Rev. 3/7/99
PATIENCE,
PERSEVERANCE
and
PURE DUMB
LUCK
The EDUCATION of a
FISHERMAN
Printed by
Graham-Cracker Press
Honolulu, Hawaii
This is dedicated to my sons and grandchildren — I hope they will learn to love fishing as I do. In some small way, I hope to pass on to them the feeling of the thrill of expectation felt when awakening in the still dark hours of the dawn of a day's fishing, followed by the contented reflection of events at its end. And hopefully, some of what I've learned about fishing will rub off — if so, I've done what I set out to do.
I thank my wife, Carol, for putting up with my vice — for her
understanding of what fishing means to me.
The section on cleaning, cooking and eating trout is for Claudia, my
daughter-in-law. A number of times our conversations turned to fishing and
she asked these fundamental questions.
The last chapter, "Modern Technology", would not have been possible without
the spontaneous help of Paul Bary (PCXT04A) in Englewood, Colorado and John
Hillsman (CGJS00A) in South Bend, Indiana — they "wrote" the chapter.
. . .
A special thanks goes to my sister-in-law Alice. In a soft-hearted moment
she said she enjoyed my writing. I repaid the compliment by asking her to
use her educated skill in the English language to proof read my draft —
and she obliged with meticulous detail.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Karen Shishido for her patient attempts to
correct my poor grammar and her untiring effort searching out my mistakes.
Without her help this would never have been completed. The remaining "goofs"
are mine.
BABYLONIAN PROVERB
I have a vice! That vice is fishing. Just ask my wife or my sons. When I go fishing, the earth stops moving, time stands still — I am in a totally different world, impervious to outside forces.
Where it All Started
THIS ALL STARTED THE SUMMER I WAS NINE when I had the chance to go to "Y" Camp, located on Payette Lake, a hundred miles north of Boise. The camp, named Camp Ponderosa, was run by the Boise YMCA. During the week I was there, some of the leaders took a group of us little campers on a hike up Fall Creek. Fall Creek is a small mountain stream that tumbles down the mountain behind the camp, runs through the camp, and flows on into the lake. It is the outlet to Blackwell Lake, a high-mountain lake located about four or five miles up in a hanging valley.
The trail led up a steep mountain slope, heavily timbered with Ponderosa Pines and Fir. We followed it up where it first crossed Fall Creek. There the stream made its way down the mountainside, tumbling over large granite boulders, and forming small holes of deep water in the spaces between the boulders.
One of the Counselors handed me a couple of feet of fishing line, a hook, and some bacon. He told me to tie the hook on the line and bait it with a small piece of the bacon. I made the hand line as told. Then laying down on a boulder, I peered over the edge. The boulder, covered with dark green moss that looked like velvet, felt cool to my skin. The water fell between the boulders, making a fine spray that kept the rocks moist. It also created a silvery cloud of fine bubbles that shimmered around the surface of the pool like a cloud masking the dark depths of water below. I very slowly lowered my bait into the water.
Something silver flashed out from deep in the hole and grabbed the piece of bacon with a sharp jerk. It was a jolt I felt in my hands and up through my arms — so unexpected, it completely startled me. I can still remember the thrill and the shock of that first strike of a wild native trout. I caught two or three that day, but the sensation of an unexpected strike of a wild trout will be forever engraved in my memory. To this day I relive that moment every time I feel a fish strike.
I was fatally hooked — from then on, fishing was to be a part of me.
WHEN I WAS A BOY GROWING UP IN BOISE THE USE OF LIVE MINNOWS FOR BAIT WAS LEGAL. They were the main bait used in Arrow Rock Reservoir and other Idaho lakes. The local source of the minnows was the Boise River.
A friend of my family used to fish at Arrow Rock quite frequently and he would invite me to go with him the day before to seine for minnows in the river. When he came back he would share his catch of trout with us. The seine net used was a fine mesh net about eight-feet long and four-feet high attached to two poles, each about six-feet long. Minnows congregated at the base of low check dams in the river. These dams were made of wooden boards and were about four feet high. They were used to divert water into canals for irrigation. The river spilling over the top and between the boards of the dams creating a cool, highly aerated pool of water at their base. This was the best spot for catching minnows, particular the ones he called "shiners".
He wore hip boots. Me, I only wore a bathing suit and tennis shoes. Boy, was that water cold at times. The way we'd work the seine was he'd take one of the poles with me on the other. Holding them in front of us, we would shove the seine forward together with the poles just touching bottom so the minnows couldn't get under. We'd push it right up to the face of the check dam. Then on his signal we'd bring the poles up level, lifting the seine out of the water. He'd take a smaller net and scoop up the shiners and put them in a floating bucket.
It'd take us an hour or so to collect enough "shiners" for his next day's fishing.
One day he mentioned something about big Carp in the Boise River but I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd never heard of a Carp and had no idea what they were. One afternoon we were seining in the usual spot, but this time when we pushed the net up to the foot of the dam the water in the net just exploded! A huge fish thrashed in the net, showering us with water. He yelled to hold it tight and hauled the seine high with the big fish thrashing in it. Quickly wrapping the net around the fish to keep it from tearing the seine, he rushed back to shore. There, he told me the fish was a Carp. It was big — almost three feet long. It was covered with large dull yellowish-gray scales, its mouth was on the bottom of its jaw with soft "whiskers" on each side. I was told the "whiskers" were called barbels. It was unlike any fish I'd seen before. Stringing a cord through its mouth and out a gill opening, he secured the cord to a willow along the bank. We finished getting the "shiners" needed and then put the Carp in a burlap bag for me to take home.
At home, my mom first looked at the big Carp I'd brought, then handed me a kitchen knife and told me to clean it. Now cleaning a fish that size can be formidable task, let alone one for a kid, but what the heck, I went ahead and "butchered" and scaled the thing. Mom baked the Carp. What I remember is that it didn't taste like a trout — it had a distinct rather "muddy" taste to it.
NORTH OF BOISE, UP THE BOGUS BASIN ROAD ABOUT FIVE OR SIX MILES IS A SMALL STREAM CALLED DRY CREEK. It lies in a narrow canyon in the foot hills. It isn't a big stream, but when I was about ten or eleven, it had enough water to support a nice population of native trout.
The Bogus Basin Road had been built only a years or so. It started at the end of Harrison Boulevard and followed up the creek we called Sand Creek for about a mile before starting to climb. The lower part of the road was a wide, well built, dirt road — large cuts in the hillsides, had been pushed into high fills in the gullies, creating a fairly even grade.
One summer day a friend named Roy and I decided to go fishing in Dry Creek. We both had evening paper routes. Still, if we left early in the morning, we'd be back in time to deliver our routes.
We each got up while it was still dark; packed lunches, and with our fishing poles, met on our bikes at the start of the Bogus Basin Road. I had an old Hawthorn hard-wheel bike with brakes that were poor to non-existent. This was not an ideal bike for a dirt road with a loose sandy surface. Pedaling and pushing up hill took a good bit of the morning but we finally made it to Dry Creek.
The road made a "U" with the stream running under the road through a large culvert at the bottom of the "U". We crossed over the creek and went up the road about a quarter of a mile. Roy and I hid our bikes behind a clump of sage brush below the road and scrambled down the slope to the creek.
My fishing rod was an old bamboo fly rod a friend of my family had given me, partially in payment for watering his lawn for a couple of weeks. I'd re-wrapped the guides with some of my mom's red silk thread, glued on a new tip-top and put a coat of spar varnish on it. It was a rod to make any boy proud — it was my prized possession.
We started fishing with spinners, baited with a worm. Each hole was home to several small trout. They hid along cuts under the bank, next to logs that dammed the stream and in deep holes created by boulders. The idea was to slip quietly up to a likely hole, keeping in the shadows and avoiding stepping heavily or making noise the fish would hear. I'd read that fish "hear" sounds or vibrations through the nerves located in the lateral line along their sides. There was plenty of action for several hours, and we both caught a number of small trout, six to ten inches long. Around noon they quit biting.
Roy and I climbed the steep hillside to the base of a small cliff. This was a great place to eat our lunch giving us a panoramic view of the canyon and the creek below. After we had eaten, we examined the face of the sandstone cliff on which we were leaning. For the first time we realized it was whole wall of sea shells. The sandstone was the bottom of a primeval seabed, and what we were finding were fossil seashells — what a lesson in the geology of the area.
After eating we climbed back down and tried fishing again. The trout still weren't biting, so we decided to head for home.
The ride back was mostly downhill. The brakes on my bike were non-existent, and after a few miles the bike was going so fast I couldn't control it. The wind shrieked in my ears. The bike swerved from one side to the other in the loose surface and finally went off the road, down the steep side of a high filled bank. Hitting the bottom, I flew over the handlebars and into a large sage brush that cushioned my stop. It knocked the wind out of me, but other than some scratches, I was okay. With a lot of effort, I pushed and carried the bike back up on the road. This time, by holding my foot against the front fork and rubbing the sole of my shoe on the tire, I was able to keep better control of my speed.
When at long last I reached the grocery store where we picked up our papers, Roy was sitting on the curb drinking a soda and talking to all the other paper boys. He wanted to know where I had been and what had happened to me. The story of my going off the road brought a lot of laughs from everyone — they all knew what my bike was like.
Scout Camp at Butte, Montana
I SPENT PART OF THE SUMMER I WAS FOURTEEN WITH MY GRANDMOTHER in Butte, Montana. And I was lucky enough to get to spend a week at the Scout Camp run by the Silverbow Scout Council. My grandmother, Susie, may have been a little women, but boy could she get things done. When she found out I was interested in going to Scout Camp there in Butte she got on the phone. In a couple of hours she had me in the Scout Troop that met at the Presbyterian Church there, had me registered for camp and took care of all the minutiae that entails. Quite a ball of fire, my grandmother.
The camp was located north of Butte, across the continental divide on the eastern slope of the Rockies. And of course I took my fishing pole along.
Each Scout Troop was assigned an area at the camp, and each Troop brought their own tents. We had a number of small ones, four Scouts to a tent.
A small mountain stream ran through the eastern side of the camp. It was dammed by a family of beaver. Their ponds stair-stepped the stream from one end of the meadow to the other. Each pond held a good number of trout. For some reason, I don't know why, not many of the kids fished there.
After experimenting a bit I found a secret to fishing these ponds. By sneaking up to the face of a beaver dam, casting a small Colorado spinner over the top and reeling it in quickly, I would frequently get a strike. But if I stood at the top of the dam I'd spook the fish and it'd be and hour or so before they settled down. After I learned this I started doing pretty well.
By the time my week was up our tent was the envy of the whole camp — we always had fresh trout for breakfast.
SCOUT
CAMP AT PAYETTE LAKE was always a welcome diversion as I grew up. When I
was fifteen a group of about seven of us hiked into the upper Buckhorn Creek
area on fishing trip. This area is located between the Payette River and
the South Fork of the Salmon. It abounds with high-mountain lakes.
We were driven by bus south toward Cascade and then up the Boulder Creek Road to the east to its end. There, shouldering pretty heavy backpacks, we started up the trail toward Boulder Lake. Our packs were loaded with food and supplies to last us three days. It was a good trail through thick forests about two miles to the lake. Boulder is a good sized lake, about three-quarters of a mile in length and quarter mile wide. There the trail followed the shore but we didn't stop, we were headed on up the mountain.
We started to climb. The forest thinned out. Leaving the fir and spruce below, we started to see Limber Pines. Trudging on we passed Rapid Lake, a small mountain lake, and kept climbing. Up ahead there appeared to be a small lake in one of the meadows. As we came closer the lake dissolved into a beautiful meadow of blue Lupine. The illusion had been perfect.
On we climbed. A mile or so beyond Rapid Lake we came to Summit Lake, another small mountain lake. Here we dropped our packs to take a break and fish for a little while — no luck.
On we climbed on up over a barren wind swept pass. Pausing at the top, we looked back and as far as we could see was still the Payette drainage, clear over to a hazy range of mountains in the far distance. Ahead was the rugged densely forested Salmon country. Then we left the high country and hiked on down into the heavy timber of the headwaters of Buckhorn Creek.
Hiking down about three miles, we made our camp in a clearing where we'd stay for the next two nights. We had covered a good ten miles into the "back country" from the end of the road.
We started fishing Buckhorn Creek. The creek had a lot of good holes along this stretch, formed by large boulders. The bottom was sand and gravel. It held a lot of Cutthroat, about six to twelve inches, and fishing was good, we caught plenty..
The next morning most of the guys decided to hike up to Buckhorn Mt. Lake to fish. It was a small high-mountain lake and could be reached by "bushwacking" a mile up the small tributary of Buckhorn Creek we were camped on. Two of us wanted to hike down the trail to the South Fork of the Salmon, ten miles away.
We took off down the trail. I was wearing Scout shorts, a cotton shirt knitted with a Norwegian ski sweater pattern. This was the "uniform" those of us who were lifeguards at camp wore. And I was wearing moccasins, which I completely wore out on the hike down and back. Later I figured that long hike in moccasins stretched my feet and that's why I wear "EEE" width shoes. I don't recommend hiking in moccasins.
The trail was good and we reached the South Fork by about noon, and ate the lunch we carried. The river was shallow enough at this point for us to wade across. We found a lot of freshwater clams there just below the mouth of Buckhorn Creek.
After fishing for awhile we started back. Wild currents along the trail were ripe and I started eating them. I ate and I ate and I ate — and I got sick. It is miserable trying to hike when you are sick to your stomach. And I haven't eaten wild currents since.
At long last we made it back to camp, twenty miles in all that day. I just crawled into my sleeping bag and was out.
The next morning we were up and fished some more. Then packed all of the fish we'd caught. We packed them in knapsacks; a layer of snow, a layer of grass, then a layer of fish, and so on until the knapsack was full. It took two knapsacks, we had a little over a hundred trout.
I shouldered one of the knapsacks of fish and we started the long pull up to the pass and over the top to Boulder Creek. That pack weighed close to seventy pounds.
When we got to the end of the trail the bus was waiting for us. Back at Scout Camp we showed off all the trout we caught. There were enough to have a fish fry for the entire camp.
Illinois Catfish
IN THE SPRING OF 1951 I WAS STATIONED AT SCOTT FIELD, ILLINOIS waiting for reassignment. That kind of duty was most boring — no regular jobs, nothing to do except wait for orders to come.
Finally, I worked something out with the cook at the mess-hall. He liked Catfish. Well, I found a slough not far from the Field, formed by Silver Creek, a tributary of the Mississippi River. It could be reached by walking down the tracks of the railroad spur that came on the base. Across a bridge and through the fence — now I was actually off-base. It was ironic that I couldn't get a pass to town, but there weren't any guards to check me as I walked off-base down the railroad track — in Fatigues, no less.
I'd get up, eat breakfast, hike down the tracks to the slough and catch Catfish. The area I fished was quiet, shaded by large broad leaf trees growing right down to the water edge — peace and quiet just a short distance from the intense activity of Scott Field.
This made a pretty good routine — kept me out of the eyes of the officers, got me in good with the Mess Sergeant, and taught me how to catch Catfish. Not an altogether wasted assignment after all.
I SPENT
THE SUMMER OF 1952 WORKING FOR THE U.S. FOREST SERVICE IN THE BOISE NATIONAL
FOREST. My first assignment, which began in late May, was Smokechaser at
the Deadwood Guard Station located on Deadwood Reservoir.
The only road open to Deadwood Reservoir that time of year was the single-track dirt road that came from Cascade. It ran past Warm Lake, up a steep grade west to Landmark, and turned south, climbing up over the summit into the Deadwood drainage. At the summit, in May, an eight-foot deep cut had been made in the snow pack by the plow, just wide enough for a car. The road was deep mud all of the way — it took chains on the wheels and careful driving to get through the pass. This eighty mile dirt road would be our only way to the outside world for a month and a half. It took us that long, in our spare time, to clear the snowdrifts and fallen trees from the road south over Scott Mountain. This road south led on through to the Payette River, giving us access to the store at Lowman.
Deadwood Reservoir is a fairly large body of water, 3,000 acres in size. It was created by a concrete dam, about a hundred and sixty-five feet high, across a narrow canyon on the Deadwood River. The Guard Station was a solid three room log cabin located on the shore of the reservoir, about half a mile above the dam.
My job there was to, first, maintain the cabin — paint it with linseed oil, patch the roof, repair the chimney, and, generally get it fixed up for the summer. Then I was to clear the loop trail around the reservoir, and, finally, maintain those trails, leading into the surrounding hills, that would be needed to get to a fire. Evenings and week-ends were free, so I had plenty of time to explore and fish.
When I first saw the dam at Deadwood, the reservoir had already filled to capacity from storing the spring runoff. Now there was a sheet of water cascading over the spillway and down the face of the dam. Water was also being released through two large pipes, about three feet in diameter, that extended through the base of the dam. These pipes were about five feet above the river level. The water from these pipes shot out like "sticks" for about fifty feet before hitting the surface of the river. There was a large pool of water at the base of the dam, about seventy-five feet across and fifty feet long. It had strange currents in it. There were also strong winds at the base of the dam caused by the sheet of water falling over the spillway and the water shooting out of the pipes.
A narrow, rocky road branched off the main road that crossed the Deadwood River about a mile below the dam. This narrow road lead to a bridge across the river. It followed up a narrow cut in the side of the canyon wall, ending at the control house that had been built right against the base of the dam. The bridge was about a hundred feet below the dam and was drenched by the full force of the spray from the water shooting out of the pipes. The other side of the pool was a jumble of large angular boulders left from building the dam. That side was inaccessible as long as water plunged over the spillway and down the face of the dam.
In the evening, the base of the dam was a foreboding site. It was dark, deep in the shadow of the canyon walls; soaked by incessant spray; bombarded by a deep sound like ceaseless thunder from the falling water of the spillway; and from the unleashed throbbing energy of the "sticks" of water erupting out of the base of the dam. Apprehension was increased by the swirling drenching winds all these forces created — it was truly an ominous place to be.
I started
fishing the pool each evening — walking down the road and across the
bridge; battling the winds and the heavy spray; and then seeking the partial
shelter in the lee of the front of the control house. I was trying to understand
the water currents in the pool, find where the fish were and what they would
bite. For a week or so I had no luck at all.
The previous year the reservoir had been emptied to simplify repair work on the dam. As a result, all of the fish had been swept out and into the river below — now they wanted back in. They were concentrated in this pool at the base of the dam and along the first mile or so of the river.
One evening, I drifted a Flatfish under the three-foot "sticks" of water coming out of the pipes. Suddenly, I got a heavy strike and had a fish on. It tore around the pool, and I was afraid it would get into the current where the "sticks" of water hit the surface of the river — in that severe turbulence and fast current, I would lose it for sure. After ten or fifteen minutes, I was able to work the fish over close to the wall at the edge of the road. It rolled on its side in the current — I could see a twenty-four inch trout. Wow! He was the biggest trout I had ever hooked!
But how was I to land him? The wall I was on was about ten feet above the water, while down stream the "stick" of water created an almost impassable turbulence, and there was no way to get over to the other bank. He kept rolling on his side, completely played out. Finally, almost in desperation, I reeled in as much line as possible. Then, hoping my leader and the knots would stand the strain, I took a deep breath. Slowly "horsing" him straight up the ten-foot wall, I swung him out over the road. Only then I let out my breath — my first twenty-four inch trout. He was a beautiful Cutthroat, and I still treasure a picture of him.
ONE EVENING I WENT DOWN TO THE POOL TO FISH. The sun, low on the horizon, cast a heavy shadow over the hills. Only the very top of the dam, with water coming over the spillway, was illuminated by the setting sun. The shadows, accentuated by that bright contrast, gave the pool and river, deep in the dark canyon, a desolate, mysterious tone. The mist around the pool, caused by the water cascading down the face of the spillway and shooting from the pipes, only added to this atmosphere.
After fishing in the pool at the base of the dam for a few weeks, I finally began to understand the location, direction and strength of the currents there. I was trying to use this knowledge to drift a Flatfish under the "sticks" of water that shot out of the pipes at the base of the dam. There was no way to cast over the "sticks", and climbing over to the other side wasn't possible. So if I could do this just right, I could work the lure right up to the face of the dam into the pool where I "knew" fish were concentrated.
My attention had been riveted on this for about a half-hour, and I was totally engrossed in what I was doing.
A movement in the water downstream caught my eye. Turning quickly I thought I glimpsed something black swimming in the dark water below. Looking a second time, I wasn't sure. Was it my imagination? I went back to fishing. Then, over in the mist on the other side of the river, I was sure I saw it again. Now I watched closely — through the mist I saw what looked like a big fish swimming with its head above the water, watching me. "But it can't be," I thought, "it has fur on it." Suddenly, I realized that what I was seeing was a large river Otter.
This was the first otter I had ever seen. He swam effortlessly through the rapids, and was gracefulness personified. The black, sinuous body seemed to just slip effortlessly through the turbulent water. It would dive and disappear, then surface somewhere else without so much as a ripple.
Immediately I knew what he was there for — he wanted MY fish! Putting my fishing rod down, I picked up a handful of rocks and started bombarding him, driving him on downstream. I chased him down about half a mile and then lost him in the gloom. After that appearance I would see the otter every evening while fishing. I finally had to accept him as an inevitable competitor — he was there first — and went on with my fishing.
My neighbor was the Bureau of Reclamation manager for the dam. He lived at the reservoir, with his family, the year round in a large log cabin a short distance from mine. I told him about the Otter. He said a family of Otters inhabited the river, and he saw them quite often during the winter. He was surprised I saw one so openly and at this time of year.
The following weekend I drove up over Deer Creek Pass to the Ranger Station on Bear Creek. Some of the other fire fighters were sitting around "shooting the breeze," and I told them about the Otter. I admitted at first I had thought it was some kind of fish, but it had fur on it. Boy, was that a mistake — from then on they would always greet me with, "Hey Bob, how's your 'fur fish' doing."
THE POOL BELOW THE DAM BECAME MY SCHOOL — there I "majored" in fishing.
The lessons I learned at the pool I have used ever since. I learned the type
of water trout seek, what they want for cover, where and when they feed,
and what will "spook" them. My favorite dry fly, the
"Renegade,"
stems from that experience as does my dedication to using a Flatfish. More
important, I learned by my mistakes what not to do. What an education!
Rainbows preferred a yellow or orange Flatfish, size F4. If I wanted Cutthroats, I used a green frog pattern, also in size F4. For Dolly Varden, it would be a silver F5 or F6. This was consistent. Regardless of the size, the Flatfish had to be fished very slowly, so slowly you could distinctly feel each "pulse" in the side-to-side wobbling action. Weighting was critical — it had to be weighted with two or three quarter-inch lead split-shot about a foot and a half to two feet up the line. If it were closer, the Flatfish would tangle up with the split-shot when it was cast.
The Flatfish also proved to be a great attractor on any water. Using a Flatfish, I found, even if I didn't get a solid strike, if I watched closely, I'd see the silver "flash" of a fish as it struck short. And I'd know there was a fish in that particular hole. The choice was then to continue going for it with a Flatfish or switch to a fly. Either way, I knew there was a fish there.
The "Renegade" is a simple fly. The body is dark green Peacock herl with a few turns of thin gold-foil spiral wrapped over it and extending a short way down the bend of the hook. A brown hackle is tied on the rear just in front of the bend, and a white hackle on the front. This double hackle makes the fly ride high on the water and helps keep it from "drowning". The white hackle in front makes it "bi-visible" — I can see it as easily as the trout can. The "Renegade" is best fished as a dry fly, but if it "drowns," it would still catch fish if slowly stripped in to give it some action. It was very effective if cast so it landed on one of the large patches of foam that drifted around in the pool. Letting it land there, then causing it to just twitch, often resulted in a large trout surging up from below to take it voraciously — what a shock that would always give me!
I ate trout almost every day that summer while I was at Deadwood. Typically, I would go down in the evening, catch half dozen eight-inch trout for breakfast, and then concentrate on catching big fish, throwing back any under eighteen inches. The big fish I landed that summer included three two-foot Rainbows, three two-foot Cutthroats and two two-foot Dolly Varden.
Now, I'll digress for a moment and give three lessons: how to clean trout, how to cook trout and how to eat trout — they were learned first hand from catching, cooking and eating so many trout that summer. And "I'll blow my own horn", I've instructed chefs and waiters in plush restaurants in New York City, Boston and Maine how to cook and serve trout — my premise was; if I was going to eat their trout it would be my way.
First, cleaning. This chore is best done shortly after the trout is caught, they keep longer and taste better — and you wont be accused of bringing home fish for someone else to clean; you'll be better at it than they will anyway. So just do it. Now, any sharp knife can be used, from a small pocket knife to a hunting knife, my preference is my pocket knife and its always handy. Turn the fish over. Under the lower jaw is the line outline of the tongue. It has the same shape as the lower jaw, only smaller. The tongue is hard and has teeth on it. Stick the tip of you knife in at one side of the tongue and out the other and cut forward. The tongue will hang there like a second lower jaw, do it and you'll see what I mean. Next, stick the knife in the anal opening and with the knife pointed forward, make one cut right up to the bone at the two gills. Put your thumb on the tongue you loosened, your index or middle finger into the cut where it ended at the gills. Squeeze your thumb and finger together and pull down. Zip, the tongue, the gills, and the two fins next to the gills will tear off with all of the guts attached. You may want to open the stomach to find out what they're feeding, but then bury it all in a hole along the bank — don't throw it in the stream. The only thing left to do is run your thumb firmly along the backbone to clean out the pocket of "blood" there and swish the fish in the stream for a final rinse. Put it on a bed of grass in your creel.
Cooking: don't worry about scales, they're too small to matter, and leave tail on — you'll see why in a minute. Trout cook very rapidly, whether you're frying them in a frying pan over a campfire or poaching them in a special poacher for guests, the test is still the same. The minute the flesh changes from translucent to opaque it is done — any longer and the meat begins to toughen, and the delicate flavor diminishes. Overcooked, trout taste terrible. If you want to know my preference, it's rolled in cornmeal and fried in bacon fat over a campfire — that way the tails are crisp and make good chips. My second preference is poached and seasoned right at the table with only the juice of a lemon squeezed over it. This can be done in a very elegant setting, formal and all that. The flavor is subtle and delicate — damn, I'm drooling on my keyboard.
Along with the lessons on cleaning and cooking comes a companion lesson on eating. Trout are the easiest fish there is to de-bone — they have a built in zipper. After they're cooked take a knife, they are tender enough then that a table knife will do, and run the tip from the head to the tail deep enough to touch the back bone. Now, using the tail as a convenient handle, lift it up slightly and with the knife sort of break the flesh from the back bone in front of the tail where is the narrowest. Incidentally that part of the fish is called the caudal peduncle — some trout trivia for you. Holding the flesh you peeled away down to the plate with the knife, lift the tail on up. The whole bottom side will stay there on your plate free of bones. Now lay the other half back down, skin side down, separate the meat at the tail as before, lift — voila, you have the backbone with the head attached in your hand. The only bones left are attached to the various fins. Pull the fins out and that's it.
Back to my story: My neighbor, the manager of the dam, had a large freezer in which I stored my fish. I froze enough trout to have them for almost a year when we went back to school. Freezing them in plastic bags filled with water kept them from getting "freezer burn". When we left to return to school we packed them in sawdust, and they stayed frozen solid for four days until we could rent a freezer locker. What feasts we had that year!
A FRIEND FROM BOISE CAME UP TO VISIT one weekend. He said he'd heard about my fishing hole and asked me to show it to him — wanting to see me catch one fish.
By then the water level in the reservoir had dropped below the top of the spillway. Now I could use the short trail on the east side. It was steep but led directly down to the base of the dam — no more having to drive down. We followed this trail. I got out on one of the large boulders that rimmed the pool at the base of the dam while he watched from the bank.
It was mid-afternoon, not a productive time to fish. I tied on a silver F6 Flatfish — maybe a Dolly Varden would take it. Getting out on the boulder as far as I could, I made a cast out into the pool, right up against the dam. Reeling in slowly, I could feel the side-to-side action of the Flatfish. Suddenly there was a jolting strike and the line tore off the reel with the click drag screaming. I knew it was a good-sized fish just from the way it stripped line off the reel. Without even thinking I yelled, "It's a big 'Dolly'!" The fish surged around the pool, first stripping line and then sulking down deep in the pool, never jumping. After about ten minutes — it just seemed like an hour — I finally got it to the surface and it rolled on its side. Working it over to the boulder on which I was standing, I knelt down, got my thumb in its mouth and finger in its gill, and lifted it clear of the water. It thrashed back and forth, its teeth cutting my thumb, but there was no way I was going to let go. With shaking knees I managed to get back to the bank and look at the fish. I had been right — it was a two-foot Dolly Varden, and taken on the first cast of the day. What a way to show off my fishing hole!
ONE SATURDAY, I DECIDED TO DO SOME EXPLORING. There was a trail up the north side of Whitehawk Creek leading east over to Whitehawk Basin under the brow of Whitehawk Mountain. Whitehawk was an active Forest Service Fire Lookout and was to be my assignment later in the summer. I wanted to see that area and try the fishing along the way.
After breakfast, I set out, taking the river trail. I was just ambling along, enjoying the woods and the river. As I was going down a steep section in the trail, something down at the bottom of the trail hissed loudly. I stopped. A squat animal, two to three feet in length, stood solidly on all fours, staring up at me, hissing. Its back was gray, and there was a white stripe from its nose to its shoulders. Its broad face had white and black bars on the cheeks. Now I was use to encountering animals in the woods — even bears. I yelled at it — whatever it was, it bared its teeth and hissed back. I threw a rock at it — it hissed and started lumbering up the trail toward me. I threw another rock — it kept coming. Now I was getting spooked. Another rock — it started snarling as it came boring up the trail straight toward me. Now I was scared — it was about fifteen feet away and coming fast in a determined manner. Taking careful aim, I threw a rock as hard as I could, hitting it squarely in the head. That stopped it cold.
It had all happened so suddenly, I just sat down in the trail, shaking. After a moment I got up and went down and poked it with a stick — it was dead. Looking it over, I realized it was a very large Badger. Why it charged me I'll never know.
Following the river trail, I hiked on down to the mouth of Whitehawk Creek. It was about three miles. The trail stayed close to the east bank of the river, allowing me easy access to the water. I'd stop at each likely-looking spot and make a few casts. At the mouth of Whitehawk Creek there was a large hole that I was sure contained trout. Jutting out into the river, from the upstream side of the creek, was a large sandbar. It would be a good spot from which to fish. The sandbar was partially submerged, but I had my hip boots on, so I wouldn't even get wet, wadding out on it. Walking part way out, I began casting. Gradually, I moved further and further out on the bar. Suddenly I started to sink into the sand. I tried to pull one foot up, but just sank deeper. The more I tried, the deeper I went — quicksand! I'd been in quicksand before and was more angry than scared — stupid to let myself get into this kind of mess. Finally, I had no other choice except to lie down on my back, hold my fishing rod in my teeth, and actually swim out of it with a back stroke.
Getting back to solid sand, I rolled over, got to my knees, carefully stood up, and struggled back to shore. My boots full of water making me waddle rather than walk. After my heart stopped pounding so hard, I stripped off the hip boots, poured the water out and hung them upside down on a willow fork. Then I peeled all my clothes off, wrung them out, spread them on the bushes, and lay down in the sun to warm up. This had not been a good way to start the day.
After about an hour I put my clothes back on, even though they were still damp. Leaving my hip boots hanging in the Willows, (I'd pick them up on my way back), I headed up the trail that led up Whitehawk Creek. By gosh, I was still going to go ahead with what I'd planned.
The trail climbed the hill up the northern side of the steep, narrow, "V" shaped ravine the creek ran in. It continued northeast this way for several miles, with the trail staying well up on the timbered north slope, switch-backing to gain height. After about four or five miles, the country opened up, and I was looking down at a broad, sparsely-timbered valley. The ground along the stream bank was mostly composed of smooth rocks which almost seemed to be set in big riffles. There was no top soil, no grass or Willows growing along the stream. This was the leavings of an old placer mine worked in the late 1800's. The entire hillside had been washed out with the monstrous hydraulic nozzles. The water and gravel then channeled into sluice-boxes to trap the fine gold. This type of mining had been a major feat of engineering in those days; channeling water from miles away through pipes and siphons along the hills; the efficient design of the nozzles of the "great water guns" used to wash away entire hills. Idaho gained its fame from this.
From a perspective of over fifty years later it was something I detested. Even after all these years, nothing but stunted Bull Pine would grow. There couldn't possibly be any fish here!
The stream forked at this point; both forks had been "placered". I left the trail that clung to the hillside and started down to the bottom. Part way down there was what appeared to be an old rubbish dump. There were old empty condensed milk cans, coffee cans, tea cans, bottles, spent .44 casings, worn out miners' rubber-bottomed boots, broken picks and other refuse typical of an old mining camp. Back up the hill on a flat were the outlines of long-destroyed log cabins — all that remained were the almost imperceptible marks on the ground of a rectangle, the bottom four logs of each cabin. This was where the camp had been. Not only had the cabins deteriorated with age, but there was evidence that an old forest fire had swept through here. That may have been why they abandoned the camp.
With me I had a Pulaski, a fire-fighting tool that's a combination axe and grub-hoe. Using it, I started digging around the inside four logs of several old cabins.
Barney, an old prospector who lived in a cabin on the shore of Deadwood Reservoir, had told me stories about how the miners lived in this country. He lived year-around up here in a spacious, well-built log cabin. Years before he had filed and made the improvements necessary for a mining claim and then built his cabin on it. He made enough from the claim, supplemented by an Army pension, to live quite comfortably there.
He was an authority on the history of the area. He told me the Nez Perce Indians each year followed a trail south along the Deadwood River to gather Camass and Huckleberries and spear Salmon, (which at that time ran up the Deadwood to spawn.) They also went to trade with the Shoshonis further south. He said they camped for an extended period on a flat near the upper end of the area on which the reservoir was now.
After a lot of driving around, I finally found the spot he had been describing. Parking my car in the middle of the large flat, I got out and explored the area. There was definitely evidence of an Indian encampment — pieces of broken pottery, and, in one area, a lot of flint chips. This must have been a favorite spot for flint knapping — making arrowheads and spear points. There was also a large patch of wild Strawberries. These were just tiny things but had a fuller flavor and were much sweeter than the big ones we are now used to. I just sat and ate and ate.
When I retraced my steps to the car, I found a flat tire. After changing it, I inspected the tire, looking for a nail so I'd know where to repair the hole in the tube. To my amazement, what I found was an unfinished black obsidian arrowhead about three inches long, protruding from the tire. I couldn't miss the irony of it — hundreds of years ago the ancient Nez Perce had reached far into the future and struck a blow against the White-man.
According to Barney, there had been an old mining town on a peninsula jutting out into the reservoir a little ways from his cabin. He told me that after it had been destroyed in a forest fire it had been abandoned. There was a rumor that the town safe, which contained a large quantity of gold, had never been found after the fire. This rumor always intrigued him. So, finally he bought a Army surplus mine detector. Then he and his partner Ed hiked down to the old town site and began systematically "sweeping" the entire area. They'd dig up each "hit" right on the spot — nails, tin cans, spoons and all the other "junk" you might expect to find at any old town site. Very discouraging.
They kept at it for days. Just about the time they were going to call it quits they got a "hit" so much bigger and louder than any before. With great anticipation they started to dig. What ever it was, was large and buried deep. About six feet down they uncovered box after box that had apparently been buried deep in a pit. Pulling one out, they found it was very heavy, but they wrestled it up to ground level. Then with great expectation pried the top off. It was a box of iron shovel heads some merchant had packed in by pack-string and buried for safe keeping — not the missing safe full of gold. That, they never found.
Barney had talked at length about the life of the old miners. He'd explained that most of them didn't stay up in the high mountain camps during the bitter winters. Before the snow started in earnest and they got snowed in, they packed up, came down out of the mountains and "wintered" in larger towns like Boise. They would take with them only their gold dust and what they really needed. The rest they would stash by burying it inside the cabin, along the four log walls. Each miner had a jug of Mercury, used to trap the gold dust in the sluice boxes. Before they left, they would drain all the water out of the jug so it wouldn't freeze and break, cork it, and bury it, too. Barney told me that many never returned. The price of Mercury was pretty high in the 1950's so he made a good bit of money locating the old cabins and finding the stashed jugs of mercury.
As I dug, the evidence of the fire was very obvious — everything was charred. Digging in one cabin, I dug up a charred basket about two feet in diameter and a foot and a half high. I could only tell it had been a basket by the weaving. It was heavy and seemed to be full. Unable to get the top off, I finally resorted to chopping it off with the Pulaski. The top broke off cleanly, about two inches thick — the top was a charred layer of Rice, fused together by the heat. Underneath, the Rice was loose and appeared fresh — as if recently bought in the store. The fire had preserved it. Then I remembered that many of the early miners in Idaho were Chinese — this cabin must have belonged to a group of them.
The hike may have been a "bust" as a fishing trip, but it had been an eventful day. And I'd seen a special piece of Idaho's mining history and heritage — it had been well worth the effort.
THE SUMMER BETWEEN MY JUNIOR AND SENIOR YEAR, 1953, I FINALLY QUIT WORKING FOR THE FOREST SERVICE. That summer I worked for Utah Power and Light in Salt Lake City. It was time to leave Forestry behind and get some experience in Electrical Engineering, my real college major and chosen profession. The summer also offered a chance to explore and fish new streams and rivers.
One project I was working on was a study to determine what high voltage transmission lines would be needed to send the power from Flaming Gorge. At that time Flaming Gorge was only one of several proposed Federal dams on the Green River.
The topo-maps and aerial photos of Flaming Gorge intrigued me. What was the gorge really like, and how was the fishing? I wanted to see the gorge before the dam was built. Asking around, I found three other guys who also wanted to fish it. None of us had been there.
Flaming Gorge was about two-hundred miles from Salt Lake. Our plan was to leave early Sunday morning, drive up there, hike down into the gorge to fish, hike back out, drive home — simple enough.
We left Salt Lake about three-thirty in the morning. The road to Vernal, Utah was a well paved-highway, and we made good time. At Vernal, we turned north on a dirt road which crossed the Green below the site of the proposed dam. We followed a road up-stream on the north side of the river for a few miles and then parked the car at a Forest Service campground.
The hike down to the river was more like a slide — it was that steep. Once there, I found the river had a steady slope, forming a series of riffles and fast moving pools. It looked like good Trout water.
Putting on my hip boots, I began working upstream. This was a pleasant stream to fish, and fishing was good. In this stretch, the Green held a lot of native Cutthroat, ranging up to about eighteen inches. In a few hours I had a limit of nice sized trout in my creel. I kept on fishing just for the fun of it, releasing what I caught.
About four o'clock in the afternoon we got together again and started the long climb out of the gorge back to the car at the top. Taking my wadders off, I slung them over my shoulder. With my rod in the other hand, started up the steep slope. That climb was the hardest I'd ever made — we actually had to pull ourselves up by grabbing onto small trees above us. It was almost midnight before we got to the top — I had never been so exhausted. Now I felt I could understand what makes people throw away their gear — with the wadders constantly banging in the back of my legs at every step, I was tempted to during that pull up out of the gorge.
The trip back to Salt Lake was not uneventful. The one question we all had was, could we make it back and get to the office on time? We took off like a streak, taking turns driving.
After Vernal, I took the wheel. The big Buick was a heavy car, and I was pushing it — doing around eighty. About an hour out of Vernal a front tire blew. The car started swaying from side to side, but I got it stopped without going off the road. It took us half an hour to get the tire changed and get back on the road — doing eighty again.
The sky started to get lighter, that false dawn during which you can't quite see without the headlights, and everything is a dim outline. We were running along the Strawberry River, coming down a long hill. Way down at the foot of the hill, I saw a Buck and a Doe beside the road. I started sounding the horn to get them off the road. The Buck jumped the fence to the left; the Doe ran across the road on the right. The Buck jumped back across the fence to follow her, and I hit him, "dead center", doing ninety! I was able to keep the car on the road and get stopped without running over the deer's body tumbling down the road in front of the car.
All we could do was drag the body of the Buck off the road — we would report it when we got home. Surprisingly, we escaped with only minor damage to a headlight and part of the front grill.
As we climbed toward the summit on the way to Heber, we came around a bend, doing eighty again, and there was a band of sheep in the middle of the road. It was obvious I couldn't stop in time. So I started on the horn, braking as hard as possible without skidding — the sheepherder clearing a path ahead of me through the band as fast as he could. The car finally shuddered to a stop without hitting any. I just sat there in my seat, slumped over the wheel, surrounded by bleating sheep. I finally got out of the car, pretty shaken up, and on the spot, abdicated the wheel — I'd done enough damage for one day.
Needless to say, we didn't make it to work on time. What an experience!
I'D NEVER SEEN THE HENRY'S FORK OF THE SNAKE RIVER. I had heard about the beautiful falls on the river. I'd also heard stories about the trout around Island Park, Macks Inn and Big Springs — stories about hundreds of enormous trout lying like logs in the water, filling the stream from bank to bank. Such stories are what dreams are made of.
Macks Inn and Big Springs were a bit over three-hundred miles from Salt Lake. The Fourth of July weekend would be ideal for such a trip. Plenty of time to drive up, fish, and get back without rushing it. After work on Friday, I packed my gear and took off.
It was about ten in the evening when I got to Idaho Falls. There I stopped for a cup of coffee to keep me awake. Up beyond Ashton my eyes got heavy and my head started nodding, so I pulled over and went to sleep in the car. When I awoke it was starting to get light. Driving on north, I pulled over and hiked down to view the Upper Mesa Falls. The view point was from below the top of the falls. From there one could see the entire Henry's Fork spilling over an abrupt cliff which was over a hundred feet high. This was truly a sight worth stopping for.
Macks Inn was the only place to get breakfast. After eating, I talked to the clerk at the fishing gear counter. He told me of a dirt road that paralleled the river on the eastern bank, and told me fishing had been pretty good lately.
I found the road without any trouble and drove up several miles. At this point the road was about a half mile from the river across a flat flood plane. The plane was timbered with widely-spaced Fir. Parking the car, I pulled on my hip boots, assembled my fly rod, and hiked through the timber to the river.
The river, at that point, was about seventy-five to a hundred feet across. It moved with a steady current and was divided into lanes of clear water by thick "reefs" of water plants. The plants appeared to be Watercress. I could see trout rising in the clear stretches.
Tying on a Renegade, I worked out about forty feet of line with false casts. Then dropped the fly into a clear channel right beside a "reef" of watercress. A trout took it the instant it hit the water, really startling me. The fish charged upstream and down, putting on an aerial display as it jumped trying to shake the fly free. It took some effort to get it across the "reefs" of watercress and keep it from burying itself in them as I worked it from channel to channel across the river. At last I had it through all the water plants into the clear water where I was standing. Reaching down, I caught it behind the gills, a beauty of a Rainbow, about fourteen inches long. I love to start a day's fishing that way!
The fishing continued to be good all morning and I soon had a limit in my creel. I kept fishing for the fun of it, catching and releasing as I worked on upstream.
About ten or eleven o'clock in the morning a bull Moose ambled out of the timber on the other side of the river. This was the first Moose I'd seen in the wild. A monstrous animal, and I was amazed how gracefully it moved through the trees.
The Moose moved down to the bank of the river, wadded into the water and started to feed on the abundant watercress. It would bury its head underwater and kept it there for a minute or more. Then, bringing its head up, with its massive antlers draped with dripping watercress, it would shake its head free of water.
I moved down the river to give it plenty of room. It worked its way into the center of the river — I moved down some more. It crossed to my side — I moved farther down-stream. It started walking toward me — to heck with it. I "packed it in" and went back to my car. If the Moose wanted the river, I wasn't about to argue with it.
Driving back down the road, I stopped near the river and cleaned and inspected my catch. They were all Rainbows, from ten to eighteen inches. I had what I had come for — the Henry's Fork had given me excellent fishing — and I had my limit. So back I drove to Salt Lake.
TOM PURTON WAS THE CHIEF ENGINEER FOR UTAH POWER & LIGHT. He was a family friend and the reason I was working for the company at their headquarters in Salt Lake that summer.
He and his wife, Peg, lived in a large home in the foothills of Salt Lake. There was a stream running through their subdivision. All the neighbors in the subdivision could use the stream to create their own special environment but had agreed not to remove water from it.
Tom enjoyed trout fishing. In his back yard he created a mountain stream with three deep pools which he stocked with trout. The stream provided a steady flow of cold clear water — a healthy habitat for trout. It was the focal point for entertainment at the Purton's.
Every morning before he went to work and every evening when he came home, Tom fed his trout and recorded the quantity of food he fed them. He would then check and record the stream temperature and flow. Several times that summer he asked me to "fish-sit" his trout when he and his wife went out of town. He was very proud of his trout stream and would discuss it at the drop of the slightest hint.
About a week before returning to college I had a flash of inspiration. Taking off work a bit early, I drove out to a private fish hatchery. There I negotiated with the manager, and for twenty dollars, I bought a live, twenty-four inch trout. They loaded it in a milk can and helped me get it into my car. I hurried to the Purton's, needing to get there before Tom came home from his office.
After telling his wife, Peg, what I was up to, I dragged the milk can out of the car and around back to the ponds. It was surprising how much a milk can full of water weighed and how awkward it was to handle. Pouring the water and the big trout out of the can, I saw the fish dive for the bottom. It must have been really spooked because I never saw it again.
I waited all week long but never heard a word about it. Then I had to leave to return to Idaho. What had become of the big trout?
In October, I received a letter from Tom. He wrote that one evening in early September he was feeding his fish when he was startled almost out of his wits. A huge monster flashed to the surface and took all the food. He wasn't sure what he had seen and went inside to think about it. The next morning he steeled himself to make sure his eyes hadn't deceived him — tossing food into the pond, he waited. Sure enough, the monster reappeared and took the food. All day he pondered about what food or environmental condition had caused such exceptional growth. He set about analyzing the water chemistry of the stream, the chemistry and content of the food, and all conditions of the pond. Finally, he shared his secret of the monster trout with Peg, telling her about his analysis and all the studies he was conducting. He wrote that she went along with it for a couple of weeks, and then, rudely, burst his bubble!
I read and reread his letter a number of times, rolling on the floor each time I read it. It was worth the twenty dollars I paid for that big trout.
WHEN I GRADUATED FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF IDAHO IN 1954 I LANDED A JOB WITH GENERAL ELECTRIC. My first assignment was with the Medium Induction Motor Division located in GE's huge sprawling home plant at Schenectady, New York. There was a lot of history of electrical engineering here at the GE "Works". This was where Edison and Steinmetz started GE.
This first assignment was to last three months. It was to test the medium induction motors built in the plant before they were shipped to the customer. The designation "Medium Induction Motors" was a misnomer — these machines ranged in size from fifty horsepower to over two-thousand horsepower. These latter ones looked like big steel boxes ten feet tall. They were being built to drive enormous water pumps at the AES plant at Hanford, Washington.
I lived about a half mile from the main gate of the GE plant. Across the street was the Mohawk River. A plaque on the bridge crossing the river read "Gateway to the West". This was a joke to those of us from the western states until we stopped to realize that the "west" was the Ohio Valley in the early 1700's. The Mohawk River and the Erie Canal, which was built in the early 1800's, were the gateway to Ohio. There was a lot of American history in this area. The GE plant bordered the river, and a part of the Erie Canal and some of the old locks were on the plant property.
The work was fascinating, and I was learning a lot about the industry. I also learned about things like labor relations — and how to start a labor strike.
One day we were running what was called a "hi-pot" test on a large motor. This was a test to make sure the insulation was sound and would withstand the high voltage surges the motor would be exposed to in its normal use. To run this test we subjected it to voltages ten times normal, using a special machine. For this particular motor, that meant 25,000 volts — enough to kill a person. For safety, we placed stands with red lights around the machine and roped it off by stringing a red and white tape between the stands. The red lights flashing meant a "hi-pot" test was going on. No one was allowed to cross the tape barrier.
We had started the "hi-pot" test and the lights were flashing. A worker from another part of the factory came through the big factory door, lifted up the red and white tape and ducked under it. I yelled at him "Hey! You can't go through there." He just yelled back, "Like hell I can't!" With that I simply grabbed his arm and jerked him out of the hi-pot area. Was he ever angry, and he went storming down the factory floor. The next thing I knew, the union had shut the whole plant down and walked off the job. Almost immediately my boss and my boss's boss were right down on the factory floor. They were coming after me to find out what I'd done to cause a general plant walk out. After explaining what had happened, they took off to see the union leader — everyone was back at work on the next shift. Boy, I sure learned just how touchy union workers can be!
The work was interesting and challenging, so I volunteered to stay a second tour of three months. On this second assignment I was in charge of the second shift test program. My hours were from four p.m. 'til midnight, giving me the days free.
In early autumn, when the leaves were starting to turn, and the air was nippy, I decided to explore the fishing in the Mohawk River. One morning, taking a spinning rod, I walked across the bridge and hiked up-river. I stopped at a point opposite the old Erie Canal locks by the GE plant. This stretch of the river had a number of fast riffles, each followed by deeper holding water with a steady current. It looked like it should contain fish.
I tied on a green F4 Flatfish and crimped on two quarter-inch split shoot about a foot and a half above it. This was the same rig I used for trout in the west. The questions were — were there fish here, what kind were they, and would they go for my Flatfish? Casting across into the tail of a riffle, I worked the Flatfish down through the riffle and started across the head of the deeper water below. Part way across I felt a sharp jerk as something smashed the lure. A nice fish jumped several times as it tore across the pool, stripping line from the reel.
After a short scrappy battle, I was able to reel it in. Soon I had a ten inch fish flipping on the end of the line as I brought it up out of the water. I grabbed for the fish — and let out a yelp of pain as something stabbed me in the palm of my hand. Jerking my hand back, I inspected at the fish bouncing around on the end of the line. Now I could see the sharp spines that formed the rays of its dorsal fin. This was my painful introduction to spiny ray fish.
When the fish stopped kicking for a moment, I carefully brought my hand down, folding the Dorsal fin with its spines down as I caught hold of the fish. Admiring the fish in my hand, I looked closely at it. Now I recognized it from my books on fishing — it was a Small Mouth Bass.
This stretch of the Mohawk River held quite a few Small Mouth Bass. I learned to land them by grabbing their lower jaw and lifting them out of the water, avoiding the spines on their dorsal fin.
That first day I also caught my first Walleyed Bass. These fish, with their protruding white eyes, were odd looking compared to the trout I was used to. Their bodies were longer and not as plump as the Small Mouth Bass, but they were larger and put up a real great scrap.
The Mohawk River provided me, a displaced Westerner, with good fishing during my stay in upstate New York.
THE "KING" OF SALT WATER FISH ALONG THE EAST COAST IS THE STRIPED BASS, more commonly just called the "Striper". They are seasonal fish that migrate up the coast from the Carolinas and enter the coastal rivers to spawn. In the Fall of the year, they run along the south coast of Long Island, New York. There they are fished for in the swirling surf from the beaches and jetties along the southern shore. In the Spring, they can be found in Long Island Sound and many of the smaller coves, inlets and bays on the north side of Long Island.
It was the Spring of 1956; I was working for International GE in Manhattan and living in Queens on Long Island. Queens is one of the five boroughs making up New York City. It was too far from the trout waters of upstate New York, so I went angling for local fish found around the city and out on Long Island. I fished for flounder in Jamaica Bay in the city, and in South Oyster Bay and Great South Bay farther east on Long Island. Flounder were fun to catch and darn good eating — I did pretty well. And I tried my hand at "Striper" fishing. The previous Fall I had fished the surf along the south shore for "Stripers" without any luck. Now I heard people were catching some in Little Neck Bay.
The west shore of Little Neck Bay was about a mile north of home. The City-bound Merritt Parkway went right along the west shore of the bay. Once or twice a week I would get up about 3:00 a.m. — make a thermos of hot coffee — put on my suit (yes, I wore a gray flannel suit in those days, but with a bright red tie) — pull my waders and rain gear on over the suit — then take my surf rod and gear and drive down to the bay. There I'd park the car, take my rod and gear and, by flashlight, cross under the Parkway where it was elevated and went down to the shore. I'd rig up a Squid, cast it out as far into the dark bay as I could, and then settle down and wait for a cruising "Striper" to come along and find it.
With this type of fishing, there is not a lot of action — just sitting and waiting. Sitting there, drinking coffee, I listened to the night sounds of the bay. The quiet was broken from time to time by the mournful sound of a ship's horn in the distance, the whooshing sound of the occasional car passing on the Parkway in back of me, and once in a while, was punctuated by the shrill cry of a sea bird — but, mostly silence. It was hard to believe this place was actually New York City. It seemed more like rural America than the world's largest city. Gradually, as the hours passed, the sounds would increase in frequency and volume as the City slowly awakened.
Finally, I'd reel in my line; rinse my hand off in the bay with some lemon juice (to kill the smell of the Squid); walk back to the car; strip off my waders and rain jacket; put my gear away in the back. Then, tighten my tie, adjust my suit, and head for the nearest subway station — time to get to the office. This was the routine.
It was late May, a week or two after my son John was born. I hadn't been fishing for over a month and thought I'd give it a try.
I got up at 3:00, made my coffee, and drove to Little Neck Bay. I fished the rest of the night with no luck. Gradually, it got light, and heavy traffic started to move on the Parkway. About 7:00 I saw the rod tip jerk — was I imagining it? Then it jerked again so I ran to the rod and pulled it out of the sand spike that held it. There was something on the line; I could feel it. Releasing the anti-reverse, I let the line run free for about ten seconds. Then, holding the reel handle, I hauled the tip up and set the hook. That was it — the fish bolted, heading out across the bay, the reel screaming in protest as the line melted away. Finally the initial run stopped, and I was able to turn the fish. I reeled in some of the line, and then the fish tore off again, taking back some of the line I had just recovered.
This kind of see-saw action continued for about fifteen minutes when I realized there was a lot of honking on the Parkway behind me. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the Parkway in the City-bound direction was completely choked — cars had stopped and were watching me. One man rolled down his window, yelling, "What have you got on?" "A 'Striper,' I think," I yelled back. I had created a traffic jam that had totally blocked the Parkway into the City.
About ten minutes later I had the fish on the beach. It was a Striper all right, about two and a half feet long. What a beauty!
To heck with going to the office — I headed straight home. The Striper weighed in at sixteen pounds.
I was late getting to the office. As I walked in, one of the guys yelled across the room, "How big was it?" Word about my fish was all over the office — seemed like half the office got caught in my traffic jam.
IN 1957 I RETURNED TO THE UNIVERSITY OF IDAHO at Moscow and joined the Electrical Engineering faculty as an Instructor. Now I had a little more time than I did when I was a student. This gave me a chance to explore the fishing around that area.
One afternoon in the late Spring, I drove up to Potlatch and then over east a little way beyond the hamlet named Harvard. I wanted to try fishing the Palouse River. The Palouse is a small stream at this point, but it contains some nice Cutthroat.
A little about the Cutthroat trout. They, and the Rainbow, are native to the western side of the Rocky Mountains. Scientifically they're both in the subfamily Salmoninae, but are more closely related to the Pacific Salmon than the to the Atlantic Salmon and Brown Trout. Because of this their subgenus name has been recently changed from Salmo to Oncorhynchus. The Cutthroat's full scientific name is Oncorhynchus Clarki, named after Meriwether Clark of the Lewis and Clark expedition. He was the first to identify them. The Rainbow, by the way, is Oncorhynchus Mykiss. To help you out a bit Oncorhynchus is pronounced On-core-an-cus — more trout trivia.
I fished for an hour or so and had caught a few. Then I decided to cut through a field to get back to my car. It was a field of alfalfa about knee high. As I neared the heavier growth near a ditch, I almost stumbled over a Fawn lying in the grass. It was a tiny little thing, probably not over a day old. It stayed perfectly still — not even twitching an ear. Looking around, I finally spotted the Doe, watching from a wind break of trees about a hundred feet away. Curiosity finally got the better of me — I reached down and touched the Fawn. It let out an ear-piercing bleat like a sheep. I was so startled I jumped back involuntarily — it leaped to its feet and tore off for its mother.
On the streams and in the hills — you never know what you'll encounter. There are always new experiences. Adventures like this are one of the reasons I cherish fishing so much.
SEVERAL
OF US ON THE FACULTY AT IDAHO HAD HEARD ABOUT THE SALMON RIVER BREAKS. It
was remote primitive country and the fishing in the lakes there was reported
to be good. Two of us decided to hike in and give it a try.
We got all of our gear ready and Friday, after teaching our last class, we took off. We stopped at Kamiah to eat. We were hungry and both ordered steaks — were they ever tough! We finally resorted to pulling out our hunting knives to cut them — no shame!
Leaving Kamiah, we drove on through Elk City, and out over the Nez Perce Trail leading east. If we had had the time, we could have followed that trail all the way to Nez Perce Pass and on down to Darby, Montana. That road was rough, one of the worst I'd been on, and we had to drive it slowly. We drove on after dark. Finally, we got to Dry Saddle where the trail started. There we parked the car and rolled out our sleeping bags.
The sleeping bag I was using was an old wool one I'd used as a Boy Scout. This was high country, over a mile high, and I woke up early — freezing. Struggling to get my pants and boots on, I then proceeded to build a fire and get coffee started. Sitting there, in front of the fire, with my sleeping bag wrapped around me, I finally warmed up. Everyone liked to go camping with me because I always "froze out," got up early, and could be depended on to get the fire going and start breakfast.
When it was light, we ate breakfast and started south, down the trail. It was a ridge trail, and we saw a number of lakes off to the left. These included the Trilby Lakes, Spread Point Lake and Saddle Lake. We didn't stop at any of these but pushed on to the Lake Creek Lakes. They were a group of three lakes, seven miles down the trail.
When we finally got there, we set up camp near the largest lake. Rigging up our rods, we split up to fish. I started working around the lake where we were camped. High-mountain lake fishing is always chancy — sometimes they bite like mad and sometimes you get skunked. This was a day of the latter — not one bite.
As I worked my way around the lake, I thought I saw a floating log on the other side of the lake move. I stopped and stared at it. All of a sudden a enormous head came up out of the water. It was a Moose cow deep in the water with only its back showing. It shook the water off by rocking its head from side to side, big ears flapping, sending off a spray that momentarily caught the sun and made a rainbow. What a sight!
Under no circumstances was I going to invade the Moose's territory — I'd met them before — so I kept on the other side of the lake. When it moved, I moved. It would continue to feed, almost completely submerged, for a minute or more — then come up for air, shake itself, sending off that great circle of spray, and go down for another feed. Finally, after feeding for several hours, it left. I enjoyed watching it, but I really didn't want to share the lake with a Moose — they're just too big.
That night I slept better. The altitude was lower and we were off the ridge, so it wasn't so cold. After breakfast, we started fishing again. This time I checked the lake for Moose — there were two feeding there, a cow and her calf. Fishing was good that morning. I caught a dozen Cutthroats. They ran from ten to fifteen inches — nice fish.
About noon we packed up to leave. Just then another Moose joined the other two feeding in the lake. As we hiked back to the car, we checked all of the other lakes we passed. They all had Moose feeding in them. The Salmon River Breaks was certainly Moose country.
PRIEST LAKE, IN NORTHERN IDAHO, WAS NOTED FOR "BLUE BACKS". These
are
small
and-locked Sockeye Salmon. Their scientific name is Oncorhynchus Nerka Nerka.
While teaching Electrical Engineering at the University of Idaho, I was also working on a Masters in EE. I was trying to couple EE with my avocation of fishing. The head of the EE Department and I had worked out an arrangement — I could credit courses taken in the Fisheries Department of the School of Forestry toward my Masters in EE. What fun! The story of the Sockeye's life is from one of those classes.
Sockeye, Oncorhynchus Nerka, always spawn in a stream that empties into a lake. The life of the Sockeye follows a well known cycle. After hatching from its egg, laid in the gravel, the little Sockeye moves downstream into the lake below where it feeds. In the early Summer, as the water temperature in the lake increases, the young Sockeye rises closer and closer to the surface. When it reaches its journey downstream to the ocean. As the water temperatthe surface, it must find the outlet to the lake to continueure continues to warm, if the baby Sockeye has not found the outlet, it must seek cooler water in the depths and spend another year in the lake. The "Blue Backs" or Kokanee, their Indian name, are Sockeye whose life cycle was interrupted in some manner. They have evolved to spend their entire adult life in the lake and not migrate to the sea. Hence their name Oncorhynchus Nerka Nerka — trout trivia. In the lake, they grow to about a foot in length. They're very excellent eating — and are the chief food for big Lake Trout and Rainbows that inhabit the large north Idaho lakes. Fish have one characteristic different from mammals: they continue to grow all of their lives depending on their supply of food. They don't slow down and stop at a certain size as mammals do. Blue Backs are what produced Idaho's Lake Trout and Rainbows.
Blue Backs are caught by trolling. A long line, heavily weighted to get it deep, with a set of "pots and pans" on the end, is pulled at slow speed behind a boat. "Pots and pans" is the local name for a set of spinners about three feet long. A small hook is used because the Blue Back has a small mouth. It is baited with a worm or a kernel of canned corn. With all this gear on the end of the line, it's hard to tell when a fish this small is hooked.
Bill, one of my friends on the faculty at Idaho suggested we go for Blue Backs at Priest Lake. I had never fished for Blue Backs, but I'm always game when it comes to fishing.
We agreed to meet at Farragut State Park on Pend Oreille Lake Saturday morning. I had a VW Bus rigged out as a camper. After teaching my last class, I left Moscow and fished some of the streams on the way up. Keeping enough for breakfast, I drove on up to Farragut, had something to eat and turned in. The bunks I'd built into the bus made sleeping easy — just roll out the sleeping bag and climb in.
The next thing I knew, I was on a fishing boat and was about to wreck on the rocks — then I woke up. It was just daylight and Bill and his wife had found my bus — they were rocking it back and forth.
The trout caught the evening before made a great breakfast for everyone. After savoring the last cup of coffee in the pot we broke camp and headed for Priest Lake.
There we rented a boat and motor. The marina manager told us where and how deep they'd been getting Blue Backs. He said they were biting on both worms and corn.
After rigging up the rods, we headed toward an island where he had suggested we try first. The rod I was using for trolling was my heavy eight-foot surf rod which I'd used for Striped Bass on the east coast. The reel was a large Mitchell salt water spinning reel loaded with ten pound mono-filament.
When we got near the island, we baited the hooks, let out the heavily weighted line with the "pots and pans" and started slowly trolling back and forth in front of it. Other boats were doing the same. No one was having much luck.
After about an hour, I got totally bored with the inaction. Reeling in my line, I took off the set of "pots and pans" and tied on a big Flatfish. It was a size S4 — the biggest Flatfish made. The "S" stood for saltwater and "4" for the size. It was a good six inches long, blue with a silver-white bottom. I had used it casting for Striped Bass on the east coast. Putting a two-ounce sinker about three feet up from the Flatfish, I put it overboard and started trolling. I could feel the action of the Flatfish wiggling from side to side. With luck maybe I'd get some action.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes later that I got a strike. I thought for a moment I had hung up on the bottom, but then the rod bowed and the reel screamed as the fish took off. The fish fought deep, never coming to the surface. It surged back and forth. I could feel it shake its head as it "bulldogged" against the line. It would run and just sulk down deep — I couldn't bring it up. When I tried to pump it up, it responded by taking more line than I had gotten back.
Several boats came around to watch the action. After about a half-hour I gradually started to get some line back. The fish seemed to be coming up directly under the boat. One of the guys leaned over the other side of the boat and peered into the depths. Suddenly he turned around, stretched his arms out and exclaimed with awe, "My gosh, its that big!" "Bull sh—" I thought to myself, "There aren't fish that big in this lake."
Finally the fish moved so it was under my side of the boat and I saw it for the first time, twisting and turning in the depths — it was that big!
One of the boats came over and loaned us a large net and then backed off to watch. After about ten more minutes of it sounding, followed by me pumping it back up, time after time, it finally rolled on its side on the surface. Bill got the net under it and scooped it up and into the boat.
There I got a death grip on it — no way was I going to lose this prize! From the markings, I recognized it was a Lake Trout or Mackinaw. After returning the net, we headed back to the dock at full speed. Safely ashore we weighed it — 36 pounds, and 37 inches long.
What kind of a record did I have? Packing the fish in ice I headed back to Moscow. There I got in touch with the sports editor of the local paper. He said he would get a copy of the fishing records and meet me at the newspaper office with a photographer.
When I got there, he had a book open to Lake Trout. The rod and reel record was some seventy pounds and the record of one caught in a net was over one hundred pounds! Even at that the photographer took a picture, which made the local paper and some other papers around Idaho. Well, I held the season record on Priest Lake for one week — until someone with another big Flatfish caught an even larger one!
I cut the fish into steaks and shared it with members of the EE faculty. The head of the Fisheries Department asked for the head and also took a scale sample. A week later the head of Fisheries showed me the skull. He had taken all the meat off and mounted it on a rod on a pedestal. It made quit a display on his desk. And he showed me an enlargement of one of the scales and interpreted it for me. Reading it was similar to reading the rings on a tree — my fish was twelve years old.
IN 1957 I MADE FREQUENT TRIPS DOWN TO BOISE from Moscow, where I was working at the University. I extensively explored fishing in the Boise River — from "Leaky" Peak Dam to well west of the Boise city limits. I fished every foot of that river. My goal was to find a good spot I could quickly reach and fish — even if I only had a few hours free.
One Sunday afternoon I was fishing a stretch west of the city, down toward Collister. I was casting a yellow F4 Flatfish from the north bank of the river into a deep hole. This particular hole was very deep along the bank on the south side, shaded by a row of Cottonwoods. The north side, where I was standing, shelved up to a shallow sand and gravel bank. A very steep riffle, almost a small water fall, headed the pool. The tail fell into a series of riffles below. It was inviting-looking water.
Suddenly a fish hit my lure hard, ran upstream and jumped. I'd never seen a trout this size in the Boise. It was hard to believe a fish like this lived in this river — the river I grew up on and had fished so much as a boy.
The fish never left the pool but continued a dogged fight, jumping twice, but mostly just moving around the pool at will. With only four- pound test line, I didn't dare horse it. Gradually its runs slowed and after a half-hour or so I was able to bring it into the shallows where I was standing.
It was a monster fish for the Boise — almost two feet long — but different from other large river trout. This one was fat and deep bodied, more like a fish from a lake than a lean river-dweller.
I cleaned it on the spot. Something was strange — its stomach was empty. I'd expected a fish that size would be full, and I'd be able to find what it had been feeding on.
Fishing the hole for another hour or so, didn't produce so much as another strike. It must have been the only fish there. Finally, I quit. I showed the fish around, and everyone admired it. They wanted to know where I caught it, but I wouldn't tell — just mumbled something vague about the Boise. At last I took the fish over to my brother's house and gave it to them to eat.
About a month later I was in Boise on a weekend again and had a chance to try my luck at the same hole. It was late Sunday afternoon before I was able to get away. Creeping up to the hole, I made a cast over to the far bank with the Flatfish. The lure couldn't have gone a foot when a fish smashed it! It was just like the first time — and after a half hour there was a beautiful two-foot rainbow on the bank. Again everyone wanted to know where I caught it — and again I avoided disclosing my secret. This one I also gave to my brother. They enjoyed eating trout.
About three weeks later I was back in Boise for about a week. I slipped away to my "special hole" in the middle of the week. Fished all afternoon, but didn't get one single strike. There was a lot of activity on the far bank. A meat packing plant operated there, and periodically a large volume of water from the plant surged into the hole. I decided this probably spooked any fish in it, so I finally quit.
Every day that week I got out there and fished for a little while — still no luck. Not a single strike, not even the "flash" of a fish striking short. What was wrong?
Finally, Sunday afternoon my luck changed. I hit another big trout — fat like the others and almost two feet long. My "special hole" was still hot!
After cleaning the fish I put it in the cooler in the back of the VW "bug" — I'd take it over to my brother later. The car just didn't sound right. Letting it run, I opened the back to look at the engine. There seemed to be oil on the fan belt. Holding a rag in my hand, I did a real stupid thing — I tried to rub the oil off the moving fan belt with the rag. Before I knew what happened, in a blink, the rag caught in the belt jerking my finger with it under the belt and over the top pulley. Yanking my hand back, I looked at it — the first joint of left index finger was bent back in the exact shape of the "V" grove of the pulley and was white as snow. Then the color started to come back and, My Lord, it ever start to throb!! Getting in the car I drove to St. Alphonses Hospital — they wouldn't help me — drove to St. Luke's — same story. All I could do was just "tough it out" with that finger throbbing like a toothache and having nothing to numb the pain.
Monday, I got a doctor to look at my finger. Luckily, it wasn't broken — just hurt like heck. He said, "Of course you'll lose the fingernail." I never found out why the hospitals wouldn't help — but I surely learned not to touch a moving fan belt!
During the Fall and Winter I was able to hit the hole almost once a month. It would produce a big trout each time — but always on a Sunday. Then, at long last I felt I knew the secret of my "special hole". The meat packing plant on the south side flushed food scraps into the hole several times each day. Above the hole about a quarter to a half mile was the outfall from the city's sewer processing plant. The combination of the two made this hole unique — constant water temperature year around provided by the sewer plant coupled with abundant food from the meat packing plant. This made an ideal habitat for rapid growth of trout. They had the ideal temperature and plenty to eat — except on weekends!
In addition, most big trout are bullies — they drive all smaller fish away, or eat them. After I'd catch one — the only one — another large trout would move up into the hole and proceed to get fat.
I don't think I've ever told my brother the big trout I used to give him came from just below the sewer plant outfall.
IN 1957 A GROUP OF US STARTED TALKING ABOUT FLOATING DOWN SOME OF IDAHO'S RIVERS. We were all on the faculty at Moscow. None of us had run a river before, but it sounded exciting.
After
much discussion, as a group, we all chipped in and bought a surplus Navy
Assault boat in Seattle. It was sixteen feet long, eight feet wide. Un-inflated,
it "weighed a ton" and was totally unmanageable. Later we located a second
Assault Boat at McCall, Idaho. This one was half buried in the sand at Payette
Lakes. After a bit of negotiating, I got it for $100. After bringing it back
to Moscow, we were able to make it seaworthy again. Now we had a "fleet"
of two boats and were ready to tackle the rivers.
From the U.S. Corps of Engineers, we bought "strip maps" of the North Fork of the Clearwater, the Middle Fork of the Salmon, and the main Salmon Rivers. These maps included a topographical map of the area along the river and showed a profile of the river gradient. We spent hours and hours, pouring over these maps, and studying the rapids with names such as Devil's Elbow, fantasizing about what running them would be like. Finally, we decided our "maiden voyage" would be the North Fork of the Clearwater — it was closest and shortest. We figured we could run it over a week-end. We chose the Fourth of July weekend, three days. This would be our initiation — as I said, none of us had done this before.
We planned our food (with plenty of beer and a little soda). We talked someone into shuttling the car and trailer — with the promise of a float trip later that summer — over to the point where Elk Creek came into the North Fork. This is where we would end our float. We decided to use my VW "Bug" — it was good in the mountains with excellent traction, a high clearance and no oil pan for a rock to puncture. As for the boat, we would put it in the trailer along with all our food and gear — we would inflate it later at Pierce. Pierce is the place where gold was first discovered in Idaho in 1860, less than a hundred years before.
After teaching our last classes we met at my place and loaded the trailer. We were a little late getting started but soon were whistling down the Lewiston grade and on up the Clearwater, past Orofino. It was dark when we got to Pierce. Pulling into the only service station in town, we topped up the gas tank in the "Bug" and asked if we could "borrow" some air. It took over fifteen minutes to inflate the big Navy Assault boat — their air tank would run dry, the compressor would kick in, and, gradually more air would go into the boat.
Once inflated, we turned the boat upside down and put it on top of the "Bug". What a sight! The boat was sixteen feet long and eight feet wide — the VW "Bug," fourteen feet long and six feet wide — a one-foot overhang all around the car. From the back it looked like a big, black, rubber boat pulling a trailer — you couldn't see the "Bug" at all.
We took off and got to Bungalow Ranger Station about midnight. Pulling into a campground we rolled out and got a few winks of sleep. After breakfast the next morning, we carried the boat to the river and launched it. All of our gear we had packed in big Army surplus de-lousing bags. They were rubberized canvas, about two and a half feet wide and five feet long; air tight and waterproof. Ideal for river-running.
We had decided we would all paddle rather than rig up oars, so each of us had bought our own paddle. Mine was bright orange — if I dropped it in the river, I wanted to be able to spot it. We controlled the boat by four of us straddling the side tubes, two on each side. The fifth man acted as Captain and stayed in the stern. He would set the direction and call for power from the other four.
We placed a large tarp between the two inflatable seats and packed all the gear in it. Our gear, wrapped in waterproof canvas in this manner and tied in place to the two seats, proved to be completely watertight, even under the worst conditions.
During our planning, we had many lively discussions about what would be the best "outfit" to wear for running a river — each had his own idea. I elected to wear what I had worn surf-fishing for Stripers on the east coast — chest high waders and a rubber pull-over anorak. I was going to stay dry, by gum!
About 9:00 a.m. we were ready and shoved off. We were committed — there were no roads along the North Fork for the next 45 to 50 miles. The only way into the river from this point on was to hike in or on horseback. This was our great exploration — this was before river-running became a popular sport.
The first half-hour showed the folly of my choice of "outfit". With the sun blazing down, I was wetter inside the waders and rubber anorak from sweating than I would have been if I'd said "To heck with it" and worn Jeans and a T-shirt. At the first opportunity, I stripped them off and proceeded to get wet right along with everyone else.
We learned the hard way how to "read" the river and how to work as a team to control the boat. At first, every time we heard white water we pulled into shore and hiked down to scout it. Gradually, we lost some of our timidity and gained confidence in our newly acquired knowledge of rivers.
About four o'clock in the afternoon we came to a boulder field where the river narrowed. Scouting it, we could see three paths through. The river made a sharp turn to the left against a high sheer rock face and narrowed down for about a hundred feet. Then it ran alongside this rock face, gaining speed, and abruptly turned to the right into the boulder field with three narrow channels through it. We would be running blind and not be able to see the best route until the last minute.
After much discussion, we cast off. Our decision had been to hug the rock wall. Down we shot, gaining speed. Swinging around the end of the wall we could immediately see we were in the wrong spot and moving too fast to change our course. The river shot us down into a narrow channel — too narrow for the boat! We wedged between two boulders, and it seemed the entire river just went over the top us.
Though it just seemed longer, it took over half an hour of wrestling with the boat before we finally got free. With the boat filled with water, we wallowed down through the rest of the boulder field into the pool below, and laboriously, paddled across to a sandy beach on the right. We would camp there — exhausted, too "beat" to go on. Anyway the sun was going down, it was cooling off and now we were all wet and cold.
Hauling a big pile of driftwood together, we poured white gas on it, flipped a match in — instant heat! We joked about what our Boy Scout Scoutmasters would have said.
After warming up I took my spinning rod and went back up to the pool just below the rock garden. In fifteen minutes I had a dozen Cutthroat from ten to fifteen inches. Boy, now we would have a meal!
That night I completely relaxed in the total peace I felt, lying on my back in my sleeping bag on the cool soft sand of the bar — listening to the muffled murmur of the river — the explosive pop and snap from the fire, sending sparks flying up into the darkness — the night sky was so crystal clear that the stars seemed to be just above the tree tops. All was peaceful.
The next morning we were up early, as daylight penetrated down into the narrow river valley. After Coffee and breakfast, we quickly reloaded the boat and were on our way.
That
second day we had a better idea of how to handle ourselves and the boat —
we could "read" the river a bit now. And now I could spend some time fishing
as we drifted. I soon developed a technique unique to river-running. In stretches
of fast water there are small eddies or "pockets" along the bank. Casting
a Flatfish into one of these pockets as the boat swept through, it would
stay there only momentarily before the on-rushing boat pulled it out, back
into the fast water of the main channel. Any fish in the pocket had only
a fleeting second to react. Often a fish would hit my Flatfish almost as
soon as it started to move. And many times I would be far downstream before
getting to calm water. Then it was a real challenge to work the fish down
to me through any intervening rapids, particularly if it was a good-sized
one.
The fishing in the North Fork was excellent. This stretch of river was virgin water and I tied into deep-bodied Cutthroat up to twenty inches.
Repeatedly, we would run into schools of five to six inch Rainbows. These fish were voracious feeders — we couldn't keep them off our hooks. They snapped up my Renegade dry flies and readily hit Flatfish much too big to get in their mouths. On later trips we would find these schools farther downstream. I also encountered the same kind of schools on other Idaho rivers. My hunch is they are young Steelhead migrating downstream to the ocean.
About midmorning I was in the front of the boat, completely absorbed in fishing, oblivious to the river — BIG mistake. Suddenly a large boulder, sticking up about two feet out of the water, loomed ahead. The nose of the boat hit it square on. I went over the bow as if I'd been shot from a catapult. The shock of the cold water brought me to the "here and now". My first thought was "How in the h— am I going to swim with my spinning rod in my hand?" I wasn't about to lose it — it was my favorite. The water was extremely turbulent with a lot of foamy stretches full of air bubbles formed by tumbling over, around and under exposed rocks. My life jacket kept me afloat but limited my options of swimming strokes. Staying on my back, with my feet downstream, I fended off rocks as the current swept me down through the rapids. It seemed an eternity, but the current finally swept me into a calm stretch and I swam over to shore.
Looking back upstream, I could see the boat hung up on rocks. Nothing I could do to help, so I climbed out on shore and went on fishing. The guys finally got the boat free and floated down where I was fishing. They accused me of jumping overboard so I wouldn't have to help free the boat — and interrupt my fishing. Needless to say, I learned a lesson — always keep one eye on the river — don't ignore it. One cold swim was a fitting teacher.
We ran all the way to Elk Creek on that first float. It made an easy three-day trip.
We floated the North Fork more than half-a-dozen times that summer, every weekend we could manage. It was a beautiful river, unspoiled, with excellent fishing and with a lot of wildlife.
There was one particularly memorable event on one of these trips. It seems the Governor of Idaho had an annual float trip down the North Fork of the Clearwater — sort of a "wild wilderness party" trip for friends. They put in the river at Canyon Creek Ranger Station, the place which we usually ended. For their trip they used big rubber Pontoons, about twenty feet long, which would hold a large group of people. These "monsters" were really stable boats, and, anyway, there weren't many fast rapids below that point.
Well, this time we pulled out late and it was dark. The boat was lashed down on top of the VW with the trailer in back. I was pulling up the steep, narrow, single-track, dirt road a short distance from the river, the "Bug" growling in low gear, going as fast as it could. Rounding a bend, a big "limo" came roaring down toward us. To my right the hill fell off toward the river. On the left was a ditch and the bare dirt face of the hill which had been cut away to make the road. No way was I going to stop and back this rig down the hill — I just kept boring straight on up, not moving over an inch. The "limo" driver swerved, bounced into the ditch and stopped; I went grinding on past. Only then did I see the flag on the fender and the seal on the door — I'd run the Governor of the State of Idaho right off the road!
Much of the river we ran is gone now in the name of progress, drowned by the backwaters of Dworshak Dam. I always wonder — is the power generated by the dam truly worth the loss of a pristine river such as the North Fork of the Clearwater, and the loss of the Salmon and Steelhead runs it nurtured? I think not.
THE SOUTH FORK OF THE BOISE, ABOVE ARROW ROCK DAM, FLOWS THROUGH A DEEP BACK VOLCANIC BASALT ROCK CANYON. The river in the canyon is inaccessible except at a few spots. It is also noted for abundant Rattlesnakes and has a nickname in some circles of "Rattler Canyon".
To get to the South Fork, you need to drive out of Boise toward Mountain Home. About fifteen miles out there is a dirt road leading northeast toward Prairie. About twenty miles more the road drops off the bench, following a stream, and crosses the South Fork near where the reservoir behind Arrow Rock Dam ends. It then climbs to the top of the canyon on the north side, and parallels the river. There are several spots where side streams come in and eroded the canyon wall forming, steep slides of broken Basalt. These are the only spots at which you can get down to the water. The rest of it is sheer walls of coal black Basalt.
On the drive up that morning I came around a bend, and right in the middle of the road was a big Rattler, basking in the sun. Now I have no love for Rattlers. In those days I carried a loaded .45 automatic under the seat in the car. Pulling over, I stopped, got out with the .45, and walked up to the snake. He responded by quickly coiling and suddenly struck at me as I approached. I jumped back and proceeded to empty the whole clip at him. Didn't hit him once (so much for my "Expert" medal from the Army for firing the .45.) But you've never seen such a "shell-shocked" Rattler in your life! I picked up a big rock and dropped it on him.
The reason I like to fish the South Fork is that it holds a lot of good sized Cutthroat. And there wasn't much fishing pressure on it then — not many people wanted to make the hike down or challenge the Rattlers.
Once down, a rough trail on the north bank allowed limited access up and down stream. The way, both up and down, was eventually blocked by sheer walls of Basalt.
I was using a yellow F4 Flatfish and fishing the far bank. The trout prefer the pockets and eddies formed behind boulders or irregularities in the Basalt wall. Casting into these spots often resulted in a trout hitting the lure immediately after the line tightened, before it had traveled even a foot or so. Many times I would bounce the Flatfish off the sheer wall and it would drop down into such a spot, and a fish would hit it — bang!
After lunch it started to get hot down in the canyon, and the fishing slowed. We "called it quits" and started the hard pull up over the crumbled Basalt. The black rock radiating heat right into our faces as we climbed. This was always the worst part of fishing the South Fork.
On the way back, after crossing the bridge, we followed a stream as the road climbed. This stream ran right alongside the road, so we decided to try fishing it. I was standing on the bank, casting into a pool that looked good to me. Something large, deep in the water, caught my eye. It was about three feet long, gray colored, and moving fast up the stream. My first thought was, "My gosh it's a spawned-out Salmon." It was the right size and had the color of a dying Salmon. It couldn't be — there hadn't been Salmon in the Boise since Arrow Rock Dam had been built. Then it dawned on me — I was fishing in a beaver pond, and that wasn't a fish — it was a Beaver swimming underwater. Air trapped in its fur made it look gray instead of dark brown.
BEAR VALLEY IS THE HEADWATERS OF THE MIDDLE FORK OF THE SALMON RIVER. The valley lies about twenty miles north of Lowman, Idaho. Lowman is on the South Fork of the Payette River. From there you follow Clear Creek north, up a narrow timbered watershed and climb over Clear Creek pass. The road dropped down the timbered north slope to the Bear Valley floor. Bear Valley Creek meanders north through the broad, flat, open grassland of the valley. It's one of the main spawning grounds, or redds, for the Salmon and Steelhead who migrate up "The River of No Return" from the ocean.
My first view of the Middle Fork was in September 1945, from the right seat of a big Waco swept-wing biplane. I had always had a fascination with flying — actually more of an obsession; spending hours dreaming of flying and drawing airplanes when I should have been studying. So when I was fifteen, I started taking flying lessons at the Floating Feather Airport, west of Boise, eventually managing to solo an airplane on my sixteenth birthday. Bill Woods owned the airport. Bill was an veteran "bush pilot" who flew into the back country of Idaho, and also ran the small flying school there. Part of my earnings from my after-school job went toward the cost of flying lessons. And I did odd jobs around the airport to pay for the rest. One of those odd jobs that September was helping Bill load the enormous pile of gear belonging to a group of hunters into his big yellow and black Waco. I was, then, to fly with him to Big Creek, unload all the gear and fly back. It was a excellent chance to see the Middle Fork back country. I was captivated with the unspoiled remoteness of it.
My next introduction to Bear Valley came in 1951 from the top of Red Mountain Lookout. Red Mountain was on the ridge that forms the boundary between the Payette River drainage and the Salmon River drainage. From the lookout, I could see sections of the broad meadows of the valley, and, at night, the lights of cars traveling the old corrugated washboard dirt road through it, far below. Still, it would be another year before I could explore the valley and see, firsthand, those enormous Salmon, spawning.
The summer of 1952, working out of the Bear Valley Ranger Station, I got to see the valley close up. It was June, and a few Salmon were already in the creek. If you walked along the bank and looked closely, you could see these big fish resting in the deeper sections. Frequently, your footsteps would spook them, and they would dart upstream, leaving a large "V" wake in the shallow water.
A single Idaho State Game Warden was responsible for the area from Deadwood River to Bear Valley Creek, including Bull Trout Lake. I had the chance to talk to him several times. He explained he concentrated most of his effort in Bear Valley, protecting the Salmon — in particular trying to "nail" a girl he was sure was poaching.
On one of my visits to Deadwood Lodge, about ten miles above the Deadwood Reservoir, I had a chance to meet this notorious poacher. She was all of thirteen, living with her aunt who was the cook at the lodge. She was indeed poaching, getting at least one Salmon a day from Bear Valley Creek. After talking to her awhile, she confided in me how she did it.
She had an old steel telescope rod with an old cast off reel. She would tie a treble hook directly to the line, reel it in until the hook was at the end of the rod, actually sticking out of the tiptop. She'd then just hook a piece of red cloth onto the hook for "bait". With this rig she would cruise the Bear Valley road on her bicycle, stopping at each bridge and peering under to see whether a Salmon was resting in the shade. When she spotted one, she would stealthily sneak up behind, lower her old rod with the treble hook on the end into the water, and slowly maneuver the tip to a position just under the Salmon`s head. When everything was ready, she'd suddenly jerk the tip upward to snare the big fish in the jaw. If everything was precisely "right", she would have a Salmon on and be in for a big fight. These were big fish, weighing twenty to forty pounds, and she couldn't have weighed more than seventy, soaking wet.
If the Game Warden came along, he couldn't prove a thing — the red cloth was "bait" and he had to catch her in the act. This "cat and mouse" went on all summer. He never caught her.
That year the U.S. Fish and Wildlife had a weir on one branch of Bear Valley Creek. I stopped to visit with the biologists camped there. Their job was to collect fertilized eggs to transplant into the headwaters of the Clearwater River. Every day they would select a number of "ripe" females from the trap with a net, and strip the eggs from them into a bucket of water. Then the biologist would net a male, hold it over the bucket and rub its belly until it sprayed milt into the bucket of eggs, and then stir the mixture to ensure that all the eggs would be fertilized.
At that time there was no road down to where the Middle Fork began. Several of us decided to hike down to Dagger Falls to see the Salmon jump the falls and to fish. It was a pretty good hike down. At the falls, which is really more of a very steep rapid, we could see the big Salmon in the pool below getting ready to make their run up the white water. The falls was a popular place for Salmon fishing, so the Forest Service sent frequent crews down to Dagger Falls to keep the area clean. As a result, the falls and the area around it were unspoiled and beautiful. Me, I was fishing for Cutthroat Trout. Few trout fishermen got down that far, so the fishing pressure was very light and the trout plentiful. The Middle Fork was one of those streams I never forgot.
In 1962 I was working for Boeing in Seattle. At a friend's home I met a Seattle Police Sergeant. Our conversation turned first to fishing, next to river-running. And then he casually mentioned the Forest Service had recently "punched" a road into Dagger Falls, and he was trying to get a group together to run the Middle Fork of the Salmon. Boy, had he struck the right note! He told me he had a Navy Assault boat rigged with a frame and oars and had been running rivers around the Seattle area. Immediately, we started planning a Middle Fork run. The road to Dagger Falls had only been completed in 1959, and permits to run the river were not yet required. We met at his house and set early July for a planned date. There would be five in the party, the Sergeant and his wife, me and mine, and Willie Korf. This was where I first met Willie.
Willie was a top boatman, and he wanted a chance to fish the Middle Fork. He was a very quiet, reserved man, a former Marine who, I believe, had been badly wounded in the war in the Pacific. He made a living making fishing lures. The "Cherry Bobber" and the "Sammy Special," the top Steelhead lures of that time, were his invention. Willie lived alone near the waterfront in the back of the small shop in which he made the lures. He was also an expert at Salmon fishing, consistently winning big fishing tournaments held in the Seattle area.
We decided to take two cars, the Sergeant's large, four-door Chevy pulling a trailer and my VW "Bug" to leave at the pullout point. We planned on taking one day to drive across Washington and the top of Idaho to Missoula, Montana. Then down through Darby, Montana to North Fork, Idaho where the road hits the main Salmon, and down the main Salmon to where the Middle Fork comes in. We would leave my "Bug" there. It would take another day to drive through Stanley and down to Dagger Falls. We'd leave the Chevy with the trailer there. Four days on the river is what we planned. Then we'd run the "Bug" back to Dagger Falls to pick up the Chevy, return to get the boat, and drive back to Seattle. That would take two more days. A week plus both weekends would give us one day as a buffer, a safe margin.
Early Saturday morning, before daybreak, we "took off". We had packed the two cars and the trailer the night before so were ready. I was surprised when the Sergeant, with Willie's help, loaded three spare tires for the car and two spares for the trailer on top of the already full trailer. I'd soon find out why!
We followed behind the Sergeant, with his wife and Willie in the Chevy, pulling the trailer. The trip up over Snoqualmie Pass in the early morning, watching the sun come up, out over central Washington to Ellensburg, was uneventful. Just short of Spokane, Washington the Chevy started weaving, slowed down and pulled over. We pulled the VW in behind the trailer. The Chevy had a flat!
We all pitched in and had the flat changed in a couple of minutes and were back on the road. On through Spokane and over into Idaho, following the St. Maries River into Montana. Just as we crossed the Montana border, the Chevy blew a second tire. We changed that one even faster — we were getting it down to a science.
Willie climbed into the VW with us for a change of pace, and we started off again. Through Missoula and then south down toward the Idaho border. About 2:00 a.m. everyone was getting sleepy. The next town was Darby, Montana. There, in the dark, we pulled into a vacant lot, rolled out some tarps, put our sleeping bags on top, and just crawled in.
The sound of cars and voices woke me. Peering out of my sleeping bag, I was "shook up!" There were cars parking next to us and people walking around, looking at us like we were creatures from outer space — we'd camped in the town parking lot. Pulling our clothes on in our sleeping bags, we piled in the cars and got out of town fast. We stopped at a campground down the road, made breakfast, and laughed about our choice of campsites.
The next flat tire was on the trailer. After changing it, the Sergeant looked around for the local junk yard. He went in and bargained for two used tires for spares — we'd need them before the trip was over. But all of us also figured that the Sergeant's practice of buying second hand tires wasn't always the best policy.
North Fork, Idaho was shown on the map as a town, but there was only a large store and restaurant. Still, we pulled in for a break, it would be our last chance for a while. Getting out of the car we were attacked by dense clouds of buzzing mosquitoes. The owner of the place was out desperately trying to get a fogger going to get them under control. All we could do was dash inside to escape the hungry horde. After a cup of coffee, we headed down the dirt road, leading on down the Salmon River.
The thirty or so mile drive down to the boat ramp below Cramer Creek was uneventful — only one flat. There we parked the VW and hid the key — just in case.
We all crowded into the Chevy and drove back to North Fork. Returning to paved roads was a welcome treat. From there we went on up to Salmon, Idaho and followed the Salmon River through Challis and on up to Stanley. The tops of the Sawtooth and White Cloud Ranges were still covered with snow. Stanley Basin, broad, lush with grass, and nestled under the Sawtooth Range, has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Here we left the paved road and headed northwest up toward Cape Horn and Bull Trout Lake, leaving the main Salmon drainage and crossing over a divide into Bear Valley and the Middle Fork drainage.
I hadn't seen Bear Valley for ten years, but it looked the same. We passed the old burn where I had spent days fighting a forest fire. It had almost completely regrown, and now you had to look closely to detect it. The new road to Dagger Falls was a very narrow, rough, single-track, dirt road, seemed more like just a raw gouge through the forest.
We camped overnight at the small campground the Forest Service was building above Dagger Falls. That evening I walked down to the falls. Sitting on a rock, I watched as huge Salmon leaped forward out of the water, into the air, striking the falling column of water and swimming with all of their might. You'd see some of them surge ahead and disappear into the dark water above. Others would be washed back down into the pool to try again. This sight always fascinated me — I could watch the drama for hours on end.
Bear Valley is high country and cold — we all "froze" that night. The next morning we were up early — sure enough, there was frost on the ground. After a quick breakfast, we unloaded the boat and all the gear from the trailer and then parked it out of the way. We took turns pumping the big assault boat up by hand and carrying the gear down to the pool below the falls. When the boat was inflated, we roped it down the steep bank, over the rocks and brush and into the water. Next, we tied on the frame and lashed in all the gear. After making a last check we were ready — looked ahead and shoved off.
The spring runoff was over, and the river was clear but with a strong current. We soon settled down, relaxed and were all enjoying the float — big mistake!
We could see quite a stretch of river ahead and it appeared level. All of a sudden, without any warning, we were right on top of a sharp drop in the river — Sulfur Creek rapid. It was like the whole river just dropped over a three-foot shelf — all we could do was yell and hang on for dear life. It passed as suddenly as it happened — now all we had to do was bail all the water out.
Willie didn't fish much from the boat, but I did. I was using one of my short "brush" rods. These were short four-foot, two-section light spinning rods with a reasonably stiff backbone. I'd designed them to use in tight spots like along brushy streams and for ease of carrying along trails. Unjointed, the two-foot sections could be hidden almost anywhere in a car; another advantage. It was my hobby to build them, for my own use and for friends who admired them. I didn't realize it then, but loaded with three or four-pound test line as I was using, this type of rig was to become the "in thing" some years later — called an ultralight spinning outfit. To me it wasn't anything special, the short rod was needed and light weight line just allowed me to cast further. And it made a perfect boat rod. With it, I'd flip a Flatfish into every likely pocket of water as we went by.
At that time there were few boats floating the river, and the fishing pressure hadn't developed. We were allowed to keep fish. So the first day I kept enough to have a good fish fry that night.
Later Willie taught me a novel way to cook trout. He kept a large coffee can in his gear. It had a bail on it made of wire. All he'd do is fill it with water, get it boiling in the fire and drop a cleaned trout in — shortly you'd have a nice poached trout. The flavor this way is very delicate and the flesh tender. Try it sometime.
When we stopped for lunch, Willie started fishing. He used a rod about seven feet long with a casting reel. This was the same rig he used for Steelhead. For a lure he used spoons, primarily Dare Devils. I marveled at his skill with a casting reel — he would make a long sweeping cast and very lightly thumb the reel to drop that lure exactly where he wanted it. He was good!
He dropped a Dare Devil clear across the river into a deep channel along the opposite bank. Then, gently thumbing the spool, he skillfully paid out line. Suddenly he reared back on the rod — a Jack Salmon, about twenty inches long, leaped out of the water. I could see why he had the reputation of a top fisherman.
A friendly competition set up between us. In the end, pound for pound, we finished the trip about even. He caught bigger fish. Me — I rationalize that my smaller ones were the ones we always ate.
Willie and I spent a lot of time talking about fishing — and Steelhead. He told me about the Kispiox up in British Columbia and about his annual trips there. After listening to him describe it, I filed it in the back of my mind — I'd go there some day.
Coming around a bend the next morning, we saw a rock wall ahead, saw the river turn left, and could hear the roar of a large rapid. Only then did we see the swinging bridge crossing the river, with people all lined up on it — Pistol Creek Rapid. Afterward we figured those people were "dudes" staying at one of the ranches, and they came down to watch the "fun". We didn't disappoint them!
Pulling in close to the left to avoid getting slammed into the rock wall straight ahead, we hugged the left. Suddenly the current caught us and swept us sharp left, smack into the rock wall on that side. We ricocheted off, spun around, and, full of water, wallowed through into the pool below — amid the cheers of the "dudes" on the swinging bridge above.
That afternoon a large ranch came into view on the right side. This was the Middle Fork Lodge located about a third of the way down the river. As we drifted by, we could see it was a "swanky" place judging by the way people there were dressed. We were a rough, scraggly crew, hadn't shaved in four days, but we pulled in anyway. One of the ranch hands came down, I think to keep us from "infecting" their guests. From him we found out they had a small store and bar over on the down stream edge of the meadow. Tying the boats to a tree, we headed straight for the bar — the only place on the Middle Fork we could buy an ice-cold beer.
There's a pleasant place to camp, called Cox Campground, on the right, about half-way down the river. A hot springs is there — and above the spring, the grave of Whitie Cox. Whitie was in the infantry during WW II. He was developing a placer mine at the spot in 1954 when the ditch he was digging caved in. The grave marker is a military tombstone, and the grave is piled high with elk and deer antlers.
Big Horn sheep lived high up on the mountains on both sides of the river. Frequently, they would come down early in the morning to drink. It was always a thrill to come around a bend in the river and suddenly see them rapidly climbing the rocky hillside as we intruded.
Tappen Falls, considered by many to be the roughest stretch of river, is actually a series of four rapids. We'd been told to run it on the right side, which we did, and that it would be fast — rapidly picking up speed as we entered — white water everywhere — banging into a rock — swirling around in the middle, and ended up going through backward. Boy! We made it without flipping, but I wouldn't want to do it that way again.
Ten miles farther down was Haystack Rapid. Here a group of monstrous boulders, fallen from the steep hillside, had scattered all the way across the river. The boulders created huge "haystacks" of water. We ran a slalom course between them to avoid getting tangled up there. They could be extremely dangerous, and we had to avoid going up and over one.
We spent our last night on the river at Lightning Strike Camp. It's a sandy flat on the left side of the river with a few large Yellow Pine growing on it. After setting up camp, I started exploring the area. One tree had been clawed high up by a Cougar standing on his hind legs, scratching to mark his territory. And around the base of the tree were the unmistakable fresh paw prints of the Cougar. My thought was, "I hope he doesn't take us for intruders." I'll admit I didn't sleep real soundly that night.
While there was frost when we started at Dagger Falls, we were peeling off layers of clothes by the time we got down to the main Salmon — it was hot! The change in altitude was that extreme.
The geology changed in the lower end of the river. Here the river became very deep and narrow, hemmed in by sheer rock walls. The hill sides were steep and rocky, with only sparse vegetation and scattered Yellow Pine — quite a contrast to the heavily-timbered slopes of the upper river, covered with dense stands of Fir and Spruce. Still, fishing was excellent in this stretch.
Finally, around a bend, the main Salmon came into view. There was the road on the far bank — we were back in civilization — the adventure was over. Right lie then and there I vowed I'd run that river again.
THE KISPIOX RIVER IN BRITISH COLUMBIA IS WHERE THE WORLD RECORD RAINBOW TROUT WAS TAKEN. Thirty-six pounds was the world record for Rainbow. This monster was a Steelhead.
A Steelhead is a Rainbow trout that migrates to the ocean. Hatched in a small mountain stream, the Steelhead migrate down to the ocean where they quickly gain size and weight. After several years, when sexually mature, they leave the ocean and follow their "home river" upstream to the same small stream where they were hatched. And there the Steelhead spawns. Unlike the Pacific Salmon, the Steelhead doesn't die after spawning, but drifts back down the river to the ocean again. Some Steelhead survive to make several spawning trips. Scientists still have not been able to differentiate Steelhead from Rainbows which never migrate and remain in the streams and rivers.
When the Steelhead first enter fresh water, they are steely gray — hence their name. As they gradually move up-river, after a time, the red stripe of their youth reappears on their sides.
I'd read about Steelhead, dreamed about Steelhead, fished for Steelhead. I'd fished the Snake, the Clearwater, and the Grande Ronde when I was teaching at the University of Idaho. And I'd fished all the rivers and streams around Seattle after moving there. My score was — one, hooked and lost — but the dream went on.
Then, in 1962, floating the Middle Fork of the Salmon, Willie Korf told me about his annual trips to the Kispiox. He and Sammy Lee, the owner of a Chinese Restaurant close to Willie's shop in Seattle, would go up for about three weeks in September each year. The largest "Steely" Willie had caught was twenty-nine pounds — he was determined to break thirty. I was captivated, and determined to fish the Kispiox. There was just no way I could get away that year, but in 1963 I did.
The Kispiox is a tributary of the Skeena River. It is almost exactly one-thousand miles from Seattle, and is about halfway up British Columbia — farther north than the southern tip of Alaska. That will give some idea of the distance and location.
Packing all the gear I would need for one week in the VW "Bug," with two long rods locked in a rod holder on top, I went to work as usual on Friday. When work was over, I hopped in the car and "took off" north — not stopping until I reached the US-Canadian border crossing at Sumas, Washington. There, while I had to wait, I changed out of my suit into more practical clothes.
The drive up the Fraser River gave one an appreciation of the effort it took to build it. There were a series of tunnels and cuts made through solid rock. But this time I was out to "make tracks" and didn't stop to look at Hell's Gate and other interesting sites. At Lytton, the road turns east and follows the Thompson River up to Cache Creek. Someday I want to fish the Thompson. Stopping at Cache Creek for gas, I also grabbed a bite to eat and was off again.
Somewhere north of Williams Lake, about midnight, I was running along wide open when the headlights suddenly picked up a huge Lynx, walking across the road. He didn't run but just seemed to sidestep the VW as I roared by. I was amazed at the size and grace of the animal — I've never seen anything like it before or since.
A little farther on I couldn't stay awake any longer, so I pulled off to the side of the road. Unrolling my sleeping bag on the right seat, I slid in, tilted the seat back, and slept for an hour or so.
When I woke I was cold, it was about four o'clock in the morning and pitch black. Climbing behind the wheel, I took off again with the gas pedal to the floor. The only thing I really worried about was a Moose wandering on to the road at night — the "Bug" would be no match for one.
The road was heading straight north looking right into the most beautiful display of the aura-borealis I've ever seen. It was fascinating — watching it kept me awake the rest of the night.
At Prince George, I stopped for gas, and then turned west on the new highway to the coast that was being built. I'd have mostly dirt and gravel all the way from there.
I did stop at a bridge crossing the river about ten or twelve miles out of town. Peering over, the bottom of the riverbed was carpeted with the bodies of dead spawned-out Sockeye Salmon. For this they fought their way up the mighty Fraser, past Hell's Gate, over five-hundred miles — to completed their life cycle. I had never seen this sight before and could only marvel at it.
Around Vanderhoof, sixty or so miles from Prince George, was farm country. As I sped along, off to my right, I saw a field of wheat, carefully stacked in sheaves. In my mind I could see old paintings of Europe — I'd never seen grain harvested this way before.
Even though the road was dirt, I was able to keep my speed up — on up through Burns Lake and Smithers to New Hazelton. There, leaving the main road, I turned north up to the village of Kispiox, which is an Indian reservation. It was four in the afternoon; I'd made good time — a thousand miles in twenty-four hours, and a lot of it on gravel and dirt.
The country in that area is different. The mountains ringing the area have glaciers hanging from their sides and tops. Summer is short, and snow comes early. If you're not out of places like the Kispiox by early to mid-October, you run the risk of being there all winter.
Driving around the village to get some idea of what was there, I stumbled across a whole group of totem poles. Some had fallen, others were still standing. All were weathered a sliver gray patina from age — these were old. I'm sorry I didn't carry a camera then.
I stopped to look at the mouth of the Kispiox where it emptied into the Skeena. It was a rocky bar, but I couldn't see a good place to fish it. Turning north, I followed the narrow, dirt road, with the Kispiox on the left side, up-stream for about seven miles. At that point a road branched off left and crossed the river. I followed it about a mile on up the river to a small ranch. This was the fishing camp in which I'd reserved a cabin and would stay for a week.
First, unpack the car; then assemble my rod. I found Willie Korf and asked him how fishing had been and where he'd suggest I try first. Following his direction, I drove up river about a mile, parked the "Bug," walked across a field to the river.
I'd bought several dozen "Sammy Specials" from Willie a month or so before the trip. These would be what I used for lures. The "Sammy Special" is made by first tying a double hook to two-foot length of fifteen pound test leader. Then a piece of fluorescent yarn, usually orange or green, about the length of the hook is tied to the hook eye. Finally an egg shaped piece of Balsa Wood, about a half inch long and painted fluorescent orange, is threaded through the leader, forced over the hook eye and tied in solid, with the yarn flowing back and covering the bend of the hook. It was fished drifting by it close to the bottom. To do this a swivel was tied to the end of your line. Then a short dropper line was tied to the swivel and a few inches of "pencil lead" attached to the dropper by forcing a half inch piece of surgical tubing over the lead and dropper. The "Sammy Special" was then tied to the swivel too and would float up above the lead because of its Balsa Wood body. The idea was to drift it through a stretch of water where you "knew" a Steelhead was resting, and hopefully the fish would "mouth" the lure floating in front of its face.
Wadding in, I started to cross but stumbled in a depression in the bottom. Stopping to study where I was standing, I could see the bottom all around was covered with depressions. It looked almost as if a bulldozer had worked over the streambed. Suddenly it dawned on me, I was standing in the middle of a Salmon spawning ground, or redd. These depressions were created by a big Salmon battering a hollow in the gravely bottom to lay her eggs in and then covering them up after the male fertilized them. I wadded very carefully across.
Below the redd about a hundred feet was a deep run. The Kispiox was no more than fifty feet wide at this point. I tied a fluorescent orange "Sammy Special" to the end of my line. Then I wadded out up to my waist and cast up and across, letting it sink. I could feel the "pencil lead" tap-tap-taping along the bottom as the current carried it through the run.
After about the "hundredth" cast, the lure hung up on the bottom. I swore — tightened the drag on the reel; put my hand over the face of the reel to keep it from slipping; put the rod over my shoulder and started wadding back to shore with the rod over my back to break off the line.
Suddenly, the rod start to buck and kick. I took my hand off the reel and turned around in time to see a monstrous Steelhead surge from the deep bottom of the run up into air higher than my head. I was shocked — I really had a Steelhead on!
It amazed me that such a huge fish could be found in such a small stream. The fish tore up to the shallow redd and jumped, turned and rushed downstream — my reel was screaming all the time as he tore line off at will. He had me, I didn't have him! But he stayed in the hole, sulking on the bottom, then running up and jumping. What a show! Finally, after about a half hour, I had him in the shallows and was able to tail him on shore. My first Steelhead!
Of course my first action was to haul him out, hike back to the car, and drive back to camp. There I just had to show him to Willie and everyone else. We weighed him — nineteen pounds — Boy, a lot of fish! I cleaned him and hung him in the ice house at the camp.
At that point I went back to my cabin, peeled out of my clothes, and crawled into my sleeping bag. I was tired from the drive up — but I was happy — I had what I came for, I actually had a Steelhead!.
The next morning I was up early. Walking down river from the camp, I started fishing with the same fluorescent orange "Sammy Special". About a half mile below camp I tied into another Steelhead. This time I could "feel life" on the line when he first stopped the lure in his mouth. Rearing back, I set the hook — now I was learning. He was a twelve pounder.
Fishing was not always "hot". One day there didn't seem to be any fish in the river. That afternoon, after lunch, Willie and I decided to see whether we could reach the upper waters of the Kispiox by going down the Skeena to Kitwanga and up a road north to Kitwancool. This was about a forty mile trip. We followed the road back almost to Hazelton, but, rather than crossing the Skeena, we stayed on the north side on a road up through the mountains.
Willie knew edible Mushrooms, and we stopped several times to pick ones he saw along the road. He said Sammy really knew how to cook them. He'd let me try some, particularly since I was cooking my own grub.
Kitwanga was a small village with a few painted totem poles standing along the road. There, a road turned north up into the mountains. We followed it. About fifteen miles up, we came to the village of Kitwancool.
On the way up, Willie told me the story. Kitwancool was known as the "forbidden village" — the Indians didn't want white men in there at all. Several years before, two game wardens parked their truck about ten miles up the road we were traveling. Then they hiked on up to Kitwanga Lake along the stream. They were checking for and destroying illegal fish traps. When they got back to their truck, they found all four tires slashed with an axe, and the Chief of the tribe sitting on the hood with a rifle in his arms. He didn't say a word, just pointed down the road. The game wardens hiked out and got the Mounties to come back with them to retrieve the truck. But the Mounties refused to go into the village of Kitwancool — it was forbidden.
We drove slowly through Kitwancool. There was the largest group of standing totem poles I've ever seen. Most were painted and in good repair. It may have been only my imagination, but it seemed everyone glared at us as we drove through the village — I was very uncomfortable.
We weren't able to find a route down to the upper Kispiox, but the trip was worth the effort.
Another day, when the fishing was slow, I decided to drive up to see the Babine River where it flows into the Skeena. I had read stories about Babine Lake and the river that flows out of it for fifty or sixty miles without even a trail along it. Going back to New Hazelton, the map showed an unimproved road following the east bank of the Skeena up about thirty miles or so to the Indian village of Kisgegas. I decided to try it — Boy, when the Canadian map says "unimproved" they mean it. The VW "Bug" can get to places only a jeep will go, but it took everything it had to get over that road. Finally I got to the village, but the bridge wouldn't hold a car. The Babine, at that point, is a deep narrow river with large rocks forming the bank. I fished for a while for Steelhead without any luck, but I did catch a couple of trout for breakfast. Some day I'd like to float the Babine.
The whole trip was great and it was one I'll always remember fondly, for I finally changed my luck with Steelhead. That first trip I got three nice Steelhead. I made the trip two more times while living in Seattle, and I want to go back — I want to break nineteen pounds.
THE BEAUTY
OF BELLAS LAKE IN COPPER BASIN IS ALWAYS IN THE BACK OF MY MIND. Bellas is
a high mountain lake nestled at the top of Bellas canyon — the high,
sheer walls of the Pioneer Mountains ridge line, with peaks at over 11,000
feet, almost surrounding it. I wanted to see that country again, to fish
the lake once more, and to see if the Golden Trout were still there. The
nagging question was, "Could I still make the hike into the lake?" Copper
Basin was at 8,000 feet, and the lake about 10,000 — was I still up
to the four mile uphill climb into the lake?
After I described the lake to Carol, my wife, she agreed to hike in with me. We took a vacation from late June through the middle of July. Our travels took us through Butte, Glacier Park, and the Yaak. Finally, we found ourselves again at Ketchum and stayed there rather than camp at the mouth of Bellas Canyon. Up at 6:00, it was cold — 38 degrees. We found an open restaurant, had breakfast, and were on our way by 7:00.
The early morning drive to Copper Basin was something special in its own right. The road up to the Trail Creek summit follows the creek straight into the rising morning sun, past a whole series of Beaver ponds. Then the pavement runs out — a rough dirt road angles up, at a constant grade, up the steep south side of the narrow valley to the top of the Trail Creek Summit. At this early hour, this section of the road is still in shadow with the early sun lighting the mountain peaks on the other side of the narrow valley. There are streams formed by the melting snow pack, high on the ridge, cascading down the mountain sides, making a white gash in the dark green of the forest. We were early enough to have no other traffic on the road, so we could enjoy the view by ourselves.
Over the summit, the road follows down the headwaters of the Big Lost River. It is a small stream full of Beaver ponds that, in the past, provided some good fishing. That day we didn't stop but continued down the broad valley, with a rugged range of mountains bordering the south side. Some of the peaks have picturesque names such as "Devils Bedstead". The valley we were traveling through was broad and open, covered with sage brush with only the contrast of bright green Willows marking the route of the meandering stream. It is almost like this valley was created solely to point to Mount Borah, Idaho's tallest point. We drive, with that rugged barren granite peak always framed in our windshield.
We continued down to where the East Fork comes in, and then followed it up to Copper Basin. On up the narrow East Fork valley five or six miles, the basin suddenly opened up. It was a broad rolling basin, about ten miles in diameter, covered with sage brush and ringed with timbered mountains on three sides and a barren range of mountains on the north. The East Fork continued on east and Star Hope Creek joined it from the south. They were both fringed with willows and dotted with Beaver ponds. We took the road on the west side of the basin, following up Star Hope Creek past the summer cow camp, which now appeared to be a dude ranch.
Suddenly on the right, about a hundred feet off the road, we saw four Antelope — a buck, a doe, and two kids. We stopped to watch. They just stood staring at us with curiosity for a minute, and then the doe and kids trotted up over the top of the rise, followed by the buck a few moments later. I recalled that years ago I had run into a large herd of Antelope who made the basin their home. Seeing sights such as this is what makes traveling the back roads fun.
After another mile, a sign pointed to Bellas Canyon on the right. A faint road through the sage brush led up about a quarter of a mile to a camp at the trail head. This was the same spot I camped in 1958, the first time I hiked into the lakes. On that trip I spent a good bit of time fishing the Beaver ponds that "stair stepped" Star Hope Creek then. The ponds, filled with Cutthroat from eight to twelve inches, providing great fishing. There were still beaver ponds in the creek, but we skipped them this time. We parked the car and loaded our lunch into Carol's day pack. I got the fishing gear together, and we started the climb. The air held a chill from the high altitude, and the cloudless sky was a clear, deep blue.
The trail led up through a Bull Pine, Fir and Spruce forest, broken from time to time with open meadows. The meadows held large patches of green Skunk Cabbage, disclosing the location of hidden springs. There were also fields of blue Larkspur and patches of red Indian Paint Brush. Scattered Camas plants, with their blue blossoms, were in bloom in some of the meadows. In the forest there were wild Current bushes and Huckleberry bushes, but none were even in bloom yet.
The trail, climbing steadily, followed the creek for about three miles, crossing it once. As we climbed, we were following the tracks of horses. This was how the last group of people got in and out of the lake — we were envious — by gosh, next time....
I vividly remembered that first time I hiked into this area. After several miles I was plodding along in that completely mesmerized state a hiker drifts into — head down, hunched over to balance the heavy pack, one foot in front of the other — plod.. plod.. plod.. — with a constant rhythm and in a pace to eat up the miles. An ear splitting blast and physical concussion of an explosion had jarred me out of that state and I had hit the dirt, and huddled in the middle of the trail. My first thought had been an artillery shell had hit the hill just above, "What's someone shooting at me for?" Only then had I recognized the unmistakable thunder of a sonic boom as the sound rumbled, rattled and echoed on down through the mountains. I had sheepishly shaken my head, got up, dusted myself off, and started up the trail again.
After about three miles the trail again crossed the creek, but this time went straight up the steep grade for more than a quarter of a mile before angling across the slope. Now I remembered, this sheer pitch was the hardest part of the climb into the lake — each step was torture for lungs used to sea level. We were now nearing the top, and the timber changed to stunted Fir and twisted Limber Pine. Years ago I had tied the flexible limbs of several Limber Pine into knots. I looked for them, but couldn't find them — maybe someone untied them. As we climbed there appeared to be a space ahead — was it the lake? When we could finally see though the trees, we saw it was only another meadow, with the trail marching through it. Could the lake have dried up? On we wearily trudged.
The forest grew a bit denser and the trail leveled off. Then through the trees we saw water — Bellas Lake, at long last. It had taken us two hours to climb the four miles up to the lake.
It was the jewel of a high-mountain lake, just as I had remembered — round, 500 to 600 feet across. The outlet was on the south-east side, being the source of the stream we had followed. There were two main inlets, one on the south-west side and one on the north. They were steady-flowing streams forming sandbars a short distance into the lake at the edge. Both streams provided a certain amount of natural spawning area for resident trout. The lake was deep, dropping off to a five to ten foot depth just off from the shore, and then slopping on down. The shore was lined with large boulders most of the way around the lake.
A large flat boulder, to the left of the outlet, jutted out into the lake. I started fishing from it. Looking down, I could see a number of trout cruising the shoreline. Gradually, I worked my way around the lake, fishing as I went.
Standing on a boulder fishing, I kept hearing splashing to my left. It seemed to come from under the roots of a tree on the edge of the lake. I couldn't see exactly where the sound was coming from but assumed it was a fish, feeding. I made another cast out into the lake. Suddenly something gray, three to four feet long, swam underwater out from shore. It looked like a large gray fish. Then I realized it was a Beaver, and it had been hiding under the roots of the tree. The brown fur appeared gray because of the thousands of small bubbles trapped among the hairs of its fur. It surfaced about a hundred feet out in the lake and swam back toward shore. Then, dove one more time, and I didn't see it again. The beaver must have dug its lodge into the bank along the shore, reached from an underwater hole. Now I understood, the Willow branches I kept seeing under the water, white and stripped of bark, were the work of the beaver — it was what he had been feeding on.
I continued fishing on around the lake, and caught and released a number of Cutthroat, ranging from about nine to twelve inches — hooked into a dozen more but lost them.
Years ago, on one of my trips to Bellas Lake, after catching my limit of Goldens, I met the Game Warden on my drive out of Copper Basin. We talked about fishing in the area, and he told me he had recently planted Cutthroat in the lake. I felt sick at the news! I blew my top! I read him the riot-act! In no uncertain terms I told him he had just ruined the best kept secret in Idaho and the best lake for Goldens in the whole damn state, I was so angry I didn't pull any punches.
Some of the fish in the lake appeared to be a lighter color than others. These, I believe, were Goldens, and some of the original fish were able to spawn and continue their race. They were pretty smart — I wasn't able to catch any of them. I did leave a bunch of "educated" Cutthroat behind — they wouldn't be so easy to hook next time.
Trout kept rising all over the lake, but I wasn't able to determine just what they were feeding on. They surely rejected the Renegade dry fly I offered. Large ones would come to the surface and then turn away, spurning it. I would have liked to spend several days camping at the lake, and determine just what they would take.
We leisurely ate the lunch we had packed in, enjoying the serenity of the lake and the setting with the bare granite slopes as a backdrop. After a few more casts, we packed up and started back down the trail. Going downhill wasn't as hard on our lungs as coming up but was harder on our legs. It took us about an hour and three-quarters to get back down. We were surprised how long it took; we thought it would be much faster. Boy, were we glad to see the car at long last!
The adventure was worth it, but Carol and I both agreed — next time we would ride horses up and have all of our gear packed in. That would be the way to go!!
AN EDUCATION IN ENGINEERING WAS AN ASSET when it came to fishing — I understood stresses placed on a rod which helped me when I built my own; and trajectories of a lure when casting (at least I understood why my casts were off the mark.) But I switched professions — to Data Processing. How much help could that ever be?
In 1991 I had the foresight (Pure Dumb Luck) to subscribe to Prodigy. Prodigy is a computer network extending all over the Unite States. Using a Personal Computer you can get on to the network by dialing into an "access point" which is another computer, usually in your own town — so no big bill for long distance toll charges is run up. Once on the network you can write messages and post them on a number of different "bulletin boards" for everyone to read and answer if they choose. You also have a private "mail box" for Electronic mail or E-mail.
In August we were planning a trip to Denver. Over the years I'd read a lot about the South Platte near Denver and had always wanted to fish it. Now was my chance, but I really knew nothing about it — how to get there, what the regulations were, what to fish with — I really knew absolutely nothing. So, almost in desperation, I put a note on one of the Prodigy bulletin boards asking if there was anyone out there who'd fished the South Platte and could tell me something about it.
Several days later, much to my surprise, there was a note on the bulletin board answering mine. It was from a gentleman in Englewood, Colorado. He wrote that the South Platte was one of his favorite streams and told me quite a bit about it. He went on to say to "write" him when I knew the exact date we'd be coming and where we'd be staying and he'd give me more information.
About a week before we were to leave I sent a note to his E-mail box. In a few days he replied back to my box. He gave directions how to drive to the South Platte from the airport where we'd be staying, along with directions to a fishing tackle store for the "right" flies and who to ask for there that could help the most. He also warned me that the browns in the South Platte were "well educated" and would humble most fishermen.
The weather was a big concern this time of year at the higher elevations. Using Prodigy, I daily checked the Denver weather. It continued cold, rainy and with snow flurries. The nagging questions — was I going to be able to fish?
We took the "red eye" (the night flight) out of Honolulu and were in Denver the next morning — "beat" but wide awake. After checking into the motel we rented a car; following the directions we were soon at the sporting goods store my Prodigy friend recommended. There I found the gentlemen he'd recommended, who turned out to be the owner of the shop and who taught a fly fishing school on the South Platte. I left with a good supply of flies, and much welcome advice.
But the weather was still cold, rainy and unsettled.
Early the next morning I looked out and the sun was shinning, a beautiful day — I was off. Carol had to stay and attend a seminar which was the real reason for the trip to begin with — I was just along to carry her bags (and sneak in a fishing trip.) The drive down to the South Platte near Deckers was through interesting country and over well paved roads most of the way. Finally, at the bottom of a steep grade, I was at the South Platte. Stopping along the road, I got out and took a good look at the river I'd read so much about. It looked like good trout water, not a big river but with well defined holes and riffles. At Deckers I followed the dirt road up the left side of the river about a mile.
Parking the car on the shoulder of the road, I got out to survey the stream. There seemed to be "thousands" of trout rising in the short stretch I could see. With nervous fingers I assembled the fly rod, strung the line and tied on one of the special flies I'd purchased the day before. Casting out into the riffle I could see a number of trout inspect it but then go back to their lies. I worked that stretch for almost an hour — they'd follow and some times seem to take my fly, several times I felt one hit but I couldn't connect. Finally I hooked one solidly and after several minutes I had a beautiful brown trout, about twelve to thirteen inches in my hand. After admiring him for a few seconds I let him go — at least I'd caught one.
That was the way the morning went. I felt that a "thousand" trout looked at my flies, a "hundred" hit it — and I landed three. They were beauties.
About noon I was getting hungry so I drove down to Deckers. The restaurant at Deckers was different. Inside it was quite dark and I sat down at the bar for lunch. There was a Mexican wearing a sombrero sitting at the end of the bar. I knew a lot of Mexicans had settled in that area of Colorado so I didn't pay too much attention to him. After awhile it dawned on me, he hadn't even so much as twitched. Sneaking a closer look out of the corner of my eye I realized I'd been duped — he was a dummy; and there was an old woman sitting on top of the piano; also a dummy.
I ordered a bowl of homemade mushroom soup. It was excellent; taste reminded me of the soup my mother made when I was a kid. Paying my bill, I complimented the manager on the soup and said that I thought the Mexican at the bar needed another drink. She laughed.
My friend from Prodigy was right — the trout in the South Platte were "educated" and I'd certainly been humbled by them. But it had been well worth it and made possible only through modern technology.
Back in Honolulu I was on Prodigy one evening reading notes on a bulletin board about fly fishing. One note described a dry fly named the "Usual". The author of the note said it was made from the bottom foot hair of a Snowshoe Rabbit, and was supposed to be an extremely good floater. This struck a cord, I always had a problem keeping dry flies up and floating. His note went on to say he was trying to find a source for Snowshoe Rabbit feet and would post it on the board if he found one. I sent him a E-mail note saying I was very interested and asked where I could find tying instructions.
He replied and told me which issue of Fly Fisherman it was in. Looking through my back issues I finally found it and read the tying instructions. He posted a note on the bulletin board of the address where we could obtain Snowshoe Rabbit feet and sent me a note that if I'd give him my home address he'd mail me a foot.
Several weeks later a bulky envelope arrived from South Bend, Indiana — it contained a Snowshoe Rabbit foot as promised.
The second week in November we flew to Idaho to surprise two grandchildren on their birthdays, and to see our middle son and his family in Utah.
There in Twin Falls, Idaho, armed with the tying instructions and the Snowshoe Rabbit foot, I sought out an old professional fly tier my son had located. He read the instructions, took my Rabbit foot and taught me how to tie the "Usual". He explained it was a simple fly to tie except for dubbing the fur for the body, the fur is quite stiff and crinkly. The finished fly looked very much like the picture in the magazine. He wouldn't take any pay for his efforts so I left him a Xeroxed copy of the instructions out of the magazine.
The proof, of course, had to be in the fishing. Later that week the weather, which had been cold and rainy, improved and I got a chance to get out to Niagara Springs on the Snake River.
Niagara Springs is one of my favorite spots and it's a place that always amazes me. It's in the Snake River canyon west of Twin Falls about 10 miles. The spring, which emerges from the sheer Basalt wall of the canyon as a full born river, is where the Big Lost River reemerges after sinking into the lava rock of the desert plains maybe 50 miles to the north-east. The temperature is a constant 50 degrees. There are a lot of trout there and it makes a good late season or winter spot.
I cast to the head of the first pool. The "Usual" bounced along in the current almost like a piece of cork and was easy to see. A silver shape emerged from along side a boulder, flashed up and I was on to a scrappy rainbow on the first cast.
All in all I caught six good sized rainbows eight to ten inches before I lost the fly in a Cottonwood on a careless back cast. There wasn't a hatch of insects that I could see, so it wasn't matching anything the trout were feeding on at the time — it just looked "buggy" like something edible. The only problem I had was small fry, about three inches long, hitting the fly and "drowning" it. Still, it was easy to refloat, normally just give it a twitch and up it popped. It floated better than any fly I've ever used.
After losing my "Usual" I switched to my old favorite the Renegade — didn't get a bite. The fly was as good as my friend from South Bend said, even though he didn't really think it would work very well this late in the season.
The "Usual" worked like a charm. I was impressed! Now I'll tie some up some for next summer, I think it beats my Renegade.
It is apparent that with modern technology such as Prodigy I've added a whole new dimension to fishing — and opened up avenues that we couldn't even dream about a few years ago. This chapter has just begun. . . .
Fishing is a life-long education;you never finish learning about your craft. The basis, of course, is:
Ichthyology — the study of each fish, their life cycle, feeding habits, and needs for water purity, temperature and oxygen.
Other facets of your education include:
Conservation — for without it there will be no fish.
Hydraulics — to understand why a river or stream develops the shape it has and to "read" what is under the surface from clues on the surface
Entomology — provides some insight into what a fish feeds on.
Rod building — this knowledge and skill helps one craft a better tool for their particular use and is almost a necessity for repairing damaged gear in the field.
Fly tying — needed to devise new offerings (and nice way to spend non-fishing hours.)
— and now —
Computer telecommunications — to "talk" to other fishermen and exchange "educations".
I'm sure its obvious — my overwhelming preference is stream fishing. I enjoy wandering up or down a stream, to see what I'll find around the next bend. What the next hole will be like and will it hold a large trout. What kind of wildlife will I find there. It's the anticipation. I don't really care much for boat fishing — I get restless and bored with the inaction.
The ethic of "catch and release" is not a modern concept, and it is not just the result of forces from a single group of anglers. For me it developed gradually and quite simplistically. It was, first, "Why waste fish if no one wants to eat them." And then came the gradual realization — I just love to fish. I love the challenge and the anticipation of what the day will bring, of what I will see and learn.
I can't say that the patience and perseverance a fisherman develops are transferable to other endeavors — sometimes I'm sure they are not — but fishing provides a relaxation and change of pace so needed to balance any pursuit.
One trait fishermen develop that I feel is transferable is the etiquette of fishing. It is very simply based on the universal precept "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". Be sensitive to other fishermen — don't disturb them or the water they are fishing. If someone is already fishing a hole, don't barge in — wait your turn, or go up or down stream to another hole. And don't litter a stream — boxes, paper, tangled line and all the other rubbish; put it in your pocket or fishing vest and take it with you. What I'm trying to say is, think — would you like that? Let that thought guide your actions — remember; courtesy and manners. And you're there to relax, to enjoy yourself and to take the time to "smell the roses".
My conversion to using only artificial lures developed for two totally different reasons. First, I just don't like the mess of bait — period! I don't like the feel; I don't like the smell; I don't like the hassle of keeping it fresh — that's my own bias. In my opinion there are few places for bait — one exception would be for helping a child first learn the thrill of a strike.
My second reason for using artificials sprang from my own observations and my own empirical data. A fish swallows bait — that's the purpose for which bait is intended. Fish usually swallow it deep before one feels the fish and sets the hook. It's then difficult to get the hook out without doing major harm to the fish. The harm comes from having to hold a thrashing fish tightly while trying to remove a hook deep in its throat, or from the hook's tearing delicate tissue as it's being removed. With lures, such as the Flatfish, and with flies, the fish is hooked in the jaw, usually on the side. The hook, then, is much more easily removed, often without even touching the fish. My conclusion, as I gradually observed this from experience was — the mortality rate using artificials had to be much less than with bait — this was obvious. Years later I read the results of studies, such as one done on Yellowstone Lake, confirming my conclusion.
And from that conclusion I gradually accepted the practice of flattening the barb down. Using barbless hooks doesn't change the number of fish I land, and releasing the fish is much easier.
Not everything a man does can he be proud of. Fishing the hole below the dam at Deadwood was wrong. I knew it then and I'm not comfortable about it now. Still — I did it. If asked today if I'd repeat it, no — the "nagging" feeling is not worth it — and this statement in no way atones for it. My advice is, obey the regulations. You may not always understand them but the Wildlife people are trying to make a difference.
Dreams add a bouquet to life, and I have my dreams of fishing. I want to return to the British Columbia and the Skeena to fish the Kispiox for Steelhead and try the Babine. Alaska is a must — Grayling and Arctic Char — these are trout relatives I've yet to catch, in addition to the big trout and mighty salmon found there. Stories of New Zealand have been in magazines since I was a little boy, and I've always dreamed of sight fishing for those enormous trout. The Boca of the Chimehuin in Argentina is high on my list, as well as other waters in that area. Some day I hope to get to Russia and fish rivers in places like the Kola Peninsula for the noble Salar (the Atlantic Salmon). And to Siberia for Taimen, another close relative of my favorite Cutthroat. These are my dreams.
Bob Graham