Back in the Saddle

Now that I've totally alienated my readership* by taking yet another prolonged hiatus, I figured it's well past time to get back on the blogging horse and provide some sort of update.  Things are starting to crank back up in Southcentral and it's already late May so I'll gloss past our epic snow year and stick to the fishing.

As I mentioned in my last post, this year was all about fishing--even in the dead of winter.  To that end, Sam and I kicked things off with some very early season fishing.

We turned down a powder day for this?

We both had hall passes from our familial obligations and met up with a bunch of friends the night before that had rented a house outside of town to catch a concert.  Suffice it to say that I can only pretend to party like I'm still 20 . . . and standing in 32-degrees water when it's snowing is a great hangover cure . . . even if the fish aren't cooperative.

* * *

Our first day out with the drift boat came sometime in April, and was a success.**  Grandma Jan was up visiting Mason and, once again, set the bar.  We ultimately tied into three fish that cold day, which was spectacular given the conditions and the short amount of time we were on the water, but only got one fish to the boat.

Jan, working on her grip-and-grin.

The Wife, taking advantage of Mason napping.

The Wife and I have been trying to think of a name for the drift boat.  Given the fact that Jan was about the only person on the entire river to catch a fish that day, and the success my mom had out of the boat last year when she came up to visit Mason, we might need to think about this developing trend as we consider our options.

* * *

Moving ahead in the calendar, not long ago I found myself down south a ways for work and had the opportunity to get out for the day.  It was classic Alaskana.  At various points we saw snow, rain and hail--and I still managed to get a mild sunburn.  We dodged humpbacks on the way out, chased steelhead in very skinny water all day, then had to evade a grizzly family on the way back.

Always fish the undercut bank.

* * *

The last real development is that I'm committing myself to spey casting for the next month or so.  I have a longer switch rod that I'll be using with the hopes of focusing on slightly different water than I usually fish.  It's early season, so you never know.

I've also been hitting the vise a fair amount this past week and tying up various tube flies, so we'll see how that turns out.  It's all new to me, but I came across this post and figured I'd give it a whirl.

Meet Mr. and Mrs. Sculpin.  The cones are separate from the rest of the fly.

* * *

So there you have it.  Now let's see, what got left out . . .

Well, for one thing, Mason now crawls and can't stay away from The Pooch's water bowl, which is constant entertainment--for Mason, at least.  I'm pretty sure he looked at me and said "dad" yesterday, but since he's only nine months old it was probably a coincidence. After all, "dad" sounds awfully similar to every other sound he makes.

I have a new job as of last week, which promises to be a significant upgrade as far as actually getting shit done.

And finally, The Blog is undergoing a bit of a revision.  Nothing formal, but if all things go according to plan you should notice a subtle change in content.  Although I take care not to specify where I fish, I'm a bit tired of providing the local fishing report so it's time to shake things up.  Stay tuned.
______________________

* Hi Mom.

** Hell, every day in the drift boat is a success--I could float circles in a mud puddle day after day and not get bored.

Traveling

Somehow, despite what might be our best snow year ever, I still can't get fish off my brain.  Ridiculous.

From a few weeks ago.

Strike Three

I remember being especially impressed with Obama's inaugural address when he vowed to "restore science to its rightful place."  Hearing this was a breath of fresh air following an unprecedented eight years of manipulation, suppression and misrepresentation of science during the Bush era.

Unfortunately, I also recall Obama's vow falling by the wayside when his administration failed to make meaningful changes in its management of Columbia River Basin dams to ensure they did not jeopardize the continued existence of endangered and threatened Pacific salmon.

Lower Granite Dam

I take it as a given that our elected officials and high-level bureaucrats want cover when making difficult or controversial decisions.  Our leaders are paralyzed unless they feel protected by sufficient cover--whether in the form of an outspoken mass of voters, impending economic doom, or a judge forcing the issue.  As it turns out, our leaders too often would rather follow than take the lead. 

So, it was with great joy that I sat down this evening to read Judge Redden's opinion (PDF), issued yesterday, rebuking for the third time NOAA Fisheries' 2010 biological opinion for the Columbia River Basin salmon.  For those that don't have the time, the footnotes are where it's at:

FN2 - The history of the Federal Defendant's lack of, or at best, marginal compliance with the procedural and substantive requirements of the [Endangered Species Act] as to [Federal Columbia River Power System] operations has been laid out in prior Opinions and Orders in this case and is repeated here only where relevant.

Translation: Quit with this crap already; it's getting old.

FN3 - Because I find that the [biological opinion] impermissibly relies on mitigation measures that are not reasonably certain to occur, I need not address Plaintiffs' remaining arguments.  I continue to have serious concerns about the specific, numerical survival benefits NOAA Fisheries attributes to habitat mitigation.  Habitat improvement is a vital component of recovery and may lead to increased survival.  Nevertheless, the lack of scientific support for specific survival predictions is troubling.  Indeed, NOAA Fisheries acknowledges that the benefits associated with habitat improvement may not accrue for many years, if ever.  Although the court may be required to defer to NOAA Fisheries' technical and scientific "expertise" in predicting the benefits of habitat mitigation, the court is not required to defer to uncertain survival predictions that are based upon unidentified mitigation plans.

Translation: You're so full of shit I have to put quotes around "expertise."

So, hide behind Judge Redden if you must, Mr. Obama, but it's well past time to make the right decision.

Some Wisconsin stoke

So the picture quality is a bit rough, but it's good enough to tell that Tom is ripping lip out of the great lakes and I'm not.

This might be just the inspiration I need to put the skis away for a couple days, grab the pooch, and flog the water.  Stay tuned; a trip report will follow.

A blitzkrieg attack on the [redacted]

After spending all fall making my brother jealous with stories of toad rainbow, Josh seems to have found a bit of redemption.  While I'm freezing my cojones off, he's getting chrome missiles:

Perhaps I need to take a trip home for Thanksgiving after all. . .

"Of course it's cold and wet . . . "

I'm not really sure how it happened, but one of the most viewed posts on this blog is my retort of fly fishing as a quiet sport.  Another fly fishing blog that I peruse on occasion, Buster Wants to Fish, has a similar post about the suffering of winter steelhead fishing.  It's great, and anyone who's had their guides freeze in the name of steelhead should give it a read.

Otis bugs and leaky waders

The Wife and I have been on a whirlwind tour of Oregon over the past week.  We took a red-eye into PDX on Tuesday-Wednesday of last week, spent Wednesday through Sunday at PIELC taking in all that the world of environmental law has to offer while catching up with old friends, and then traveled down to the Medford area to catch up with my parents and chase a few steelhead.  After getting our PIELC on for a few days--which really deserves it own blog post--I was pretty beat.  I can only handle so many days of wake-up-at-7:30-after-partying-until-2:00 before things starts to wear thin.  As The Wife gently reminded me last Friday, "you're not 20 anymore."

On to the fishing . . .

My dad and The Wife and I got out on the water for a few hours on Monday afternoon.  What we lacked in caught fish I made up for in leaky waders.  Note to self, look elsewhere when your brother says the waders you're about to borrow have "a few slow leaks."  Thanks, Josh.

The Wife and I floated the Rogue yesterday, enjoying a sunny day with exceptionally low flows.  The fishing was slow, but, if you're going to have a fishless day on the river, you might as well be in a drift boat.  Short of more agreeable fish, not much could have been better.

Having struck out yesterday, I decided to give it one last go 'round for an hour or so this morning before needing to head back into town.  Yesterday's sun and low flows gave way to colder weather, rain, and a slightly off-color water clarity.  Dad and I went out first thing this morning and by the second cast I had outdone our entire prior day's efforts.

Nothing too big, but it was a start.

We were fishing the head of a run right below a long riffled bend.  I had fished this exact spot many times over the years, having caught perhaps half of all the steelhead I've ever landed here.  The river bottom is mostly cobbles, coagulated into a concrete-like substrate creating a significant underwater ledge and a series of slots and seams that fish like to hide within.  So long as you can avoid snagging a shallow spot or wading off the ledge, it can be phenomenal fishing.

After fishing for another half-hour or so, I saw a big fish roll along a seam in the current.  Taking another few steps out away from shore, I placed six or eight casts into the seam before my line made an abrupt stop and gave a few telltale head shakes.

After a few decent runs and two leaps from the water, I was able to move the fish in close, get him over the rock ledge, and beach him on the cobble shore. 

It was a wild male, just a hair over 29 inches.  He took an otis bug and made for a fine start to the day. 

. . . and using a different pair of waders, I even managed to stay dry.

The quiet sport, my ass

I always find it interesting when people try to relate to me by professing their deep appreciation for fly fishing as a relaxing endeavor or, even worse, as "the quiet sport."  I try to remain polite, but these people must never have caught a fish of any real significance.  The only time fly fishing has ever been relaxing for me is when I give up on catching fish and take a nap on the bank.

Large fish rising to dry flies nearly give me a heart attack every time.  I've topped my waders and nearly drown more times than I care to remember, not because I was "relaxed" or enjoying a "quiet sport," but because I was so delerious with big-fish syndrome I couldn't think clearly.  Self-preservation takes a back seat to the pursuit of the perfect drift any day.

To put things another way, the first time I ever swore in front of my dad (without getting in trouble) was while playing a large steelhead.  It was a bitter-cold November morning and I had driven to my folk's home in Oregon from my place in North Idaho.  Although quite a drive for just a few days, I wasn't deterred and didn't think twice about making the ten-hour drive for a couple days of prime steelhead fishing.

Waking up at some God-awful hour, my dad, brother and myself drove down to the river and bellied up to our usual spot on the bank, just below a right-hand bend in the river.  Just upstream, the water ran through a fast riffle before crashing into a submerged rock, scouring a deep slot in the top of a run by the near bank.  Although I was new to steelhead fishing, I'd seen enough to know that the slot held big fish.

I always insisted on getting to the water before sunrise despite the fact that my brother and I had always had our best luck between 8:00 and 8:30.  This day was no different.  After spending the first hour or so breaking ice of my guides during a 30-degree drizzle, I finally felt a big tug around 8:15.

Holding on for dear life, the fish turned away from me, out of the slot and into the main current.  My reel began to scream as line ripped off.  It was the classic scene where my fly line ran straight out into the middle of the river but the fish was jumping far downstream.

Just as the chaos was at it's climax, and I clearly no longer was in charge, my dad asked "do you think it's a big one?"

Let's stop for a minute and realize the ridiculousness of this question.

[one minute]

"IT'S A FUCKING FREIGHT TRAIN," I exclaim.

The rest of the fight is a bit of a blur, but I do recall that, as I sat there on my knees dehooking the fish and getting positioned to lift it up for a proud picture taken by my dad, my brother whispers to me "dude, you said 'fucking.'"  Yes, it was a very relaxing experience I assure you.