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A River Worth Risking Your Testicles For
Having just returned from a week's fishing with my buddy, Linfoot, it was All I was asking for was to spend the last long weekend before the kid goes My trepidation was short lived. "Yes, go", said "the old Bag, "and don't come back". Given the current state of our relationship, I was relieved. She wasn't holding a fillet knife.
We both booked out early Friday to beat the traffic. Keath, owning his own business, had the more difficult time. I, being a union member, simply cashed in time-in-lieu of overtime. The Skagit river is a 3 1/2 hour drive from downtown Vancouver, if you don't get a flat tire. But, you will. Half way in, Keath asked if I smelled burning rubber. Being a smoker, I couldn't smell a thing, but he pulled over anyway, as a white GMC van raced past. The tire on the tent trailer resembled shredded wheat, but Keath had a spare. As Keath struggled with the $0.98 jack that came with his $35,000 Jeep, I offered condolences and advice while perched on the beer cooler (we had to take it out to get at the jack). Since I can't smoke in the Jeep, I figured to take advantage of the situation, a cigarette and a beer just seemed appropriate. We passed the white GMC about five minutes later, pulled over, changing a flat. There are three Provincial camps along the road to Ross Lake. The first is on Silver Lake and is always full. The second is Silver Tip and I've driven past it many times. The third, at the end of the road is Ross Lake, where the mosquitoes live. We pulled into Silver Tip and found ourselves with a wonderful campsite, located on the river, no mosquitoes (unlike the lake), and another flat tire on the tent trailer. In addition, the lug-nuts had come loose in the washboard on the way in and the whole wheel was about to fall off. Obviously, this was where we were meant to camp (did I mention that it's his tent trailer and his Jeep?). By now it was too late to wet a line so, instead, we planned our plaintive phone-calls home, trying to buy another day, to make up for our difficult time. That was Friday. Saturday we hit the river. Picked probably the longest hike into the river, accompanied by mosquitoes the whole way, to arrive at a shallow glide. Another long hike down-river got us into fish.
Still sitting on the bank, I alternately flipped my beetle and sipped my beer, and found myself reeling in a 14-inch rainbow. Would it work again? No. Keath suggested I try a bead-head and I took one on the second cast and and another shortly after. We spend the afternoon driving back to civilization for new trailer tires and learned a thing or two about two - versus - four - versus - six - ply tires and that there is no good place to eat in Hope, British Columbia. The evening brought us to a pool that's pounded by day, but was only occupied by a beaver who was busy with other things. It's a good feeling when you work it out. You're not just casting and searching, but you're thinking. Observation and a change of flies and a hit like none I've ever experienced before. It ran 16 inches, a brilliant silver rainbow, incredibly fat, healthy and strong. I didn't get it on the reel - it got on the reel by itself - and the reel screamed, not once but several times. As we climbed through the dark back to the Jeep, I touched the fly and found it bent 90-degrees at the eye. Sunday was going to be a skunk. Five hours fishing in the morning had produced nothing. Not a rise, no evidence of fish. The afternoon called for a nap and then the evening, to fish. Working our way down from 26-Mile Bridge we encountered a couple pools but no action, and then a run of deeper water in the shadows. Keath heard a rise and fixed his attention on that. I, being a pessimist, having spent most of the day without seeing any evidence of fish, worked my way down-stream, my waders half-full of water (no, not literally). And, I didn't find any fish there either, though I found a rock-garden that should have held a bounty. As dark approached (it has a habit of doing that), I worked my way back up to Keath. Like a cross between Clint Eastwood ("go ahead - make my day") and Humphrey Bogart ("play it, (again) Sam"), Keath was fixed on a fish. He's lost it twice already. Once it took the tippet and fly and once, just the fly. I hung around for a bit, and then told him if he didn't show up in an hour or so, I'd pick him up in the morning. And, worked my way back to the first pool.
As he related the story, I cast to a fish I'd seen rising in the pool, just off the log jamb. I placed the fly perfectly, just four inches from the log and he slammed it. Must have been a brother to Keath's fish, because the last thing I saw was a flash of silver heading down-river. I had no drag on and the rod pointed at him, but the tippet parted and he was gone. You have to know you've had a good trip when the most thrilling experience We didn't catch a lot of fish, but the ones we caught were memorable. The Skagit, running at 52-degrees F., a catch-and-release fishery, three and a half hours from down-town Vancouver, in shadow of mountains and far enough from the beaten track, becomes my favorite river. And, I've got so much more of it to discover. And I will, except, "the old Bag" says I'm in for a life-style change. And you know, I think I detect the flash of a fillet knife. "There are no steelhead".
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Keath took three on a bead-head nymph. I took nothing at a pool, several hundred yards downstream and sat on the river-bank to mope. I had seen a rise and that was enough to celebrate with a beer and a smoke and to think about what had occurred. I'd seen one lone rise, and it occurred to me that maybe an ant or beetle, or beer-cap had fallen in and prompted a response. 
Well, he showed. And it showed. He got it, after four hits and two lost flies. Measured 19 inches on the rod, and if you can't believe that, it was 18 1/2" or nothing.
