Plan B was a small river in Washington state with a run of chum (or dog) salmon. It had been over 10 years since I had fished for chums, and I was looking forward to doing battle with them. As with most salmon fishing, timing is everything. A week can make the difference between feast or famine. I drove the maze of logging roads trying to find the turnoff that would eventually lead me to the head of tidewater on this small coastal river. There was one problem. I didn't recognize a thing. As with most forestland in the northwest, things are in a constant state of change. All of the ground I had driven through a decade ago (to fish this river) had been logged and was in various stages of regrowth. Eventually I found the river, but I was a long ways above tidewater. The fish were there, and lots of them. But, the river at this point was very small and did not offer much in the way of sport while battling these large fish. Not knowing how far above tide I actually was, I packed my lunch into my fishing vest and headed downriver. After a solid hour's hike through the dense coastal brush, I found the head of tide. The wind was still blowing a gale, and the leaves looked like a yellow blizzard. Fish were restless and rolling as the tide surged inland. I tied on a simple polar bear winged, green fly and began the cast and strip routine through the murky tidewater. Almost instantly I was rewarded with a jerking strike. The large buck came to the surfaced and thrashed for a second before starting in a searing run. These big chum salmon really put up a fight, especially fresh fish on the tide. After a hard battle I admired the faint maroon and green color of his sides and sent him on his way to complete his mission. Luckily I would repeat this same scenario over a dozen times this day. But best of all....... I didn't see another soul fishing. Today my only chums.....were Dogs.
Friday morning found me heading to the coast. My original intent was to fish for searun cutthroat. These ocean going trout can be a fantastic fishery, being very aggressive in their home rivers. Arriving at a known searun river at daylight, fishing a known searun haunt, I found no love. The river had dropped to summertime lows. The only sign of fish were the dead carcasses of chinook salmon that had spawned a month ago. The water was slow, deep and tannic stained. I casted and stripped a black reverse spider half heartedly. The wind was picking up speed, sending a shower of leaves into the river that fowled almost every cast I made. Eventually the wind picked up enough speed to make casting the 4wt. all but impossible. I knew it was time to admit defeat. I trugged back to the car and decided to go for "plan B".
Plan B was a small river in Washington state with a run of chum (or dog) salmon. It had been over 10 years since I had fished for chums, and I was looking forward to doing battle with them. As with most salmon fishing, timing is everything. A week can make the difference between feast or famine. I drove the maze of logging roads trying to find the turnoff that would eventually lead me to the head of tidewater on this small coastal river. There was one problem. I didn't recognize a thing. As with most forestland in the northwest, things are in a constant state of change. All of the ground I had driven through a decade ago (to fish this river) had been logged and was in various stages of regrowth. Eventually I found the river, but I was a long ways above tidewater. The fish were there, and lots of them. But, the river at this point was very small and did not offer much in the way of sport while battling these large fish. Not knowing how far above tide I actually was, I packed my lunch into my fishing vest and headed downriver. After a solid hour's hike through the dense coastal brush, I found the head of tide. The wind was still blowing a gale, and the leaves looked like a yellow blizzard. Fish were restless and rolling as the tide surged inland. I tied on a simple polar bear winged, green fly and began the cast and strip routine through the murky tidewater. Almost instantly I was rewarded with a jerking strike. The large buck came to the surfaced and thrashed for a second before starting in a searing run. These big chum salmon really put up a fight, especially fresh fish on the tide. After a hard battle I admired the faint maroon and green color of his sides and sent him on his way to complete his mission. Luckily I would repeat this same scenario over a dozen times this day. But best of all....... I didn't see another soul fishing. Today my only chums.....were Dogs. That's what I've been fighting lately. I guess I'm getting my Halloween "trick" early. For someone that loves to be outside during this time of year, it's more of a curse than a trick, but that's life. I'm sure other guys (and gals) with young children can sympathize. We're only two months into the school year, and our family has been through two bouts of the Crud. I'm not sure how teachers do it. Working at a germ factory like that has got to keep your immune system in tip top shape.
On the bright side, other than missing work and having to stay indoors, I haven't really missed much in the rivers. For an Oregon fall, it's been quite dry. I'm sure the next big rain system we get will bring the late coho into our rivers for one of my favorite fall fisheries. There is a magical time around Thanksgiving when you can catch chrome bright winter steelhead or coho, and if your lucky a rare late bright chinook. Our garage and kitchen have been happening places since I've gotten back from vacation. I've got a bunch of new product in the works to list on the "Feathers" page, once I get it packaged and photographed. You can tell the fly tiers are starting to get the tying bug as the days get shorter, because the material has been flying out the door (thanks guys!) . Keep your eyes peeled for the new stuff in the coming days.....AO I'd have to say that I'm truly blessed to have a daughter that wants to spend time with her dad. I'm not sure how long that phase is going to last, but I'm not going to pass up any opportunity to do it. So, a couple of weekends ago I was getting ready to go grouse hunting, and my daughter asked if she could go.
"Sure, honey" was my reply, and we scoured the house trying to find the bottoms to her pink plastic rain gear. Like most late September days in Oregon, it was spitting rain. That glorious, end of summer, get the animals moving, kind of rain. The rain that signals it's time to go grouse hunting, and today I was going to have the perfect partner. One of the things I always make a point of doing on any Father-Daughter outing, is getting a special treat. We always stop off at the store, and I let her pick any candy bar she'd like to have. Just to make things a bit more special. I also try to treat her as an equal (within the bounds of her personal safety) and give her special responsibilities that she'd not get at home. So after we loaded up with treats, it was off to the grouse woods. Our grouse woods in western Oregon can be a bit intimidating, especially to a child. They are very dense. Thick. The type of place where monsters, bears, lions, wolves, sasquatches, or boogey men could dwell. So, after parking at a gate on a closed logging road, I slipped a pair of shells in the double barrel, gave Margo a reminder on safety around guns, and we were off into the forest. As we walked on the two track road, she took the right track, and I took the left. She knows not to ever get in front of me or the gun. She also knows that the gun is not to ever be pointed at anything we don't intend to shoot. I keep pounding this into her head anytime we are around a BB gun, a fake plastic toy gun or the real deal. She marches through the woods with a confidence I never had at her age, and to say I'm proud would be an understatement. Boogey men are not on our minds. One of our favorite games to play as we walk the logging roads is "what kind of poop is that?" For a five year old, my daughter is pretty good at it. She can usually determine the difference between deer and elk poop. As we strolled down the road, I pointed at a scat and asked my daughter "what kind of poop is that?" . She replied, "Elk daddy'. "Are you sure?" "Deer, daddy?" She asked, puzzled. "Look at the shape, Margo. That's not the shape of deer or elk poop, honey. It's got hair and bones in it too." "Coyote, daddy?" "Yup, that's coyote, Margo." "Can that coyote spell, daddy?" "what?" I ask, now the puzzled one. "That coyote can spell, daddy. He even knew I was coming here" "huh?" Now I'm totally mystified. She points at the turd, exclaiming "Look daddy, it's in the shape of an "M" just like I spell my name" Well, I'll be damned. It was a perfectly shaped M. That coyote, in a bowl induced miracle, wrote a perfect M with his poop. Only a child would notice. I wonder how many other piles of perfect fecal phonics I've strolled right past, in my hurried hunting pursuits, and never noticed. Maybe the coyotes knew I was coming, and left me an "A". I'll never know....... Yesterday, one of my friends on Facebook posted this profound image. It really made me think, "how disconnected from the natural world are most people?" Sadly, I think most of us know. The idea of Nature deficit disorder was suggested to me by Robert Pyle (a local author of the book "wintergreen") a number of years ago. After hearing that I had a young daughter, he suggested I read "Last Child in the Woods" . So, I bought a copy of the book and forever changed my child raising thoughts.
Remember playing outside? Running unsupervised through a woodlot? Making decisions that could result in injury if they were wrong? Would you let your kids do these same things? Most people would say, NO. You just can't let kids do that these days. How does this affect the kids? The effect of this is, a society disconnected from nature. A "Nature Deficit Disorder". The sense of wonder is lost as children are bombarded by technical, visual stimulus that nature can't possibly compete with. Since there is no connection with nature, there is no need to waste time protecting it, and it creates a downward spiral. Woodlots get bulldozed, natural places lose value, and no one is left to protect them. What can we do? Well, first I suggest you buy the book (actually, buy Roberts's book too) and read about the disorder and the effect it can have on your kids.. Don't have kids? Well, then find someone else's kids and take them outside. Walk through a woodlot, take a canoe trip, turn over rocks in a stream, anything outside. Kids that have unstructured outdoor play also learn risk assessment at a very young age. Kids that learn risk assessment at a young age are also more "street smart" than kids who only play in padded playgrounds. Let's try to create a generation that can still appreciate natural beauty and wild places. Winter is always a good time to tie flies. (But not if you are fishing in the winter.) So, in an effort to stay ahead of the game, I'm trying to get my winter steelhead fly boxes full. This year I'm going to try to fish traditional type steelhead flies whenever possible. Last year I was on an intruder kick, but I just can't warm up to an intruder. They look cool. They have some awesome movement, and they are brilliantly engineered, but I just feel a little bit "dirty" every time I tie, err... thread, one on. Same thing with tubes. Great idea, great design, but they have about as much appeal to me as a wooly bugger. There is just no such thing to me as a "sexy" tube fly.
What that leaves me tying, is a fly on a "real" hook. To make the fly sink fast, you need weight. I'm thumbing my nose at barbell eyes and coneheads, so that leaves steel. Iron to be exact. Big Iron. That means a 5/0-6/0 salmon hook. A big profile is a must for me and my late winter flies, so a big platform to tie on is great. Next I need materials that will help the fly stay down but still give great movement and silhouette. That means long spey hackle, slim bodies, and hackle wings. For colors, the sky is the limit, but I will be using a lot of flourescent UV reactive colors. Black is always good too. If I get lucky I'll hit some of those days where the river is dropping and is that perfect "steelhead green". Every steelhead fisherman knows what I'm talking about. Those are the days that keep me tying flies and filling the winter boxes. After an amazing week of fishing (and thankfully quite a bit of catching) things are starting to get back to normal.
I managed to accomplish my goal of catching a steelhead on a dry fly. Not a half dozen casts into my first run on the first day of the trip a spunky 24" native ate the "clark's stonefly" I was skating across the head of the pool. Crazy. And even crazier, was that I did it again twice more in the coming days. Days went by at warp speed. Wake, eat, fish, fish, fish, eat.........Come back to camp and tie flies as quickly as possible to replace what was lost, swap tales with my buddies, and then back to the river to fish until dark. This went on for 7 days. I met some really great people, and saw some beautiful water. Wildlife was everywhere, and the scenery was tops. Sleep came easy after the long days. But on the 7th day, I was ready for some rest (maybe there's something to that!). Homesick and missing my wife and daughter, I packed up my flattened tent (another cue to leave) and bid the river farewell. A week much needed, and memories to last a lifetime. Monday morning found me thrown back into reality. Just because I took a week off from my "real" job, didn't mean that work stopped. The pile on my desk from a weeks worth of absence is often enough to make me not want to take that much time off of work. Nahhh....It's worth every minute of it. I dug through the pile, returning calls and emails, filling out paperwork, and tieing up loose ends. That evening it was back to the dye pot. Feathers and fur are now drying. Japan bottles have been labeled, and I'm already dreaming up my next fishing destination. Its good to be back home. |
Aaron M. OstojFeather pusher, hook tweeker, boat builder, fisherman, husband, dad..... Archives
March 2019
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