Thursday, January 31, 2019
Steelheaders can get in their own head in a second...
It was October and when it should be the best, when in fact...was the worst.
Our crew lazily sat on the beach of the big river, b's'ing away the day and waiting for a dinosaur to pick up the stinky baits that rolled around the bottom. We had for that day, given up on the fish that had us driving upwards of 400 miles to fish for.
To pass the time, we resurrected a game from our youth. The name game, baseball players only. First guy calls out a name, lets say...Randy Johnson. The next guy has to start with the first letter of the last name of the previous entry. In this case, the letter J, so lets go with John Olerud
It's an interesting game because you quickly see what era you and your friends came of age. To this day I can name the starting lineup of the 1990 Oakland Athletics. Another friend with midwest ties was heavy on the Cardinals and Cubs. Still others who grew up around deeper baseball culture reached way back in the vault for names like Stan Musial, Dan Quisenberry and others.
The game can pass hours quickly, and I found myself saddled with a B....
All of a sudden, my buddy Brian about falls over laughing. Out of a zipper pocket he brings out Mr. ball between his legs and hands it over to me. It was like it was meant to be.
I thought maybe this could be my lucky charm. A karma changer if you will....
Fast forward to three months without a grab and I realized that Buckner was still in my front wader pocket.
Could it be? Could this be the cause of my horrendous slump? Cast the rest of the reasons aside as to why I hadn't been graced with a grab trip after trip and obviously this was the bad juju in cardboard form
I sat down on a log on the beach after landing the biggest steelhead of my life. Hands still shaking, trying to take in the last moments of glory as I reran the entire grab to landing again and again.
Reaching into my front wader zipper pocket for some gum, I grabbed something else instead
Maybe after all, he was good luck....
Or maybe, steelhead fishing is just an unanswerable question where the joy is in trying to solve the unsolvable
Monday, January 21, 2019
The fly stopped mid swing and everything got heavy.
Heavy for the fish. Instantly I new that this was a giant, a class of steelhead many spend their lifetimes looking for. It was having it's way with me and to paraphrase Gierach I felt like I was standing in a river holding a tiny stick.
Heavy for this the state of our region's steelhead populations. The numbers suck and I would be remiss to say that I am extremely worried for the future. Would I have a time to interact with a fish like this again?
Heavy in my breathing. When you havent had a grab in 2 months, you can feel a bit....nervous when you're in the thick of it
Did I mention the fish was....Heavy. For a solid 5 minutes, it chugged along in the the middle of the run and my 14 ft 9 wt was to the cork. Bent. I could barely move it
Heavy like a weighted jacket, the situation hung on me. The tail came out of the 37 degree water and my father's audible gasp told the story. This was the biggest fish I've ever had the chance to connect with.
The runs shortened and the end game was at hand. The buck finally turned over signaling defeat and OMR dipped his hand into the water in ready position for the tail grab.
"Oh my god, would you look at that....."
At that point, I couldnt hear anything else. My Najinsky was at hand.
The weight of everything was right there, staring back at me. I thanked everything I could think of and released that heaviness back into the river.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
We arrived at our destination and got everything ready to go.
Rods, reels, bait, chairs, food, drinks and a million other things in tow.
I bombed out a cast and set the rod in the holder, and on cue he grabs his chair.
As he plops down with a big smile, he made me a proud father for the millionth time....
"Just waiting for my bite dad"
Be still my beating heart.
Monday, January 7, 2019
Gifts, dont question where they come from...
A couple hundred cars probably passed this squirrel taking it's final dirt nap. When I went by, I knew what I was going to do.
I've come to the portion of my fly tying life that I cannot leave a dead squirrel on the road without making some alterations and adding to my collection.
I've salvaged coyote tails, countless squirrels, hun patridge, pheasant, raccoon, and a bunch of other animals that made it way onto the tying bench. Too funky, smells a bit weird, na.....we can salt the stench away.
At this point, I may be a hoarder. A good squirrel tail will last a season, maybe two of intense hairwing tying. I think i have 7 now.
Why do I keep doing this..... quote a grandmothers or two out there, "Ya never know"
Thursday, January 3, 2019
There's always a story behind the story.
The bird hit the ground, picked up by a happy dog and returned to an even happier hunter.
From the start, you could tell something was off on this bird.
It's size said a veteran of the game. The spurs said years were on this pheasant, not months.
But still, it had very little in the tail feather department.
What's the story?
A quick inspection told the story. A coyote took a swing, and missed
The bird got away with it's life. The coyote got a bunch of fly tying material in it's mouth.