Cast From the Past: Grande Ronde, September, 2008

I was thinking today about Steelhead I have known, and took the time to look up this trip report from my old blog. I haven't made it back to the local river for awhile, and it was fun to take a whole trip to the Ronde again without ever getting cold.


That was a good trip. Those were special Steelhead. I thought you, too, might enjoy this cast from the past. 


Serendipitous Convergence

I strayed away from home waters for a few days to fish for steelhead in the Grande Ronde, a beautiful little river in the extreme southeast corner of Washington.  My brother John and his co-worker Craig were going to come from the Fly Fishing Show in Denver, where they manned the HMH booth, to try for some western steelhead before heading back to Maine.

I left home early Wednesday morning.  Six hours later I pulled into the parking lot at Boggan’s Oasis, a restaurant and motel right on the river, where I was to check for a message from John.  The name is to be pronounced "bo-GAN’s"–very elegant–though John says the accomodations have a ways to go to achieve anything approaching elegance.  Still, the place has become one of those legendary locations in the fly fishing world because of the September and October steelhead season that draws fishers from all over the country.

I didn’t find a message, but the guy said, "Oh yeah. They’re here. Two guys from Maine?  Yeah, they’ll be down in a minute."  (There are no stairs.  "Down" means down the hill from where the cabins are located.)  So, 15 minutes later we were making a plan.  They had tried a stretch near the motel that morning without any luck, and were ready to try the run at the end of Shumaker Road, one of the few roads that get you to the river.  So they took off in their brand new rented Jeep and I followed in the van.

Now, there are three notable natural wonders between Spokane and the Oregon line.  One is the high rolling grassland now mostly covered with vast acres of wheat.  Another is the Snake River gorge, a massive declivity that takes an hour to drive down one side and up the other.  The third is the Grande Ronde gorge.  The Grande Ronde is a smaller river than the Snake, but it has a gorge that rivals it.  The few roads that descend to the river look like spaghetti on the maps.  The main road in is Hwy 129, and at the brink of the descent a road sign warned: "25 MPH, Next 13 Miles."

So, having just made the descent, I now turned around and ascended with John and Craig.  It wasn’t bad.  Pavement.  Road signs.  Guard rails.  Once on top we cut east on a gravel road, merged with a blacktop road, and then turned south on Shumaker Road.

Shumaker Road starts out as a nicely maintained gravel road.  But then it has to go all the way down to the bottom of this:

No pavement.  No warning signs.  No guard rails.  Just a steep, dusty grade and one hairpin turn after another.  Local lore says you don’t want to be down there when it starts to rain, because you’ll never get out on the slick, muddy road.  Or you’ll die trying.  Of course they may spread that story to keep the outsiders away on those rainy days when the fishing is best.  But, having driven that road, I tend to believe the lore.

Once we got down we were in another world.  Let the pictures speak for themselves.

We all fished, swinging a variety of flies through the riffles and glides and runs.  John got a good take, but no hookup.  At the end of the day the only fish we had caught were little Smallmouths:

I had made the decision by dusk to make my home away from home right there.  I wanted to try those runs again.  And we seemed to be in the pleasant throes of a stalled fair weather system: warm temps and clear skies, with no threat of rain until Saturday.  Meanwhile, John and Craig had decided to head for Idaho and the Clearwater River the next day.  They had heard it was doing well.  So when they had packed up for the climb out and we had said our goodbyes, I set up camp.

There was one other camper a distance downriver from me, but the light in his big tent went out at 8 PM, so it was just me, the river, the canyon, the crickets, the hills, and the stars.  I sat there for a long time and watched the light from the rising moon, hidden behind a mountain at my back, slowly transform the skyscape.

I got up early, made coffee, and got ready to fish.

It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was lighting the world outside the canyon as I waded into the run at 8 AM.

It was cool in the shade, but I was comfortable without a jacket.  I was hoping cooler water temperatures might get the steelhead on the bite.  I had seen many of these stone fly shucks on the rocks along the river:

So I tied on a Sparkle Stone Fly and went to work.  And it is work, compared to float tubing or canoing a lake.  Here you start at the head of a run, wade out into the fast current trying to keep your footing on the rocky bottom, cast across and downstream, let the fly swing in the current, take two steps downstream and do it again.  On the second or third cast I caught a fish, but not what I was after:

I took it as a good sign.  As it turned out to be.  I hooked a steelhead.  It felt at first like the little Smallmouths, just a couple of taps, so I was surprised when it jumped and showed me its slab sides and red stripe.  But by then it was off the hook.  So I waded out of the river, went back to the head of the run, and started again with high hopes.

This time the take was unmistakable.  He jumped, ran, jumped again.  I had waded into the shallows and was gradually working him in.  But the first time he saw me–I swear I could see his eyes get wide–he took a big leap and made his longest run yet.  But eventually I had him in the shallows and then up on the rocks.  Even as I tried to take his picture he thrashed and flopped, stirring up the silt on the rocks.  But ain’t he beautiful?

I went back in and hooked another one.  This one fought much like the first one had, jumps and runs.  By the time I finally got him up on the rocks the sun was on that stretch of water.  Makes an even prettier picture.

I also took a closeup of this one.  I think I tied this fly a long time ago, not knowing when I would ever use it, and certainly never imagining that it would result in this.

So I went out again and hooked another one.  This is where the story gets sad.  What a fish this was.  He was on for a long time.  My hand went to sleep.  My arm shook.  My back ached.  He never jumped, though he came up and swirled and porpoised.  Mostly he ran and shook that fly.  I had him close a couple times, close enough to see the distance between his dorsal and tail, his dorsal and head, close enough to see that tail as big as my hand, close enough to know he would have gone 3 feet at least.  A beautiful fish.  I think I will always have the image in my mind of that long grey-green sunlit shape holding in the current so tantalizingly close.  And also of the fly popping straight out of the water as it somehow came unhooked.

All of that in the space of an hour.

Now I wish I had gone right back for another pass through that run.  But then I was deflated and ready for a break.  I went back to camp, shaking my head every few steps, mumbling to myself, even chuckling in perplexity and admiration.  I made some lunch, sat in my chair in the shade and dozed, and then went back out.

Nothing.  Too hot by then, I suppose.  But lastnight, sitting in the starlight, watching it merge with the moonlight flowing over the mountain, I was hopeful, and eager to see what a new morning would bring.

I got on the water by 6:30 AM and worked hard all morning, but never had a bump.  So I decided to pack up and come on home.  I am very happy with the gift of those two fish, and, I can say, especially with the gift of that beautiful fish that got away.  What a privilege to have been able to have him on my line that long.  As someone has already observed, the fish that are the most memorable are the ones we almost caught.

Maybe that’s because they are the image of perfection just out of reach, and as such have a lasting power to motivate, to shape our desires.  Maybe it’s because they are the image of pure possibility: not this time, but next time…or the next….  I know this: I will go out again to cast my lot with possibility, to seek another connection with these beautiful fish.  And it’s all because of that grey-green shape that swam all the way from the Pacific, up the Columbia, up the Snake, into the Grande Ronde, and by some serendipitous convergence made connection with me; and is still holding in the current, strong and undefeated, somewhere deep within me.

"Broom," by Jim Harrison

To remember you're alive
visit the cemetery of your father
at noon after you've made love
and are still wrapped in a mammalian
odor that you are forced to cherish.
Under each stone is someone's inevitable
surprise, the unexpected death
of their biology that struggled hard, as it must.
Now to home without looking back,
enough is enough.
En route buy the best wine
you can afford and a dozen stiff brooms.
Have a few swallows then throw the furniture
out the window and begin sweeping.
Sweep until the walls are
bare of paint and at your feet sweep
until the floor disappears. Finish the wine
in this field of air, return to the cemetery
in evening and wind through the stones
a slow dance of your name visible only to birds.

"Broom" by Jim Harrison, from Songs of Unreason. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.

Dream Time...

Happy Birthday, Tom and Jim

Thanks to The Writer's Almanac, I discovered something I had never realized before: Jim Harrison and Tom McGuane have the same birthday. And it's today.

I owe a debt of gratitude to both of them for great writing, and inspiration for the struggle. Harrison's poems, especially, speak to me in a way to make me stop and listen. McGuane's memoir, The Longest Silence, is one of the best books ever written about fly fishing--or anything. They both take me to a place that feels like a home I forgot I had. 

They are both survivors who have come out on the other side with wisdom, humility, and the ability to, as McGuane says in the blurb below, "go for the real thing and make it plain." Let that phrase roll around your mind awhile like you would roll a sip of whiskey around your tongue. It definitely cleans the spiritual palate.

So here are the blurbs from TWA. Enjoy.

It's the birthday of novelist Thomas McGuane (books by this author), born in Wyandotte, Michigan (1939). He came from a family of Irish Catholics. He said: "When they immigrated to the East Coast (my family went to Massachusetts), they saw themselves as an enclave of outsiders in a Yankee, Protestant world. My parents moved to the Midwest, and I can assure you that, whatever we thought we were, we did not consider ourselves to be Midwesterners. [...] When I moved to Montana in my twenties, I felt myself to be an outsider in still another world. The only thing that seems reassuring is that most Montanans feel the same way — they're mostly from somewhere else and their history is so recent that to be one of the migrants is really to be one of the boys."

McGuane said: "I associated a life of action and a life of thought as being the writer's life. But I didn't do much writing when I was a kid. I wanted to be a writer before I wanted to do any writing." He went to college at the University of Michigan, where one of his classmates was another aspiring writer named Jim Harrison — the two became lifelong friends and ended up both living in Montana. McGuane spent the summer of 1968 in Livingston, Montana, and he loved it so much that he moved there a year later. His first novel, The Sporting Club, was published in 1969, and when he sold the film rights a year later, he went ahead and bought a ranch with the profits. But it took him awhile to settle down in Montana. He spent most of the '70s in Hollywood — writing screenplays, dating actresses, drinking too much, and doing too many drugs. His screenplays included Rancho Deluxe(1973) and The Missouri Breaks (1976), but he never wanted to be a screenwriter — he said, "Aspiring to be a screenwriter is like aspiring to be a co-pilot." He was widely known as "Captain Berserko." He kept writing novels throughout those years: The Bushwacked Piano (1971) and Ninety-Two in the Shade (1973) were funny and ambitious and won awards. But then his beloved sister died of a heroin overdose and both his parents died of alcoholism within three years. After his own descent into drinking and picking fights wherever he could, McGuane sobered up. He said, "I'm really the only one still walking around, and I came pretty close to being not still walking around." In 1977, he married Laurie Buffett, the sister of his friend Jimmy, and the two have been married ever since. The next year, he published the novel Panama (1978). The critics panned it because it wasn't funny, but McGuane thought it was his best work.

McGuane spends his days writing, fly fishing, and riding horses. He is a member of the Cutting Horse Association Hall of Fame — he was Montana's cutting horse champion for three years in a row. He and Laurie raise cutting horses and Angus cattle on their 2,000-acre ranch. He said: "As you get older, you should get impatient with showing off in literature. It is easier to settle for blazing light than to find a language for the real. Whether you are a writer or a bird-dog trainer, life should winnow the superfluous language. The real thing should become plain. You should go straight to what you know best."

McGuane has published 10 novels and two collections of short stories. His latest novel is Driving on the Rim (2010).

It's the birthday of poet and novelist Jim Harrison(books by this author), born in Grayling, Michigan (1937). When he was 25 years old, he tried to decide whether he should go on a hunting trip with his father and sister, but in the end, he decided not to. They were both killed a few hours later when they were hit by a drunk driver. Harrison said their dying "cut the last cord that was holding me down," and he immediately wrote his first finished poem. He drifted around for a while, then went to live with his brother John, who was a librarian at Harvard. He published his first volume of poems, Plain Song (1965), and he thought he wanted to be a poet. He wrote two more books of poems, and then he was out hunting birds with his dog and he fell off a cliff and hurt his back and had to stay in bed for months.

His friend Thomas McGuane convinced him to try writing a novel as a way to pass the time. Harrison wrote Wolf: A False Memoir(1971).But he didn't have an agent, so he sent the one copy of his manuscript off to his brother John, in the hopes he could find a publisher for it. Unfortunately, the postal workers went on strike and the manuscript was lost in the mail. Harrison assumed it was lost forever and that it was probably the end of his novel-writing career, but it resurfaced after a month, and his brother managed to find a publisher for it, and Harrison become a novelist as well as a poet. His other books include the novella Legends of the Fall(1979); the novels True North (2004) and The Farmer's Daughter (2009); and the poetry volumes Returning to Earth(1977) and In Search of Small Gods (2009). This fall, he published a new book of poetry, Songs of Unreason (2011), and a new novel, The Great Leader (2011).

Jim Harrison said: "Life is sentimental. Why should I be cold and hard about it? That's the main content. The biggest thing in people's lives is their loves and dreams and visions, you know."

How to Dress a Dry Fly

A Journey West

You Are What You Eat

In case you missed this on Moldy Chum.

Supreme Court May Hold Your Access Rights in Their Hands

The good folks at Chi Wulff posted on a case argued today before the Supreme Court. The case comes out of Montana, but it could have implications for access rights to rivers around the country. This could be your day in court, or mine.

Interestingly, the arguments on both sides have to do with the navigability of rivers, and the implications of that for the ownership of the beds and banks of said rivers. They're going all the way back to the journals of Lewis and Clark for this one.

It would be a good thing for you to know something about this case. Read the Chi Wulff post here. And stay tuned.

River Report: Looking for Presents

The river was all trimmed for the season, and I was in the mood to search for my presents. When I was a kid I never actually looked for the treasure trove of presents my parents hid from us until Christmas morning. I enjoyed the surprise too much, and didn't want to ruin it.

But I'm all grown up now. I'd be happy to find just one of my presents. The sooner the better. That way, any day can be Christmas.

It was a little above freezing when I left home, and a little below when I got back. There was ice in my guides when I waded out, and when I sat on a dry rock my wet waders instantly froze to it.

I dabbled a bit in the Bridge Run but I still haven't figured out how to fish it because of that tree sitting right in the sweet spot of years past. I can't help wondering what a little dynamite might do to improve things.

Instead of that I picked my way upstream to the Glide.

I waded out deeper than usual to get my heavy fly as close to the far bank as possible. I had fished the near side the last time, and wanted to give the other side a try. There's a shallow shelf over there that drops off into the channel, and I had the pleasure of feeling the fly tick off the shelf and dive deep.

I also discovered that the near side, where I was wading, has a whole string of potholes along its length. I sort of knew that already, but usually I wade shallower and avoid them. Now, keeping my line, I found out how many there are, and how deep they are--plenty deep, for cold weather fishing.

The water lapping around my unmentionables and waist is cold, and I learned again a lesson of winter Steelheading: keep your body core warm, and after awhile your legs and feet go numb, and you actually feel pretty comfortable. The pain won't come until later, so in the meantime don't worry about it. Just fish.

I worked the Glide long and slow, and the swings were sweet and low, hugging the bottom and dipping into potholes. It's a perfect hiding place, and I thought sure I'd find something....

But I didn't, not this time. But that's OK. I'll keep looking. I know the day will come when I'll finally find a present, big and beautifully wrapped.

And it will have my name on it.

Me and Henry: Myths Exploded

Do you avoid the crowds? Get bored with meaningless small talk? Get irritated with the guy trolling past you who has something inane to say every damned time he passes? Can't stand "reality TV" and think anyone who would allow such excessive invasion of privacy is a hopeless megalomaniac or the most pathetic soul in the universe? Sit in your chair and take whole fishing trips in your mind? Write a blog because you can talk about the things you love to talk about and nobody will interrupt you?

You might be an introvert.

Take this to heart as you cocoon for the winter and long for days of solitude on the open water. I especially like the part where the percentage of introverts increases with IQ.

Read the whole piece here.

Myth #1 – Introverts don’t like to talk.
This is not true. Introverts just don’t talk unless they have something to say. They hate small talk. Get an introvert talking about something they are interested in, and they won’t shut up for days.

Myth #2 – Introverts are shy.
Shyness has nothing to do with being an Introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don’t interact for the sake of interacting. If you want to talk to an Introvert, just start talking. Don’t worry about being polite.

Myth #3 – Introverts are rude.
Introverts often don’t see a reason for beating around the bush with social pleasantries. They want everyone to just be real and honest. Unfortunately, this is not acceptable in most settings, so Introverts can feel a lot of pressure to fit in, which they find exhausting.

Myth #4 – Introverts don’t like people.
On the contrary, Introverts intensely value the few friends they have. They can count their close friends on one hand. If you are lucky enough for an introvert to consider you a friend, you probably have a loyal ally for life. Once you have earned their respect as being a person of substance, you’re in.

Myth #5 – Introverts don’t like to go out in public.
Nonsense. Introverts just don’t like to go out in public FOR AS LONG. They also like to avoid the complications that are involved in public activities. They take in data and experiences very quickly, and as a result, don’t need to be there for long to “get it.” They’re ready to go home, recharge, and process it all. In fact, recharging is absolutely crucial for Introverts.

Myth #6 – Introverts always want to be alone.
Introverts are perfectly comfortable with their own thoughts. They think a lot. They daydream. They like to have problems to work on, puzzles to solve. But they can also get incredibly lonely if they don’t have anyone to share their discoveries with. They crave an authentic and sincere connection with ONE PERSON at a time.

Myth #7 – Introverts are weird.
Introverts are often individualists. They don’t follow the crowd. They’d prefer to be valued for their novel ways of living. They think for themselves and because of that, they often challenge the norm. They don’t make most decisions based on what is popular or trendy.

Myth #8 – Introverts are aloof nerds.
Introverts are people who primarily look inward, paying close attention to their thoughts and emotions. It’s not that they are incapable of paying attention to what is going on around them, it’s just that their inner world is much more stimulating and rewarding to them.

Myth #9 – Introverts don’t know how to relax and have fun.
Introverts typically relax at home or in nature, not in busy public places. Introverts are not thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. If there is too much talking and noise going on, they shut down. Their brains are too sensitive to the neurotransmitter called Dopamine. Introverts and Extroverts have different dominant neuro-pathways. Just look it up.

Myth #10 – Introverts can fix themselves and become Extroverts.
A world without Introverts would be a world with few scientists, musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, doctors, mathematicians, writers, and philosophers. That being said, there are still plenty of techniques an Extrovert can learn in order to interact with Introverts. (Yes, I reversed these two terms on purpose to show you how biased our society is.) Introverts cannot “fix themselves” and deserve respect for their natural temperament and contributions to the human race. In fact, one study (Silverman, 1986) showed that the percentage of Introverts increases with IQ.

From Cutthroat to Steelhead Country

Nice, long video of a trip from Yellowstone to the Ronde, full of all the iconic scenes of the West and its denizens. Good to see big trout rising on the Henry's Fork, something we failed to see last August. And, hey! I was standing right where he is in the Ronde!

From cutthroat to steelhead country from fabrice on Vimeo.

The Faces of the Season, 2011

This was a memorable fishing season not only because of the fish. There were also the many family members and friends who shared the water with me at various times and places. The fish, and the waters, and the beautiful solitude are the reason I fish. But these people and the times we share, both on and off the water, are the reason I live.

Thanks to all of you for a wonderful season.

Flymage #10

I also really like this one.

Catch. Release. Repeat.

This is lovely. Something for everyone.

Bloodknot: Why Do I Like It So Much?

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