Happy to be Here

All the best stories are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape.

A.C. Benson

It is the twenty-sixth day of July, and I sit here staring at the picture of the osprey I decided would befit this post. She has guard duty while her mate fishes downstream. He will return shortly with a fine trout and I will hear their two young ones scream for a tasty morsel. They are not old enough to fly as yet, which puts them a few weeks behind schedule. As I've previously stated, everything is happening later into the summer months this year, thanks to the slow abdication of spring.

I am still sitting here, having recently returned from another morning's fishing. This was the fourth straight day I've risen earlier than usual so as to be standing in my river before daybreak; earlier than usual being at three rather than four, in the morning. Gives me a couple more hours of prime fishing time before the heat, which gets oppressive way before noon now, sets in. I don't know why that's important, if any of this really is, or why I felt the need to reveal that tidbit of nonsuch to you. But, there I was, and, to be honest, I'd not ever wish to be anywhere else, except maybe on the South Island of New Zealand in a spring creek, but my son tells me it's too expensive to live there, so there I am standing in my river spending not a dime and blithely loving it.

I see obstacles now. I'm desirous of planting in here as I construct this, a few tediously selected superlatives in order to most graphically, sensationally describe how good the catching has been since the now rapidly decreasing flows have once again allowed me access to those places I could, up to very recently, only gawk at from perches far removed. As they like to say, the fishing's always good, sometimes it's the catching that's not. But, in the context of the past four mornings, that's most definitely not been the case. I used to keep a pretty comprehensive tally of fish brought to hand for each day. I don't do that anymore. It seemed a bit too ego-oriented, at least for me. Hell, I'm the type of guy who may have several great days of catching in a row and then the day arrives where it's a little slow and I'm wondering what the heck I'm doing wrong. Actually, I'm not as bad as I used to be. In fact, if I remember correctly, which may be a stretch in itself, I've had a few days quite recently where I completely forgot to chastise myself for almost being skunked. Where did that attitude shift come from, anyway! I wouldn't say I've fallen into the 'just happy to be here' category just yet, but maybe that's not far off. I'll keep you posted. Could be the age thing, I don't know. I'll probably have a clearer idea about that when I begin waking up happy that I woke up.

Or maybe that's all just drivel from the brain of a hermitic madman who's experiencing some of the best fishing he's ever had in his life. I think it's easy to wax philosophic when the line is mostly tight. Catch up to me after a lengthy dry spell and we'll see what spills out of my mouth, besides the time-honored expletives. You'll find me, muttering incoherently, there at the vise, squinting into the magnifier at yet another possible 'Sure Thing' to add to my forever expanding and now quite formidable assemblage of 'Sure Things'.

But that's not really true, either. Truth is, with the exception of a subtle change in the color of the tungsten bead on some of my soft hackles, there has really, for the first time in many years I might add, been very little change in what I'm fishing with this year as compared to years past. Could it be that I'm fishing them more effectively? That statement, if you're not tuned in, is my deft way of kind of patting myself on the back, because I think I am indeed fishing those time tested patterns much more efficiently than ever before, which is proof that yes, even a slow learner like me can effect positive changes in fishing technique. Trouble is, when I look back on the past several years, most, if not all of the occasional improvements I made were accidental, or, at the very best, nearly unconscious ones. I was simply astute just enough at the right time to realize that what I'd discovered, whatever it was I'd done or tied or thought, maybe it'd be a good idea to replicate that long enough to see if some sort of symmetry existed. And, happily, usually there was, which also brings into context all the marvelous ways I have to justify that sort of success. A pat on the back, especially when it comes from you yourself, is almost always a good thing.

Yesterday I landed more trout, including two beautiful browns, than I've brought to hand for a very long time. I hooked them in the growing light of a hot day with swung, and deeply swung, soft hackles. I fished the shallows with Caddis dries, and BWO classic adults. It was a two-hour long carnival of delight. I couldn't do anything wrong. I made no wrong decisions concerning fly selection, or method of fishing them. For two hours, I stood at the pinnacle of success. Even my blood knots snapped true at the first attempt. That never happens. And the best part of it all was my ability to call it good, reel it up and set course for the trail knowing that there would indeed be another day, another opportunity to come and stand in my river and do it again.

Today it was also very good. It was a tad bit slower, but, I guess in the long run, it didn't matter, because way down deep I really was just 'happy to be there'.

Two worlds, apart.

But the dream is never forgotten, only put aside and never out of reach: Where once the dream connected boys with the world of men, now it reconnects men with the spirit of boys.

John Thorn

It is a very warm, lazy Sunday. For the first day in nearly nine months, flows on my river are finally stabilizing below three thousand cfs. I stop momentarily at a fork in the trail, a spectator to the seemingly endless parade of inflatables sliding downstream past my elevated position.

I will, later as I write this, wonder why I didn't substantiate that which I have just described with a picture. But as soon as that thought occurs another one replaces it; if I feel the need to prove the validity of my statement there will be ample opportunities in the near future to do so. I should have known better than to be here on this Chamber-of-Commerce Sunday after a string of similarly warm, blue-sky days. And it's not like I can blame those who are using the river for recreational purposes other than wetting a line. It does run right through Spokane. It's close, it's cool, and it's free. About all I can do is silently curse those who have the liberty to be here and yet take such little pride in what I feel they are privileged to enjoy. Flashes of sunlight reflected from floating beer cans underline my frustration. I turn to the west. From as far upstream as I can see they float into view, strung out from bank to bank. A motley flotilla of tubes, rafts, and coolers. The sheer volume of traffic amazes me, and I stand, almost hypnotized, for much longer than I should.

Plans altered, I set out again, opting for my hidden place downstream where I know I will find solitude. The trail now takes me back into the thicket, the cacophony of shouts and merriment slowly, mercifully, fading.

A mile or so downstream there is a channel that hugs the hillside, carved over time into the terrain that carries the high water of spring. This channel, which is now dry, serves to provide me a faster, easier, and unless you know of it, more secretive route to my destination. It is refreshingly cool and quiet now as I make my way briskly through the sparse brush under the towering cottonwoods. Less than a stone's throw to my east the floating, inebriated masses are continuing on their way.

I wade gingerly on slippery rocks down and across a faster, permanent channel where in spring the now dry channel emptied its overflow. Fifty yards or so downstream from the junction is an old alder, stubbornly anchored in the swift currents, and because of its disposition in the current, an accumulation point for years of floating detritus. I have, over the years, come to love this old, defiant tree. It forms a perfect current break. A deep, slow run extends downstream for almost a hundred feet. And because of its proximity to the side of the steep hill climbing to the south from its edge, it seems to go basically unnoticed, or so I like to think.

And so while my river occupies herself, patiently but purposefully pushing the inflatable party downstream, I wade slowly, quietly, in relative solitude, stalking the fish whose noses are creating beautiful, expanding rings.

There are three sets of rings regularly occurring in the dying light of the late afternoon, and I sense that these fish feel very secure here. Out of sight, out of danger. But they are in a tight group dimpling the surface no more than six, maybe seven feet below the alder, whose overhanging branches pose a serious threat to a fly cast a little too boldly. So I will not have many chances. I never do here, in this place, but that's why I love it. No room for error.

The nearly forty foot upstream cast must be made sidearm in order to pass safely under the branches, and it must come in from an angle to keep the leader from being seen. I know from past experience here that if that is accomplished, there is most certainly a reward for the effort. The fly need not be a perfect replica of what is being sought, but it must be settled on the water above the uppermost ring to have a chance.

I false cast directly upstream so as not to alarm the feeders. Once my line length is sufficient, I drop the rod until I am casting parallel to the surface and angle it in the direction of the rings. The delivery is not perfect, but the fly turns over inches beneath the branches, settles and is drag free just long enough...

... for a projectile to suddenly break the surface, somersaulting while becoming totally airborne before splashing down tail first. My leader follows the flight, and I gently lift my rod. Surprise- surprise! I have said before and I underline it again; these are pound-for-pound the strongest, wildest rainbow I have ever hooked into anywhere.

By the time that nineteen inch buck had finally tired enough to bring him to hand, I was totally humbled. His beautiful coloration and fierce desire to get free won my admiration, and as he swam out of my hand, a tear from my eye fell on the water above his back.

I just stood there in that channel for the longest time, captured again by the moment in my time I had just experienced, thankful for all the hours, for all the trials, for all the chances to be able to do just this, while not too far away, out on my river, the party went on.

Tangent

There is no sanctuary of virtue like home.

Edward Everett

I had this great new plan. Well-conceived. Based in study, accumulated wisdoms, and last but certainly not least, emerging conditions.

The Plan I speak of concerned a new approach I would be utilizing in these early summer days on my river. I spoke of it briefly in my prior post. A long rod. A sinking line. Big uglies.

And then my life changed. Again.

Let's not delve into details. The details are all around us almost every day. They involve people, and relationships, and revolve around deciding, or knowing what's really important and what to do about the decisions necessary to effect the way it will, or should be. Again and again. But, these particular details are for me alone, for now; for my night times when I'm alone, sleepless, pacing endlessly way, way down deep inside my thoughts.

TDR ( my river) is flowing with much more volume much longer into the summer months this year. Our spring saw to that, with record rainfall and cooler temperatures that delayed the thaw at the higher altitudes, extending the run-off period for nearly a month and a half longer than usual.

I stop for a moment before descending to the water, surveying the shoreline down the run where I have always first come when the flows have receded. The alders and willows are still knee-high in the water, their lower branches etching gentle wakes in the currents passing underneath. I would be in water deeper than I am tall if I were to attempt to cast from where I usually stand. Every cast for quite some time will be a roll. I will not have room for a standard cast for several more weeks.

But there is a silver lining to this, which I will discover when I am done with my appraisal and finally settle on a position from which to fish.

I now stand between two bushy alders, which are some fifteen feet apart, which are still in waist deep water, both extending their branches out over and into the water. It is through this opening where I have in the past years been able to wade far enough out into the river to effectively roll cast a good forty to fifty feet almost straight across the currents as they move past me here. This year, I am limited by the flow to a window smack dab between those alders some fifteen, maybe twenty feet closer to the bank than where I normally would be. In fact, because of the brush I am surrounded by, I can manage only the most rudimentary roll cast, worrying more about hanging my soft hackle high in the overhanging branches than getting any distance on my cast.

My first delivery is in fact made slingshot style, pulling just enough line off the reel to allow me to use the rod's elasticity to propel the fly. Once launched, using my rod much as you would a bow to shoot an arrow, my softhackle lands no more than eight feet from me, while I utter a silent thanks to the Sage gods for making such a wonderfully supple ten-foot five-weight. I rip line off the reel and mend it out quickly, which allows the bead-headed soft hackle to sink in the water column as it is pulled downstream briefly before I feel the line tension and know, rather than see, that it is now carving its short arc through the currents toward the bank.

That's when I discover the silver lining in all this consternation. Turns out that the slow-to-dissipate higher flows have encouraged the fish, at least in this section of the river, to take up or remain in comfortably safe lies still somewhat closer to the bank than is the norm for this time of year. Now, as my line slowly tightens with the current, I am suddenly made aware that what was only a very short time ago thought to be an obstacle is in reality an advantage. The clarity of that sensation pulses in my brain, as I feel, then see, the rod bend from a savage take.

The type 3 sinking line is in my vest, along with the film canister of uglies I'd originally planned to employ on this, my first foray to my river this summer.

I don't use them. There's something to be said about the comfort zone, the stasis, the inner sanctum of that comfort, and what led me there. Of denying the odds. Telling no lies. There's been enough change in my life lately. Decisions have been made, and a direction established. Straight ahead I go, into a future I'm forced to admit that I'm really no more sure of than before, but at least now, now, my head, and most significantly, my heart, are clear. My focus is at last sharper now than ever. The conception is one of creativity, based firmly in the wisdom of experiences both on, and away, from my river. The ebbs and flows are similar. It is my footing that is now better.

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.