Salmonberry River- Eden in the Moss.

AARP- Not just a gastronomical sound! Well, it really is. But enough of the aging process.

I did actually hear this sound last weekend from my gut, after hiking back on mile 11 (notably between milepost 814 and 815 on the Tillamook R.R.) on the Salmonberry River, a coastal, rain fed, Oregon river, a tributary of the mighty Nehalem river, hosting one of the few untouched native runs of steelhead that top 20 pounds. This was an adventure I had savored in my imagination for more years than I care to admit.

I set out from home and arrived at the confluence by 8:00a and suited up. The river was renowned but had lately taken it on the chin by a tempest in December 2007. The flood cit out the bank beneath many turns of the railroad bed, leaving it literally hanging free in many places, testament to man's inability to envision the rigors of nature. The repair would be astronomical, into the tens of millions, far in excess of the value of using the route by the Tillamook lumber companies that used it. They now ship their wares by boat. What is left is decrepitating and will make the route impassable, even easily by foot, in a few years. So, my timing is good to enjoy a route that is relatively accessible, for the moment.

I elected to hike two hours before fishing because the sedimentation of the lower stretch of the mainstem renders the stretch broad and featureless. Hiking farther up the mainstem the river turns into classic steelhead water, deep pools, rapids, edges, cobble, the very thing that attracts fish and with them fishermen.

When I finally started to fish, I nymphed with a "lifter", a beadhead egg pattern. Finally, walking along the railroad bed, I saw holding water above a rapid with one large fish across the river, holding, dropping, then returning to position. The drop to the river is steep and the path must be selected carefully. I dropped down well below the fish's line of sight. Wading out I knew that I had few plausible shots before the fish would spook. Carefully, I made four casts and worked the drift out the the strike zone. Almost surreally the indicator stopped and I reacted. The fish boiled, its mass tight to the line. It was a good fish- I saw it and felt it. It shook its head, moved head down, thrashing hard, its tail momentarily breaking the surface as it worked against the pressure. Bright and heavy, it started to move upstream and at that moment it came unbuttoned. My sense of time when attached to a good fish is always sealed in the moment. I can't say that I was disappointed because it was unexpected, even though I had believed I would catch it. That is the paradox of fishing. Released, it moved upstream to safety, while I reeled in and watched my hands begin to shake.

My effort felt rewarded even though I will spend the rest of the day wondering why I hadn't sharpened the hook or been better able to anticipate the take. Six hours of walking for four seconds of thrill. How bizarre the calculus leading to satisfaction.

Turning 5-0 and condensing experience into meaningful sound bites

So, at the almost ripe middle age of fifty, I feel that time urges me to share some observations about my most favorite avocation.

This journey began when I was ten years old and was taken "deep sea fishing" on the Lynnway Marine in Lynn, Massachusetts. This was a small party or head boat that brought us barely outside the harbor's entrance, where we dropped our lines using Penn Senator reels and Christmas Tree rigs, which are small pieces of fluorescent tubes tied in sequence, pre-dating Sabiki rigs by over thirty years. Mackerel were the target and they obliged.. and obliged... to the tune of forty fish, brought home in a plastic bucket and cleaned in the backyard on a cement bench. I am certain many were not eaten as no one I know has ever asked me over for a mackerel feed, and for good reason.

Yet even with the slight heft of a mackerel, the moment of hook-up remained etched in my memory, a living connection between myself and the natural world that was tangible, mysterious and fun, all of which are components of any joyful experience.

And so began an odyssey of sorts, evolving over may years, and including summer days left by my mother at Lake Quannapowitt in Wakefield, Massachusetts, learning how to catch panfish with worm and bobber, how to pull nightcrawlers from the suburban lawns of my neighborhood, watching mesmerized as an old-timer waded out and caught huge largemouth bass casting rebels along the edge of a patch of lilypads with spinning gear. He illustrated in stark relief the difference between pretending and knowing, faith and certainty.

I fished for stripers from shore during their crash, a cycle of desoluteness, in the mid-1970's and 80's. I recall snorkeling at the age of 13 off of Rockport's Cape Hedge beach and encountering a small school bass that took me a moment to identify... because I had never seen them before. They appeared and disappeared, striped apparitions hovering above the sandy bottom, perhaps 18 inches long. If they lived today they would be over thirty odd years old and far larger than the all time tackle specimen Al McReynolds caught. I spent many hours thereafter trying to figure out how to connect with these fish. I even fished hard in 1974 and 1975 off of Truro for a week with a friend who had a 14 foot dory and a 20hp outboard. We trolled christmas tree rigs with large jointed pikies, tony acetta spoons trimmed with pork rind, hoochie trolls, and large rebels. We cast reverse atoms that took on water and cut long sliding curves on the retrieve. Never did we see or catch a bass, always bluefish and the very largest kind, some topping fifteen pounds. As I look back it is astounding that we found no bass off of Horseshoe Shoal in Cape Cod Bay, only bluefish. I am, however, forever indebted to blues for having tenacity and incredible power, even on conventional gear with wire.

I am embarrassed to admit that I did not finally connect with bass until I was almost thirty, in part because I left fishing behind as I pursued school, livelihood and love. My first bass came while casting a surface popper off of Old Silver Beach in a summer evening, off a jetty. I cannot even recall the stage of the tide, except that there was decent depth. The fish hit almost immediately, as if I cast on top of it and it defended its space by a slashing strike. I looked at it with a mixture of relief and alarm. I saw a fish that had long eluded me and at the same time, since my in-laws lived up the street, I saw I would be plagued by impulses to find more. And that is what happened.

After pursuing trout out west, I came to that moment where I knew salt flowed through my veins and could not be dismissed. More later.

Fear Not the Darkness

Thus spake... a fisherman devoted to the transitory moments that allow such excesses. I had the chance to fish, and fish hard, in early October of 2010. My best fishing buddy was set to retire and start turning eight or more wheels on his rather excessive RV. He had not fished with me for more than a year. I had a full weekend. Full, at least in the sense of 48 hours of uninterrupted time, coinciding with the new moon tides of October, which brought the fastest tidal flow of the year and the highest tides amid the peak of the southward migration of fish. We had high hopes and enough stored middle age energy to suggest possibility.
I had spent several weeks of sleepless tossing and turning, devoting my unconscious to tracking a list of suggestions for my conscious time. I replaced braided line. I shipped extra soft plastics. I concerned my waking hours with children, spouse, dog, and big bass.
When the moment(s) came, I arrived early with clean, fresh knots. My first fish on a new surf rod weighed in at 20 pounds, tied for one of my largest bass. Not a good omen. For I know, after more than a few days at this game, what fortune presents, and seldom does it allow two such opportunities. The next day I landed a 12 pound fish for the table along with its kindred cousin, the bluefish, in a momentary blitz at South Cape beach. These were well-deserved fish but hard won in their own right. When Dan arrived, after I had the chance to scope out the terrain, we fished hard and found little. I did land a 15lb bass (seen in the picture) but other than some bluefish, that was all. The good news is that a weekend with your best fishing buddy has less to do with fish than life. And so, we persevered, from Race Point to Wellfleet, where we observed two late model cars enjoy a cleansing dip from an unusually high tide. Their owners probably sea kayaking and would return to cars with fish swimming over their floorboards.
And so Cape Cod continues to crawl under my skin and soul, making me wait with unkind anticipation, when our futures will next cross.

The Hubris of Drag

I never learn. Or at least my reflexes don't, and since they must reflect some unconscious element of my character, apparently in dire need of improvement, I must take serious note of them. I have lost a few fish in my life, most of the modest sort, and for excuses too easily given and then forgiven. The lost fish that hurt the most are those that, in the quiet moments of reflection, usually done in questionable company and with too much to drink, make you realize you missed something truly, irretrievably special. A large fish. An old fish. A beautiful fish. A fish who cost you a toll of exhaustion, money, and ego, all repaid with a pigtail of broken promises. A fish that would have provided bragging rights to extinguish the glee of others in their own mid-tale of piscatorial accomplishments.
My most recent lesson, and one which I do think has finally penetrated like a ball peen hammer to my frontal cerebral cortex, was on the Pacific Ocean (it should be a proper noun if you have ventured out on it), thirty miles offshore of Astoria, Oregon, a place we arrived at only after crossing the Columbia River bar and making tedious passage for three hours until the water turned from muddy green to luminous navy and cobalt. A small group of flyfishers, half of whom had not partaken of this relatively new and accessible form of saltwater recreation, Pacific Longfin Albacore, formed this merry band of brothers.
I had devoted a few hours tying and preparing large deceivers out of synthetic hair, ultra-hair, bucktail, grizzlyed saddle hackle, flashabou, and krystal flash with epoxied eyes and a deadly stinger hook tied tandem off the Gammie main 7/0. The flies looked good. I added blood red gill with marker. I even thought to bring swivels, realizing at the last moment that flies on the troll tended to twist. To the best of my ability, everything was in order.
These fish are ridiculous. I have heard people say that tuna are a slugfest, a down and dirty game involving grunting and ridiculous rod angles. While this is all true, they are amazing. Gaffed, they present like taunt lycra bags stretched over superheated muscle. If they are allowed their head down, their tails, which look frayed and worn, cut the water like an amphetamine drumbeat. I have caught smaller versions, the aptly named False Albacore, on the fly which I had thought "red hot," a description which now seems...false. Longfin Albacore have outsized pectoral wings designed to cut the water and provide lift and draft(?), their finlets blaze yellow (God knows what they are for) and they have a body that should, by rights sink to the deep, except for a tail stock that tapers to a knuckle and fin.
I have never lost a flyline to a fish, at least not an entire flyline. My first fish brought that hubris, that, what are thinking fish to try to take me this far into my backing. I tightened and the backing bit into itself, parting like two mismatched lovers after the hangover wears off. Hubris makes us think that we can contain the explosive fueled run of a fish who knows nothing of the "game" and all about the tension on its jaw that seems to come from nowhere and tries to control its freedom. It must not be panic, at first, but instinct, which finds a gearbox and moves the levers and makes the thrust possible.
My failing is to think that any first run can be contained by hand and reel and drag. It must be endured and appreciated, like the decanting of an Oregon Pinot Noir. I love the moment that the knob strikes my index finger with such force as to cause nerve damage. We should all fight so, when the moment is at hand. It is hubris to think that we can control the fate of a fish, much less of ourselves.

February- Warm Breezes and the Written Word

Okay. It's been awhile. Too long in fact. This is the time of year that makes me get agitated. I get the season's new fishing magazines, new catalogs, new products. My eyes scan the pages for helpful tagging, suggesting new items, never before fished. The butterfly jig. The eight inch amber colored hogy. Each saddle hackle feather package makes me visualize a half and half clouser or a articulated streamer pattern for bull trout. I ask my youngest son to practice tying the bimini twist instead of origami storks, his manual dexterity being worthy of the task. I begin doing inventory of tippet materials. I look over my boxes of flies and wonder if, should I die tomorrow, who will use all this stuff?
This morning, my springer spaniel made a noise never heard before. Deep, tremulous, and wild. Looking along her angle of sight, my eyes locked with the eyes of an adult male coyote, standing but fifteen feet away in our side yard, unfazed by the yelping of a family pet. "Breakfast" was probably the thought formed in its head. "Playtime" was probably the thought formed in Sophie's innocent canine mind. Neither would be satisfied. Are these signs of the coming season, an edge of wildness creeping into suburbia? The primal look of the hunter, uncontained by context, ready to take to the field in search of the tug, capturing the vision of a tail holding in the current, the swirl, the refusal, the take. I am readying myself, even as I continue to live the routines of my life. I am now looking for opportunity.

Stupid Big Fish Tricks- Tarpaulin Cove

There are moments, albeit fleeting, or so we think, when we wish that we could get a re-do. I have several. Okay, maybe a few thousand. However, when one has been in pursuit of big fish , it is hard to forgive oneself for mistakes and missteps. This particular memory has been burned as vividly into my my mind as the braid that was burned into my hand. And, like most catastrophes, it begins with simple mistakes that cascade, like an airplane co-pilot who refuses to question their captain about the de-icing procedure and pays the heaviest of prices.
In this instance, you must first understand the setting and the characters.
The Elizabeth Island chain, running southeast below Woods Hole, Ma, represents the most prolific striper habitat in that fish's northern range. These islands, owned by the Forbes family, have been kept pristine and beyond development, perhaps the mark of an ecologically minded capitalist dynasty. Seemingly in conflict with the addage that great fortunes are made of great crimes. Nonetheless I have a fondness for the deceased Malcom Forbes who rode a Harley in the gang know as the Capitalist Tools. At least the guy had a sense of humor, and a personality, which is more than we can say for some of his progeny.
These islands harbor the most fantastic shorelines, mainly rocky glacial deposits with sand intermixed. Rocks some twenty feet in length jut to within inches of the surface causing Vineyard Sound's treacherous currents to whip past them in rips and runs that make anyone adept at spotting good lies mutter to themselves like a streetwise schizophrenic. One of the finest spots is Tarpaulin Cove along Naushon Island. At slack tide, it sleeps, quiescent and without pretension. Put some water behind it, drain it, and a rip a hundred yards long amid a boulder field makes your senses tingle.
Such was like the moment I found it, with my best fishing buddy Dan (see pictures with innumerable smiles) in the Fall of 2006. We positioned my boat , an 18'Maritime skiff, off the rip and began casting spinning gear using surface plugs. My first few casts with Bluish Smackit popper drew little interest. On the next one, an explosive device went off. Having fished for bass many years, I was relatively adept at honestly appraising a take. This one was beyond my experience when I saw the distance between the tail and the dorsal fin, a steady, irrefutable, indicator of the fish's size. It was immense. I had caught fish to 20 lbs (39') before. I knew immediately it was my best fish to date.
A little history is in order, if only to build the dramatic tension. I have been fishing for bass and bluefish since I was in 7th grade. My experience with big fish during my formative years left me breathless and hollow; which is to say, in need of a greater and greater fix. Before this day, I had fished Cape Cod and Maine for upwards of fifteen years in search of my best fish and had banner days along with soul-crushing ones. While I am an optimist at heart, I am capable of long riffs involving alcohol and mindless self-flagellation when necessary. All of which is to say that a moment in time involving cruxification can be preserved in human memory with undue vividness.
This fish cast away my demons, as it drew braided line from my Penn without any intention of stopping. I had 8o lb mono tippet done loop to loop with braid. This was a rig i had tried only a few times before but felt confidence in. Not having a swivel allowed the line to pull cleanly through the guides. Not having a swivel also allowed the lines to bite deeply into each other when under great stress.
When I felt the weight of the bass, I struck it and put immediate tension on it. I had a single piece Ben Doerr Spinning rod, eight feet tall and with serious wood at its base. This fish ran without so much as a quiver or hesitation. No matter how I clamped the drag down, it ran. Fifty pound braid! I put just enough tension on it to see if I could get its head to turn. I let my palm rub the casing of the reel and .... tck. Off.
I suppose I could have thrown the rod. I suppose I could have slashed my wrists. All would have been to no avail.
In the end we take these lessons in humility and try to get them to synchronize with our view of the world. For me, I will never be without a swivel again.

September Madness

Unlike March Madness, which elicits endless online betting and flat screen watching, this is madness of a different type, fueled by a metaphoric sense of life's end. Every September, no matter where I live, I always get a quickening pulse at this time of year. Living now in Oregon, it is a bit separated from the source, the Atlantic Ocean and the world's greatest migration of living creatures- bunker, herring, rain bait, false albacore, bluefish, and striped bass- which mass along the coast and, sensing the shortening of days, begin to gather together and sweep in a gigantic movement southward before the ocean's great cooling. In Maine, the migration has begun. Bass leave the bays and inlets, the coves and rivers, and combine by age and size to form football shaped hydrodynamic clouds and begin moving. I have witnessed this in many forms and it is both exciting and sad. Exciting to think of the opportunity to witness feeding frenzies so necessary to fuel this movement. Sad, because we know what follows- months of cold and hollowness to test the spirit until the spring renewal.

And yet, I have a fondness for the Fall. I realize, now that I am pushing fifty, how limited our vision of these natural miracles really is. I see that we have a kindred spirit with the fish, who only respond to stimuli we otherwise can only guess at. When I say it is metaphoric of our own mortality, I mean it. Each year that passes brings us closer to a conclusion we have no control over writing. If I knew I could fish for another fifty years, perhaps the moment would lack something, a dimension of poignancy that gives it richness. As Orson Wells said, Death gives Life its succor.

And so for those on the edge of the Atlantic, I say get your ass out there and enjoy this moment. The best fishing of the year is upon you and you will need rich memories to get you through what follows. Now I have to start tying steelhead flies for the coming months. Ha.