A Proper Dive...

Guiding is a funny business.  It can be incredibly rewarding and it can be incredibly frustrating.  It can be backbreaking rowing a boat and it's a long hard day even on the tamest rivers.   If you aren't rowing, you are still up early; prepping  and organizing.  Maybe you need to put together a box lunch for your clients--even if it is just running out to the nearest deli and buying something.  Maybe you need to grab some strike indicators or tie a handful of flies--just in case.  Check the oars.  Do the trailer tires need air?   ...and just one minute:  You forgot the ice for the ice chest.  Granted, you get to do it in some of the most beautiful places on the planet.

The hardest part of the day just might be your clients, though, especially if you are new to the business.  As a seasoned veteran, one can discreetly pick and choose who you want to spend your day with.  Sometimes it's the little white lie:  "I'm pretty well booked up for that week.  I just can't fit you in."   I suppose you can tell the client whatever you want. Chances are that if they made your day miserable, they probably weren't enjoying themselves either and won't be back.  As a newcomer struggling to make ends meet and pay for that expensive drift boat, you pretty much have to book whomever and whenever you can, however.

...and in all fairness, I know most clients aren't out there to make the guides day difficult.  More often than not, it's just a comedy of errors or a little miscommunication.  Beginners will put their reels on backwards or don't tighten the reel seat properly only to have the reel fall off while fighting the biggest fish of the day.  Knot tying can be a nightmare and yet there is always that one person who insists on doing their own rigging.  Knot after knot fails and they want to blame the tippet.  Maybe it's too old--or defective, they'd say, or the  rod is too stiff--although in some cases, that was true!  I was also guilty of all too often putting clients on water that was beyond their skill set, especially when I first started out.  I mistakenly assumed that if someone was willing to pay for a day on the river, they knew one end of the rod from the other; could cast a mile; and had a working knowledge of entomology.  More often than not, though, many were beginners or intermediate level anglers and they wanted learn.  That is a good thing but just the same, it rarely makes a day any shorter or less exhausting.

Then there are the truly difficult clients.  Everything is automatically the guides fault, despite the fact that they can't cast 17 feet and have a moth eaten selection of flies that look like they found them in a close out bin at a crafts workshop for the visually impaired.  You will end up spending as many as 12 hours in a small cramped space listening to a litany of tasteless jokes and offensive remarks, secretly hoping--praying actually that they will slip and drown in a rapid--although that is always bad for one's reputation.  ...and if the Fish and Game rules require a barbless hook, they will be continually trying to put on a barbed hook and arguing with you about that as well. They will insist on using a rod that is far too heavy or one that is far too light--because it's theirs.  Some of them will drink too much...and it will be a miracle if no one is impaled with a hook or a rod broken.

Funny stuff--this guiding business.  One of the sweetest older gentlemen I ever had the pleasure of guiding was also one of the most difficult.  He was a wonderful human being--even if he wasn't actually interested in  fly fishing.  It seems that he had recently retired and after years at a job that owned him, he was at a loss as to what to do with himself.  His wife however made no bones about it.  She did not want him underfoot and moping around the house so she bought him a rod and reel--and lessons; and then when he failed to take the hint, she hired me to guide him.  He and I bonded almost immediately. We shared a few laughs and we found some rising fish.  In fact, we found a lot of rising fish. I put him on a pretty spectacular bite.  He couldn't cast--and he didn't care.  He was having fun.  He couldn't see all that well either so he wasn't hooking a lot of fish but it was one of those days where the brain dead could catch a fish as long as they had a nervous tic.  The fish weren't going to hook themselves!  It turned out though that he was so arthritic that he would tip over on his back cast.  I spent the better part of my day trying to catch him every time he cast.  I lived in dread fear he would  slip or lose his balance.  I'm proud to say that he made it home safely and intact.  I however was exhausted.  You just cannot send clients home damaged. 

Now after a long day, it seems an unusually high number of the guides and river rats that I knew, myself included, would self medicate--usually at a local dive; and it seemed every river worth fishing had a proper dive within a few miles.  This "proper dive" concept is important.  You've been rowing all day.  Maybe you broke a sweat and you are in your ratty Levis so you'd probably stick out like a tuna rod in a float tube in a more upscale establishment.  More importantly, you need a place just sketchy enough that you won't get shot but that difficult client won't want to join you either.  ...and just as importantly, one needs to be able to afford at least a few rounds on the odd chance that you run into someone who has something to say.  Cheap is good--unless we are talking about gin or talk.  There is no evil or so foul on this earth as a cheap gin but that is another topic.  As for cheap talk, well, some anglers are renowned for their ability to, shall we say, "enhance a story" and add fish and inches to the days tally...  Personally I avoid them--and cheap gin.

 The Sac is a world class trout fishery that I guided on for a few years, going through a boat and a raft in the process.   Access is limited so most anglers end up floating it and it can be wildly unpredictable.  There were those days where every second or third cast resulted in a hook up.  Fish would be rising every 5 feet in a riffle that was the size of a football field.  Then there were those days that drove strong men to drink or at least seek the comfort and solace of other guides --who might also have a tidbit of useful information.  The bite would shut off so completely that you were convinced the river had been poisoned by a chemical spill--which did happen in the upper reaches; or the fish would move, which wasn't unusual.  Most of the trout were the progeny of steelhead that just stopped heading downstream once Shasta Dam began filling the river with cold water.  These fish would move into a slot to feed and then just as quickly drop back downstream, sometimes one hundred yards or more.  It was a guessing game as to where they would be on any given day, much less what they would be taking--and it could be incredibly frustrating.  It seemed natural that a person might want to wallow in self pity in front of a cold pint or at least talk to the other guides to get an idea of where the trout were and what they were on. I thought I had found such a place on the lower Sacramento River... I may have been mistaken.

There is a bar that almost fits the bill near one of the take outs on the river.  It shall for many reasons, remain nameless so let's just call it "the Dock". The beer was cold, the food was almost always edible, almost always hot and the price was almost always right..    What more does a person need?  It was a bonafide dive.  It's just that the "not getting shot" could have been an issue.  The first time I went in there, I thought this was the place!  A burger with fries was all of three dollars and three drinks cost less than what I would pay for one in the Bay area.  Granted it was too close to a trailer park or two and the owners son fancied himself an outlaw biker but those were minor details.  Most of the time, it was quiet, filled with a few folks ekeing out a hard scrabble existence and living paycheck to paycheck.  Weekends could get a little more lively with at least a shouting match or two, some dysfunctional family drama thrown in for effect and maybe even some good old fashioned fisticuffs.  Generally, though, the evenings were dead and the afternoons even quieter.  A few other guides and river rats would stumble in just often enough to keep me coming back.  It did sometimes get weird.  I suppose the people who like these small towns and backwaters might be a little antisocial to begin with.   I'm sure some have a few secrets to hide but an outsider (me) should keep their back to the wall, ears open and mouth shut.

Weird is too kind--too mild a term, actually.  It was a Saturday and I had a break between clients.  I'd spent the morning sorting out my driftboat--organizing and cleaning up the bits of tippet and funk that can collect in the bottom of a boat.  It was a beautiful spring day and a cold beer sounded about right so I headed over to the Dock.   The place was empty with the exception of the bartender and one other customer, a despondent looking character who struck me as an alcoholic.  He was hunched over, elbows on the bar with his head in his hands and half a beer sitting in front of him.    I sat down a few seats to the left of him at the bar and nodded a hello.  He grunted. The beer sat there, getting warm.  Apparently he wasn't much of a conversationalist or was downright unfriendly, not that it mattered.  I'm going to go with "unfriendly" because about a half hour later another customer came in.  The newcomer was in a wheelchair being pushed by a dumpy middle aged woman.  At first, I thought the three of them knew each other. The drunk at the bar looked

over at the man in the wheelchair and said  "Get your ass out of that chair".  The newcomer, however did not know the drunk and looked puzzled.  He replied cautiously "Hey! I was in 'Nam and I got shot up pretty bad."  "So?" replied the drunk.  The newcomer ignored the drunk at that point and his companion wheeled him past me. The woman parked his chair just to the left of me and sat at the bar as well.   They seemed pleasant enough, maybe a little morose after that initial encounter and the ensuing small talk was hushed.

The drunk had ordered another beer and after 10 minutes or so, looked over at the newcomer, staring intently.   He then, very matter of fact, said  "You're a pussy."  What planet was I on, what god forsaken place was I in that someone would pick a bar fight with a paraplegic?  The newcomer, however,  had a pained look on his face--a look that suggested he had once before been accused of being a fraud; of sitting on a street corner with a cardboard sign that said "Disabled vet.  Will work for food".  He stammered, "No man.  I got shot up pretty bad."  The drunk spat back  "You're a pussy.  I was there."  A long drawn out silence ensued.  I wanted no part of that scene so I was the one with head down at that point but I could see the drunk fidgeting.  Suddenly something went flying over my head.  It was a leg, a fucking artificial leg, heavily tattooed.  The drunk had taken off his artificial leg and thrown it at the newcomer in the wheelchair!  Clearly I was on another planet. At any moment Elvis will enter the room. The drunk was screaming "You're a pussy.  You're a pussy!" and suddenly another limb went flying over my head.  Now the drunk is on the ground hopping around on his stump legs, still screaming at the guy in the wheelchair "You're a pussy.  You're a pussy!"  Had they been speaking Italian, this could have been a scene right out of Fellini or worthy of David Lynch.  I was in awe of the heavily tattooed prosthetics.  The entire scene was beyond surreal...

The drunk eventually calmed down. and hopped back up on his bar stool.  I have no idea what happened to the artificial legs.  I think the newcomer offered to buy him a drink and the two began trading war stories.  Meanwhile, I no longer guide but I am still searching for a proper dive to get a beer after a long day on the water --a place where the customers wont be throwing prosthetic limbs at each other.

Shark Fishing

I think every small boy dreams of catching a big fish.  I did.  It was too many days spent on the harbor breakwater watching others catch fish and the mandatory high school readings of Hemingway, Zane Grey and Steinbeck that drove me to that precipice.  I lived and breathed fish throughout my puberty, interrupted only by the infrequent romance, the even rarer girlfriend and subsequent break up, complete with resulting heartbreak--which was then naturally healed by more fishing. I dreamed of marlin and sailfish and epic struggles in the hot sun as braided line peeled off a reel the size of a blender.

Of course, it helps if one has a codependent or enabler and I had many.  I'm also pretty sure that I fished because my father didn't.  His dysfunction, his struggles with mental illness and the abuse that was heaped upon us at home must have shown on my face because the woodshop teacher at the high school reached out to me.  He reached out to pretty much every at risk child he met--and he was a fisherman.  More importantly, he surrounded himself with other fishermen.  I'm sure there is some sort of Biblical inference one could make but none of these fishers of men were even remotely saintly.  At best, they stayed out of jail and students thrived on their pranks and escapades.  Interoffice memos were all too often used to send soiled panties in sizes that could be measured in feet instead of inches to another unsuspecting but hardly innocent teacher.  Naturally, we adored them.

Taylor was part of that crew although he wasn't a teacher.  In fact, he was an accountant for the county.  That's not exactly the kind of occupation most of the group dreamed of but Taylor juggled his schedule and had enough seniority that he could work 4 days a week and fish three, leaving just about zero time for relationships.  That suited Taylor just fine.  Relationships--unless they were with other fishermen--interfered with one's God given right to fish.

In retrospect Taylor was socially awkward, more than a bit stiff and an introvert--which meant he was the stuff legends were made of; and Taylor fished for sharks.  Taylor fished for really big sharks--Threshers and Great Whites and the infrequent Mako or Hammerhead.  ...and Taylor had numerous records for big sharks.  He had one extraordinarily ugly ass wooden skiff that the students in the woodshop class had built for him.  It floated.  That was about it but he was happy with it.  The rest of us, however, referred to it as "the submarine".  It was a dull battleship gray--probably because gray was on sale somewhere and more often than not, had a generous coating of guts of one sort or another and the usual seagull droppings.

 Now being single was a plus in Taylor's world.  He would stop at nothing if it meant a shot at catching a world record shark.  He would routinely fill his refrigerator with  bait--not any old bait, though.  Mackeral and bonito the size that most people would have been happy to catch spilled out of the refrigerator.   The freezer was usually filled with 5 gallon buckets of  blood and gore that he picked up from a local butcher to later use for a chum line, the slowly melting block of offal leaving a distinctive trail behind the submarine.  It was the kind of thing that horrified a date, not that he ever had any -- and sent the sharks into a frenzy.

I suppose shark fishing is a lot like catfishing.  The more disgusting the bait or the chum line, the better it seemed to work.  Accordingly, one of Taylors favorite baits was road kill--although in Southern California that, more often than not, was somebody's missing pet.   He traveled everywhere with a pair of rubber gloves, plastic bags and a pile of old newspapers on the odd chance that he would find some good road kill...which is how I first heard about Taylor.  It seems he had been driving down an alley in town when he saw a dog sprawled out in the road.  He, according to most versions of the story, slammed on the brakes of his old  Chevy Blazer, jumped out, slipped on the gloves and proceeded to roll the dog up in the newspaper.  Most of us might even view this as a public service but Taylor hadn't noticed that the dog wasn't dead--not until it bit him.  It seems it wasn't hurt--or anything else-- just one lazy dog laying out in the sun. I never did figure out why he needed newspaper, though.  I suppose it was less of a shock to open the freezer and see last weeks LA Times instead of the neighbors cat?

Anyways, this cemented Taylors stature amongst our little dysfunctional group of anglers and wanna-be anglers, not that his reputation actually needed any further embellishment.  By that time, he had numerous state records and line class records.  He had long ago obtained a commercial fishing license and sold almost everything he caught to subsidize his habit--which meant he routinely put some very big sharks in the submarine to either be weighed or sold. 

...and were you wondering how the submarine came to be called the "submarine"?  I suppose it was designed --if one can call it that--to fish the less than challenging waters of  the Santa Monica Bay.  Surfers got excited if they saw a three foot swell and sailors dreamed of 8 knot winds.  Tame was an understatement--with a few exceptions--so the submarine had maybe 16 inches of freeboard.  If the wind did blow, you were going to get wet and be bailing furiously.  None of this ever stopped Taylor from filling the submarine with shark, though, and on one trip in particular he had landed a Thresher that was a rumored 385 pounds.  That was dangerously close to another state record so in the submarine it went.  Naturally, Taylor continued to fish and hooked and landed another Thresher that later weighed in at 425 pounds.  In the submarine it went, shark sticking out of either end of the skiff and the boat sitting so low in the water that the slightest chop would have sunk it. Taylor couldn't swim either, not that it would have mattered.  You see, he routinely shot the sharks before he put them in the boat.  It made sense.  These sharks were upwards of 14 feet long and the submarine was only 20 feet long so there just wasn't a lot of room for a shark to be flopping around.  The problem was the slick of blood and gore trailing out behind the submarine--and the sharks that smelled the blood.  On a good day, there was a constant posse of sharks tailing the submarine.  On a bad day, there would be even more...

Needless to say, I thought I had died and gone to heaven when I finally got invited to go fishing with Taylor on the submarine.  I was all of 17 and had never caught anything bigger than a red snapper.  The bait was bigger than most of the fish I caught. I was ready to be transported to the world of Hemingway and Zane Grey --except it didn't actually happen quite like that.  The submarine was fitted with a fighting chair but it was a budget model that looked an awful lot like a lawn chair.  Taylor was frugal almost to the point of excess.  In fact, he would sometimes shoot a shark just to get the stainless steel hook back.  Not every shark was headed for the fish market to later be sold as swordfish.  Some just weren't especially edible but Taylor couldn't abide the thought of having to replace a stainless leader and hook either.

Just the same, I was ready for whatever came my way.  I was now part of this cadre of insanely intent fishermen who for the most part, lived and breathed fish.  It was rumored some had gills instead of lungs and only a few were capable of maintaining relationships for any length of time.  The shortest version is that I now wanted to prove that I was worthy and I dutifully hung on every word of instruction that Taylor uttered.  He very carefully showed me how to bait the hook through the nose of the bonito, explaining that there was a reason it was sometimes called a bonehead...  I baited the hook and proceeded to play line out behind the boat.  Within minutes, I had a hook up.  I braced myself and set the hook.  My heart was racing, my feet were braced against the stern and I was praying that that tired fighting chair stayed together for at least one more fish.  Line was beginning to peel off the reel...and then suddenly everything went slack!  The silence was deafening.  Disappointment hung like a tule fog over the submarine and I slowly reeled my line back in.  I'll fast forward: The bait was virtually unscathed with the exception of a few teeth marks.  It seems in my youthful enthusiasm and being somewhat muscle bound in those days, I wanted to show Taylor just how strong and clever I was--and buried the hook so deep in the skull of that bonito that there was some question if the shark had ever even felt the point of the hook.  It had simply held on to the bait until it tired of our little game of tug of war. 

Taylor really didn't need to say much.  The look in his eyes said it all but he was willing to give me another chance although it seemed like an eternity before the next hook up.  This time everything went right though, and once again, I was in the fighting chair, wondering just what was at the other end of that line.  The reels we were using were the old Penn Senators, the size of coffee cans and the 125 pound braided line was peeling off the spool as if it were sewing thread.  For those of you who have never fished big game, these were stout fiberglass rods, the butt sections as thick as the grip on a Louisville Slugger--and it was bent over as if it had all the backbone of an overcooked pasta. 

This was the kind of fishing that adds a whole new meaning to the word "fear".  The submarine, already questionable as far as how seaworthy it really was, was now slowly being towed backwards.  One wake, one swell hitting us just right and we would have been just another snack item, another morsel for the other sharks trailing the submarine...  Needless to say, everything--or almost everything went right and I  lived to finish the story.  I don't know how long I fought that shark.  It wasn't epic by any means and didn't weigh much more than 175 pounds but that was 175 pounds of finely honed fighting muscle and 150 pounds bigger than anything I had ever caught before. Taylor, however was understandably unimpressed.  He had no children so that look of Christmas morning in my eyes--the excitement and sense of accomplishment never registered.  Instead he handed me a shotgun and in as dry and taciturn voice as any human could utter, simply warned me to not miss; not put a hole in the bottom of the boat--and don't hit the leader.  I often wondered if he thought he had to pay for every word he used because he used them so sparingly...

Pride is a funny thing.  I so desperately wanted to be part of this group of seasoned anglers and the last thing I wanted Taylor to know was that I had never even touched, much less fired a shotgun before.  I'd been to a Boy Scout summer camp and fired a few .22 rounds at the gun range there but that was nothing like the kick of a shotgun.  Granted, it was only a 20 gauge but I needed more than anything else to do this right.  Naturally, that meant I did almost everything wrong.  I practically touched the barrel of that shotgun to the head of the shark, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.  The ocean erupted into a geyser of shark bits and spray; and in a moment that will forever define Taylor --a moment that will always be etched in my memory, he stood there wiping off shark from his glasses and without ever raising his voice, simply said  "I think you got him".

Notes and Musings of an Angling Curmudgeon...

This is a rewrite of something I first posted on another bulletin board called "Cynical Observations From An Old Curmudgeon"

"Well I won't pretend to know much about humpback whales but let's see if we can't focus more attention and more money--money the state of California doesn't have-- on a problem that maybe didn't need a solution after all?

Actually I don’t know anything about Humpbacks... I guess I want to know why any creature supposedly as smart as whales are --would go up the Sacramento Delta given the conditions there lately? Are our oceans going downhill as well--or is it the kind of morbid curiosity that has rubberneckers gawking at a grisly auto accident? Charles Darwin apparently did not include rubbernecking Humpbacks in his "survival of the fittest" scenario... Maybe just maybe these whales can kinda figure it out on their own--and we should just leave them be--or are these people—the desk jockeys that issue memos all day instead of dealing with the sorry state of California’s wildlife--admitting the Delta is that screwed up?

We collectively are sometimes so easily manipulated by the press and the "powers that be". Individually there are a few people that still know to read between the dotted lines and look at the fine print... For the rest--it’s the "cute and cuddly syndrome" or something like that. It's that "Aw shucks moment" that sells thousands of Hallmark cards, bumper stickers and wins at least 2/3 of every election--a vote getter if I ever saw one! Here come the platitudes and maudlin sentimentality. Once you start tugging at the heart strings, a lot of folks just roll over. Sheeet...if you could convince them buying a Hummer would end the struggles in the Sudan and save starvin' babies, some folks would rush right out and do so--even if gas hits $4.25 a gallon.We are in deep doo doo with state and federal budget deficits. I bring this up because the California Department of Fish and Game (DFG) is going to take it in the shorts. You think ANYBODY is going to take serious steps to address that deficit? Nah...we will get more "rosy projections" from the governor--and more draconian budget cuts—but somehow they have money to rescue dumb whales that didn’t need rescuing after all. Anyways, I get the feeling someone is—or should be --asking what all that extra Coast Guard (and others) time is costing us? Meanwhile we can't give Fish and Game wardens a decent wage? Go figure.

Didn't I say or post something about just leaving the whales ALONE and letting Nature do what it does best--earlier? So the whales have found their way out of the delta…on their own and under the cover of nightfall. Is there a message in there for us and our somewhat feeble “rescue efforts”?

I never did get whale watching anyways??? Now submarine races-- theres a real spectator sport for the folks that are dissatisfied with Gameboy or Wii. ;-) I think the real problem is that peoples lives have both become so sterile and so empty. It’s” plastic mall land”, neon lit and garish-- and divorced from anything “real”. The commute grind grinds away at our collective souls, a situation made worse when we are compelled to live in a tract, in a neighborhood that didn’t exist 10 years ago… A whale, something so far removed from our day to day reality becomes a welcome diversion.

So...I went fishing--on a holiday weekend. Actually I got there--Thursday-- before most of the crowds, hooked a bunch of fish (which means the fishing was pretty good) thereby insuring that the people who showed up late on Saturday were, at best, getting leftovers and sulking fish. I should be sitting here kind of happily contented, maybe a little smug. Instead I'm scratching my head. The first thing I saw—the first bummer-- was a bonafide moron--or group of morons--who packed up early AND LEFT THEIR CAMPFIRE BURNING!!! Oh yeah--they cleared out--weren't coming back-- and flames were licking at the top of the fire pit when I came by. Darwin--where were you when these folks parents were toying with the idea of reproducing??? I was boiling over, seeing this kind of stupidity up close and personal and well, I guess it was a good thing I don't know who those folks were 'cause I would be saying things that might escalate the situation!!! How careless--how thoughtless was this? Well…it’s been exceptionally dry this year—tinder dry in places-- AND the wind had been kicking up every afternoon! I stomped out what I could--felts are cheap compared to losing one of California's premier fisheries--and asked a group of young fellows in the next camp if they could throw some water on it just to be doubly sure... This hits too close to home: Numerous California watersheds and the beautiful streams that flow though them have been damaged by wildfires. The Fountain fire burned 88,000 acres, destroying at least one lesser known stream and it threatened Hat Creek. The Blue Lake fire did an incredible amount of damage and came close to destroying one very secret and very pristine spring creek.

Young folks are just that--young--and they seemed nice enough-- but umm… second bummer of the weekend: I'm not driving slow because I'm a geriatric case. You should see me on my motorcycle--unless you plan on pulling me over! At 65 mph I feel like I’m in a school zone… I drive slow because I'm thinking about the other campers--and folks on the dirt road behind me. Oh yeah-- it also improves fuel economy. Anyways these "speed demons" were kicking up clouds of dust that were choking the other campers! Next time think about the "other folks"--and slow it down a little. I mean I was impressed your gas guzzling SUVs can handle dirt roads at those kinds of speeds (not) but did you notice the Dogwood and Rhododendron in full bloom? Slow it down, cut the dust and enjoy the view. You can work on your ulcers and stress elsewhere...

All in all a beautiful weekend to be out inspite of a few thoughtless people. More snakes than I've ever seen and a few bigger than usual snakes. One rattler gave me fair warning so I steered clear of it and the snake steered clear of me! That's maybe another reason to slow it down just a little: You might want to be real sure where you are putting your feet and hands in snake country...

You can generally ignore a lot of "fish reports" as a rule: The bite that was wide open earlier in the month has "changed". Translation: "You should have been here yesterday..." Seriously, the sun was out in earnest and that had fish going deeper earlier in the day! Earlier posted fish reports had every conceivable fly pattern working--especially dry fly patterns. That is an early season phenomena and it is apparently already over! I suppose more experienced anglers figured that out (the connection between the depth we fish at and temperature and light intensity) a long long time ago but I saw more than one person (who should have known better) not fishing nearly deep enough! Speaking of that, if you do use a big dry fly as a dropper, plan on going through a mile of tippet as you adjust how deep your bottom flies are--unless of course you aren't really serious about "catching". The river bottom is so different from spot to spot so how can someone just tie on a dropper AND NEVER THINK ABOUT CHANGING THE DEPTH OF THOSE FLIES AS THEY MOVE FROM SPOT TO SPOT??? (it happens) I'm getting to be a lazy old fart when it comes to fishing and if I HAVE to fish an indicator, it sure makes sense to use something that I can cast AND adjust (easily) for changing depth! Of course there are those people who do have a knack for finding about the worst spot to fish and then they park themselves there for what seems like a day and a half so they don't ever need to worry about changing anything other than flies in the desperate hope that somehow things will "improve".

I still haven't mentioned where I was fishing but there have been little clues here and there. Keep it to yourself if you do figure it out. Most of our rivers don't need MORE angling pressure... Meanwhile this thing about indicators: I personally don't care for them. It's not that any one technique is "superior" regardless of what the pundits are saying in print (it does seem that we have become a nation of instant experts to be quoted on talk radio and in countless sound bites) Oh yeah let's have more hype about Czech nymphing... I mean I always thought that was the way "high sticking" was supposed to be done--and I recall reading somewhere about the Celts and Scots fishing a brace of flies and using the various flies to create skittering and other "action" or movement. So much for obsessing about the perfect dead drift. Anyways it seems like technique-- any technique--is like vocabulary or an arsenal and the more "tools" you have in your arsenal, the more effective you will be as an angler or in the case of "vocabulary" the more effective you will be in sharing ideas. I guess if there is a key to this flyfishing thing, it's knowing when to use a particular technique or tool...

I digress. I don't care for indicators because I think the dry fly cast, the line unfettered by lead and fluff and other contrivances, the rod unloading and the line folding gracefully over itself is pure poetry. Aside from the poetry, there is something to seeing --TO SEEING--a fish boil up under a fly and sip it inhale it. I see this shape materialize out of nowhere--and almost always when I least expect it (you'd assume I would be reading the water better?) My heart skips a beat everytime and early season I am constantly yanking the fly away from the fish. It's an adrenalin rush that I personally just don't get when staring at an indicator that looks more like a troll doll. That's just a personal thing--and I don't always get what I want so I fish the technique that either is going to be the most effective or if I am feeling especially lazy, the most enjoyable.
Short version--and another clue: In the pocket water we were fishing, indicators were about as useless as an opinion poll about healthy eating taken in a fast food chain. Again just my opinion but I do enjoy a certain amount of indicator-free nymphing. I do love the way it hones a persons reflexes and forces them to look at the water and to follow the line. I play with the depth at which I'm fishing and sometimes I try to impart the tiniest bit of life to a fly. Think of it as a subtle variation on the "Liesering Lift". What a thrill it is--okay maybe just more of a challenge--to figure where every rock and every snag in a run is, and to scrape the algae off those rocks without every hanging up. Of course if you really did make mental notes about the water, you saw the current speed was just right and the depth "just so" and accordingly every-- well almost every-- rock hid a fish... "

The key this weekend and maybe every weekend was to look for water that is deep enough to offer cover to a fish and yet is "overlooked" by other anglers. That included some pretty aggressive wading (near death experiences) but it had me on fish the entire weekend--regardless of how many other people came and went. The better the "cover"--the bigger the fish it held! Anyways, water "color" is almost always your best clue as to how deep a particular slot is! Do pay attention to what you are walking on: It seemed like some trout were still in spawning mode and the rocks were covered with cased caddis that were in no hurry to get out of the way!

Daytime hatches are now (or at least that weekend) pretty thin. It's starting to get too warm but the fish will still take a well presented nymph assuming--as noted above--that you are fishing it deep enough! The evening rises are spectacular right now--even though the river is not noted for rising fish. I think most people fear for their lives trying to wade in that water in failing light or scramble their way up the cliffs and back down the trail so they are off the water far too early. There are however a few spots that can be waded safely right up to the last legal light and allow you to get back to camp--safely!

Lots and lots of stoneflies including both Golden Stones and Salmonflies--and Little Brown Stones and Little Black Stones. If you do get up there in the next week or two, look for some of these stoneflies to finally be returning to the water to lay their eggs. Anything that looked like a stonefly nymph was going to catch fish--unless someone had been there before you. In that case you had to fish very small patterns with near perfect technique--and the fish were being a lot more selective. The evening rise was dominated by the Pale Evening Duns. Keep in mind this bug is about a hook size larger than the Pale Morning Dun and a slightly paler color. It's a fast water bug so your fishing is probably going to be concentrated at the heads of the pools and the best slots.

We ate and drank like royalty --with far too much red meat (numerous Tri-tips)and hearty red wine. One of the group is a prize winning home winemaker so he positively spoiled us. Deli ham (from Angelos up here in wine country) for lunch on a whole grain bread with a well aged New Zealand cheddar. Good company and some lively conversations. You can't ask for much more!

And God Smiled... (Sacramento River "Report")

(this is an older piece previously published on an Internet FF board that really sucks nowadays)

No--skirt has not suddenly found redemption or salvation unless it is the sweet bend in a rod, line slicing through the water, muscled rainbows pouncing on caddis fished in the surface. I just couldn't think of a way or words that describe my most recent float down the Sacramento. Far from it. Old tunes from Lou Reed playing over and over in my head as I reminisce, Pale Blue Eyes, Perfect Day, Sweet Jane. Sitting back with a good smoke and a glass of wine, maybe a good cabernet 1987. This was the trip where everything goes as planned--like lovemaking where your clothes hit the floor, zippers magically unstuck and later when you have occasion to put your clothes back on--nary a wrinkle. 6 almost uninterrupted days of floating, Caddis every evening even with the howling wind and the highlight being this last trip with the girlfriend. She's using the "M" word again--got to think about that...

This latest float begins with a big breakfast. Bacon and eggs over easy with toast done on the skillet and black coffee. This is good. Most of the time I am floating I skip breakfast, grab a sweet roll or donut on the way out of town--that and the girlfriend is a health fanatic. Way too much wheat germ and tofu for me especially if I am going to be at the oars all day. Somehow I have talked her into the other white meat, pork without nitrates or antibiotics and the eggs come from cage free chickens. Made a special trip to Whole Foods in Santa Rosa. I must really want her to make this float with me... We loiter around the campsite while I tie a few flies. It's been such a mish mash, a pot pourri of insects on the water-- that I am not quite sure what to tie so I do a few of my old favorites, knock-offs, variations on Gary LaFontaine patterns. By the time we get to the launch it is breezy but manageable, especially compared to the howling wind we were fishing earlier in the week. Looks like a minor front is coming in but my favorite weatherman says clearing, stable with a warming trend. I'm hoping that is enough to get some real hatches going. The water seems colder than usual this year, it is a late spring and the curtain at Lake Shasta is working. In fact I've been sticking fish all along on Baetis and Stoneflies and I am seeing hatches and insects I've never seen in this part of the river. Tremendous numbers of Pteronarcys in some of the uppermost reaches of the river, Skwala lower down. The Brachycentrus, the Green Sedge and the Amniocentrus, the Weedy Water Sedge are noticeable absent so far. Copper Johns and small Pheasant Tails are sticking disproportionate numbers of fish. Something is working in our favor. Perhaps it is the break in the unsettled weather but the first place we drop anchor fish are rising. Immediately I get a couple of grabs--miss them but we pull anchor. It's an excellent slot but maybe beyond the girlfriends abilities so we head downstream. She is a good sport, a beginner but at times easily frustrated; and the next spot we stop at she is pouting and losing interest rapidly in trying to throw an indicator and shot into riffles bigger than anything she has ever fished before. Still, with some patient coaching and coaxing together we hook 4 more fish. Together...I am standing behind her, pointing out seams and trying to explain the vagaries of current and depth that make one spot better than another. Tactfully of course. The luxurious breakfast and flytying session also means that we got a very late start which means I end up passing up a number of slots and hardpan formations that I would normally fish. I pick a riffle that I think will be easy for her to fish and we drop anchor again. Too late--I've lost her. She is hiking down the bank. She is my soulmate--ignoring the "No Tresspassing" signs as she wanders off. So I have the riffle to myself. Fish are rising sporadically. Not bad...Wierd though...several good drifts later the fish are still ignoring my flies, still rising. I don't need to be hit in the head. It's a hard lesson that I've learned, seen many times before. The fish have keyed into emergers. They are virtually ignoring deaddrifted flies, looking for a little movement and grabbing the bug just as it hits the surface. Sure enough a fish grabs on the first cast with the new set up. Short strike which usually means the hook is in the fleshy part of the lip and it's gone after a few seconds. Then I stick a nice fish on my third cast. The girlfriend shows up in time to snap a few photos and she is revived now that we can fish dries. I promise her "dinner" after the next fish or 4 casts--whichever comes last--and hook 3,4 more fish in a matter of minutes. Still I have given her my word and I reel up my line and pull anchor again. One last longing look over my shoulder. Fish are still rising but she wants to sit under the big cottonwood she saw downstream for our streamside meal. My turn to pout. However I eke out a concession. She puts together a meal while I get to sneak in a few more casts and I hook 4 more fish. This is incredible. One or both of us has hooked up every place we have stopped so far. The late start continues to haunt us though. We linger over dinner, a glass or two of wine and now the sun is getting low in the sky. We jump in the boat and I am pulling hard at the oars. Pass a lot of great water. Remorse, wistfulness. I don't know when I will be able to get back. One more trick up my sleeve though. I've hit the evening rise 4 nights out of 5 and I am gambling that if I can find a good piece of water I will hit it again. I am looking for a particular type of bottom, waters' got to be a certain depth and current speed and the Hydropysches will be coming off and the fish will be rising. The Hydropysche is a net spinning Caddis. Filters or strains planktons and algaes out of the current. They do well in big tailwaters like the Sac but they also need a certain amount of current to keep their silken nets from collapsing--that and I've got some wierd theories about a comfortable "depth" for rising fish. Too deep--too much work; too shallow--too exposed and the fish get skittish. Anyways everything falls into place for about the umpteenth time and we hit the rise. Sporadic at first but soon fish are rising throughout the run. She's excited, Alex the Wonderdog is excited and I am working hard to put her on fish. In 45 minutes she has hooked probably a dozen fish and landed 3. I managed to sneak in a few casts inbetween coaching her and helping her land and unhook fish and we have double hook ups. It's wonderfully frenzied and she is having the time of her life. Time to call it a day though. The light is fading fast and I'd like to get off the water at a respectable hour or at least early enough to have greasy red meat, medium rare and formed into a circular patty on white bread at a nearby dive Monday is good too...for different reasons. We explore. Wetlands and vernal pools filled with Golddust and ringed with Amaryllis. Wildflowers that neither of us have seen before as well. A small pond whose inhabitants perform on cue. Frogs leaping off lily pads, bass lurking under the Ludwigia while turtles slide off the perches as we approach. There is an Osprey sitting above it's nest and we make out the fuzzy heads of 2 chicks peeking out. Later I tell her about the Bald Eagle I saw earlier in the week--the lazy one making the half hearted dive...