing, that the debt of moisture accrued through the winter months is now being dutifully repaid. In full, with interest.

The island directly below the bridge is submerged in the swift-moving waters. Ten days ago from this vantage point I watched a white-tail and her two youngsters moving with ease about the island, having taken refuge there from predators who also frequent the area in search of a meal. I wonder when it was she decided that the rising water was going to usurp her sanctum, if her young ones made the what must have been an arduous swim to higher ground safely.

Downstream a couple of hundred yards a blue heron stands knee deep, eyes focused at his feet, in a softer flow. Last year on this date, according to my journals, he would have been standing in slower, knee deep water some fifteen feet closer to the lies of hundreds of adolescent trout, patiently waiting for that split second moment of distraction and a tasty bite. I sense his frustration, although it is probably closer to the truth to say that it is mine I am attuned to.

For the past several days, as I walked the muddy trails to my scattered viewpoints, my thoughts inevitably turned to strategies. It is apparent to me, especially after today's observations, that it's still going to be a decent stretch of time before my usual venues will be fishable. Oh, I danced around with the idea of altering my modes of operation, but this river is the type that won't allow any application of methodry until the flows have receded enough to at least allow access to the fishable waters. Years passed and flies hung up and lost on submerged vegetation have taught me that. At low flows, the bushes that line the prime spots are right at the edge of the rocky shorelines. Now, they are four to six feet beneath the surface yet still begging me to 'go ahead, Steve, swing your soft hackle here...', which in the past would impatiently attempt, often with frustrating results.

This is a frustrating river to fish when the flows are still high for a number of reasons, even when a viable entry point can be found. History has taught me that despite the relative security offered by the shoreline and its proliferance of vegetation, most (not all but close to it) of the trout residing here choose the deeper water. One of the main reasons for this are the rapidly increasing populations of osprey and blue heron, who have been here now for several weeks in search of food for their young. I have, so far this year, also sighted a number of otters, whose abilities in the water are really a sight to behold. They are amazingly swift, agile swimmers who have no trouble whatsoever in catching unwary trout who venture too close to the edges looking for safe haven. I have seen it first hand, and the spectacle is humbling.

Also, the deeper water also provides a more constant food source. This is a river whose flows, and therefore edges, shrink considerably as the summer months progress. The countless millions of blue-winged olives, caddis, midges, and others who have deposited eggs in the periphery of the river's early season flows are not likely to see their offspring survive. These rocky edges will dry in the heat of the sun as the river recedes, leaving only a skeleton of water with life perpetuating ability as the nymphs mature. And, as the flows grow again in the late fall, those lies that were once so easily in reach are now a lengthy cast, if not a pipe dream, away. It is so frustrating to watch a late September mid-river flotilla of blue-winged olives being casually gulped by trout that are suddenly out of reach. But, that is the reality of the season of fishing here. So, when the flows decrease and the river allows me more choices, I am here constantly, searching out avenues of travel to access areas where often the hatches, and therefore the trout have often gone unnoticed. Even though I am fishing in the center of the city, there are still those places! That will always draw and amaze me.

It is the twenty-first of June. Last year on this day, flows were less than half what they are today. By the first of July, despite the heaviest snowfall ever, I was well into my third day on the river. This year's rains have delayed my beginning, and have also deigned that I change my way of thinking. I will not wait until flows are what they were a year ago. Instead, I will alter my method.

My type three full sink line is now in my vest, along with a new box brimming with big uglies. My twelve foot five-weight will probably be the rod of choice for a couple of weeks. In fact, all this re-alignment in thinking has gotten me more than a little excited about the prospects...

It's a long walk back to the car. I stop to watch an osprey circling downstream. It is soon joined by smaller version and I hear the high-pitched lessons being administered.

Summer has come to my river. It is nearly time.

Interlude

A graduation ceremony is an event where the commencement speaker tells thousands of students dressed in identical caps and gowns that 'individuality' is the key to success.

Robert Orben

Last Thursday I took a road trip. Not to go fishing, but to witness my son's graduation ceremony at the University of Washington.

Yeah, sure, I packed all my gear just in case, and in an earlier life could have easily succumbed to the temptation to wet a line in either the Yakima or Cle Elum rivers as I traveled west. Moving water will always be a magnet, but, this time, a few heart felt sighs, as I very 'maturely' and steadfastly continued on my way, had to do. I took it to be a good sign that I wasn't able to see any rings. Moving water is hard to drive right on by, especially when there are rings.

But, on this occasion, my vision was focused on one thing. Get to Seattle (in my aging, tireless Honda) to be there as my son walked the stage to be collared and receive his Doctorate of Philosophy in Pharmaceutics. I don't know if I even stated that correctly. And, I'd have to have the program in front of me right now( which I don't) in order to relate to you his specific dissertation.

I made it. And, I cried. The emotion was/is overpowering. As I watched, I was somehow able, for those few precious moments, to really grasp just what it took for him to get there. Those of us who think we know what work, or what academia, or what perseverance in the face of the rest of a really full life are all about cannot fully imagine, thus appreciate what total immersion, and sheer will, are all about. I try to think that along the way toward his goal, I was connected enough to somehow share in his journey, and thus more fully enjoy his accomplishment. But if I said that, I'd be misrepresenting the truth. The truth is, he did it all by himself. Through the frustration, angst, lack of sleep. Through it all he stood tall, like a man, and dealt with the obstacles as they came, in addition to the absolutely special relationship he has with his wife Jan, who herself deserves credit for her patience and understanding. And, through all those months of pursuit, he still found the time to pursue his passion for triathlon, Namely, Iron Man. How many folks who are devoted, passionate triathletes can say the same?

I am overwhelmed by his life. yes, he is my son and maybe I'm boasting here a bit. But then, how can I not? When I see and hear the respect coming from those who have instructed, and worked with him for the past several years, it brings home the fact that indeed here is a man who is destined for greater things. And I have an idea that all mankind will eventually benefit from his efforts.

Returning home, I unpacked my fishing gear and sat down at the vise. I began tying some soft hackles and some Adams Classics. A whole box full of both.

They will be a gift. They will also be an invitation. After all, even though he is now a Doctor, he's still, and always will be, the best damned fishing buddy I could ever have.

Sixty

Life could kick you in the ass brutally hard and a day spent fishing a creek or a river and you forgot the kick.

Jim Harrison, The Farmer's Daughter, Brown Dog Redux

Saturday marks the beginning of my sixty-first year. That's privately a little amazing to me. I remember an early morning many moons ago. My then best friend Ray and I are blasting along in his convertible yellow bug sans headlights (a la The Green Hornet and I date myself) connecting ethereal dots and waxing as philosophically possible as it is to do so when influenced by the cubensis we'd harvested less than twenty-four hours ago nearly three hundred miles to the west. Just another day in the life.

At some point, as it invariably did, our conversation bent toward our lives,

as lived so far, with a then-thought searing insight into what was to come.

I watched a ten foot tall clown replete with blinking red nose crouch in readiness and then leap straight up into the sky as we approached and passed underneath him.

"Nice nose", I screamed, turning in my seat to watch him land on his toes, wave in our direction, then saunter off into the trees.

"It was blinking in time to the music", Ray stated matter-of-factly. And I took this all into account then thought aloud, " I won't live to see thirty."

He looked at me, grinned, shifted down and turned onto the cabin road.

I suppose all of us have stories to tell about our youth. How we cheated death, challenged the acceptable rules of behavior, or just plain walked around not feeling but being, really believing, we were so god-damned immortal. I stare at the pile of soft hackles accumulating on the foam pad behind my tying desk. Their lives are rather short. Unheralded, and very definitely short. Soon they will go into my boxes and life for them will change. Some will meet heroic ends in the mouths of wild trout whose death struggle snaps my tippet. Others will adorn trees, bushes, and submerged detritus. A few will be severely damaged even before getting to the water as my impatient backcast snaps them against the ancient rocks.

But, most will find the moving water. They will travel downstream to swing in the arc proposed by my tightened line. They will flash in the mind's eye of trout suspending clandestinely in the hydraulics, awaiting just such a chance for sustenance.

And the dance will begin again.

I don't know where my friend Ray is now, or where his life has taken him. I am sure he is alive and, knowing him as well as I once did, am sure he is doing well. I have not kept in touch with any of the people I once knew. Their lives, should I choose to wonder about them, are mysteries. As would be mine to them. I live clandestinely, suspended in the hydraulics of my life, casting flies to others who do the same.

There was, though, a bit of truth in my declaration in that early morning long ago. It just happened later on in my life.

I did die. And mercifully so. The man who walked away from that life is the real me.

Not immortal. Terribly terribly mortal.

Like my soft hackles.

Twenty Days...

All things come round to him who will but wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Winter has passed the torch to spring. She knows, and obediently strips the high ground of its white mantle, then stands back to admire her work.

I shift a restlessly in my tying chair, eyeing the calender on the wall above my vise. Above each new month I have written the number of days until my home water, my river, will be able to receive me again. This morning, I know the days are passing, albeit with a seemingly calculated malaise, and I am enthused about the prospect of my early season reconnaissances. Curiosity overwhelms me. I so look forward to my re-discoveries. Especially this year.

Flows are already at late June levels. This is a blend of both good, and bad news. Winter, due to the presence of la nina', basically took a vacation, leaving only minimal snowpack above the drainage systems of the river basins. Temperatures were abnormally high, and most of the moisture fell in the form of rain, even in the usually high-snow areas. And, although we are ahead of schedule as far as run-off is concerned, the spring, at least so far, has been an unsettled period of rain, lower than normal temperatures, and plenty of wind. Nature always gets the last say, it seems. She manages to balance the scales somehow.

I think about the river as the summer passes. This year will certainly see record low flows, even with the Army Corps of Engineers at the helm dictating flows out of Couer'd Alene Lake. yes, we will always, since the building of the 2 dams upriver in the early nineteen thirties, be at their mercy. Priorities evolve around the need to keep lake levels at a heighth whereby the landowners are guaranteed access to the lake via their boats and their docks. Everything else downstream suffers a bit because of this, because some things will just not be available to change.

But, as I've mentioned before, the trout of the Spokane are survivors. Not only do they maintain, they prosper. And now, pulling another softhackle from my vise, I am again visited by the that wonderfully puzzling dilemna. Where will I go first. Where will I decide to swing the fly that for years has brought me such success.

It's almost time to begin again. And each year brings with it the anticipatory state of exhilaration. Time passes. I pass with it, conscious of the forgiving nature of new beginnings. Of lessons learned.

Lessons

By the time we hit fifty, we have learned our hardest lessons. We have found out that only a few things are really important. We have learned to take life seriously, but never ourselves.

Marie Dressler

Sometimes I have my doubts. But, then maybe we all do, although I don't know that for sure. All I know is that occasionally, I surprise myself. This comes from a man who for many years secretly admired his own seeming immortality, and severely tested the structure, the very nature, dubious as it now is seen, of such a belief.

Possibly it's the years and the resulting accumulation of experiences and incidents. Or, maybe it's more than that. More than the sum of what parts I see as the benchmarks, the components of my learning curve. I guess what I'm trying to say is that through all the mystery and wonder I've had the privilege to wander through in my life, some of it has left an indelible, precious imprint.

Waist deep in moving water, my loop extending, reaching out to the dimple that expands somewhere deep in my heart. What could it be to have every cast land my delicate fly in the center. To split the sometimes harsh wind numbing my hands with an arrow so sharp...

I wander, without regard to time or destination, downstream. The wind is at my back now, pushing the sun ever closer to the horizon. And though the wind is merciless, I still see the rings, more clearly than I ever thought possible. And I now understand why this is, feeling the pull as I send out another arrow.

Straight to the expanding ring that is my heart.

Refractions

If you try hard enough, you can bend the spoon; you can shift reality.

Christopher Meloni

It's been a few days since I last posted here. The few of you who may frequent this blog might have spent a nanosecond or two wondering...

I was going to start this out with something about the ongoing changes we all progress through as the days roll past. Maybe something about yeah, I don't now where they go, why they go by so fast, or where they keep coming from(maybe connect it somehow to my fishing). But sometimes, for reasons I begin to understand, those days that stretch out in front of us tend to demand a little more attention, a fact that is not always apparent when we are totally submerged in our presents.

But, as I started to compose, I had a simple epiphany. Epiphany is a grossly overused word these days, and we all know what it means, and also where it originated, but that's what it was.

I'd been reading some of my earlier posts, partly to insure that I did not plagiarize myself but mostly because although unconscious of it, I was already in the early stages of a significant realization; a slow awakening culminating in that 'epiphany'.

There are countless passions. It is hoped by this writer that indeed everyone should have the opportunity to discover and cultivate theirs. Those of us who have found that priceless treasure certainly know what I speak of. I've always thought that upon closer inspection those of us bequeathed with this special gift might stand out from the rest, and I believe that more now than ever. There is this viable, palpable ambience to them that sooner or later shows itself to me as I get to know them, no matter what it is they are impassioned with. There is an energy emerging from them, a focus on horizons unseen by most. It is what drives them, no matter that they may be involved with be there a hundred or a thousand different arenas in their lives. I am in awe of the magic it brings to their lives because I know. I live with and for that same magic.

I sat at my vise the other day, as I do so often. Not there for any other reason than to enjoy a few odd moments just poking through the plethora of materials I might employ. Ideas spill forth as my fingers explore the textures and contours, my eyes drawn this way and that. All of this inviting me to scheme, or re-live events, to cast into futures. A few idle moments turns into time passed. Time was when it was time lost. Not anymore. It is precious time. I cannot have it back, and yet, it gives me back so much in return that I might never fully comprehend its value.

There are thousands of us who fish with flies, and countless reasons why we do. That some of us have found something so much deeper in the simple act of casting a fly to riseform speaks volumes about the art.

It is our heart talking to us when we find it, in the perfect, sweet language of clarity, and passion. It deems us valuable and pertinent. It provides us with sanctity and vision.

That was my epiphany, and I will hold this close to me, now, as my years flow slowly past. It is my safe, warm place. It is where I can go no matter how far I may roam, or how close I choose not to be.

And I sincerely hope that you have found yours.

Seeing through.

It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place.

H.L. Mencken

There were two of them, both tight to fish, as I neared their position from downstream. I was in transit to a spot I'd elected to visit next, having swallowed a few bitter pills at the previous location. They seemed engaging enough, and I stopped after my presence was noted approvingly to first compliment them on their success which, for me, is a pleasant pre-cursor to digging for details.

They were, at least in their own minds, well-versed in the art of deception, as do many of us who maybe consider ourselves a bit shrewder than those we may deal with in certain situations. That's always something to be aware of in the quest for information, for what you seek is often thought by those you may query to be much too valuable to be responded to in a forthright fashion. It's wise to know this going in. Answers to questions like, "What're you fishing with?" may not be well received. It's more than wise to accept this caveat when posing questions of this perceivably delicate nature, which makes it even wiser to first be able to read situations and employ a level of tact. Of course, all the respect and deference you can muster may not be rewarded with viable information. That probably happens more often than not. That's when it's wise to smile, thank whoever it is you have put on the spot, and move on, wiser for the wear, at least in your own mind.

But these two gentlemen had a very practiced, well-rehearsed production; something I immediately became aware of as they so willingly provided me with 'pertinent' details, and even attempted to skein information from me guised in what I later decided was an insultingly slick attempt at camaraderie.

Two can play at this game, I thought, eagerly disseminating only the most 'precious' details concerning the nature of their future successes while fishing this area.

A short while later, as I tailed a rather large, feisty buck, I was approached by another fisherman who, in his stead, pushed all the right buttons on his way to THE QUESTION. He prefaced his quest with a story about the two fellows he'd talked to earlier, and as his account went on, I couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah, I spoke to them this morning," I told the gentleman, "all I have to say about my chat with them is this. Sometimes you have to take what you're given with a few grains of salt."

He smiled back. "Hm. Lesson learned. Again." He turned, and headed back down the trail, a little wiser than before.