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“Time is but the stream I go fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. It's thin current slides away, but eternity remains.” -by Henry David Thoreau
Please note: I was informed early in the week that we were all on a first name-only basis. Therefore the characters herein are identified that way…including the fishermen (Greg, Tim, Chico, Andrew, Brad, John, Tom and me), the guides (Kelly, Joel, Gordon and Ron) and the most wonderful lodge operators on the planet (Collin and Cary).
Preface: “Anticipation” (Carly Simon) – Carly Simon Thanks to golf I started fly-fishing in 1997. My expectations with the sticks grew too high and my surgically-repaired back hurt too much, so I sought a peaceful outdoor alternative (where my frustrations would be far fewer due to lower expectations). I still love golf, but seldom play in favor of babbling brooks, rising tides on salt flats, and raging rivers. One thing I’ve retained from my golfing days is creativity (see my casting) which I accomplish by keeping a tune in my head. It provides relaxation throughout each day. The river has its own song; I keep one going in my head and create a harmony with the river – even if I sing a bit out of tune.
After Greg extended two invitations to the Frontier Farwest Steelhead Lodge with the SLC gang, I decided that I needed to find out what the fun was all about. After all, three years ago I thought a steelhead was a Pittsburgh football fan (y’know, similar to a Dead Head or a Parrot Head). He did a good job of setting my expectations appropriately too – 1 fish landed will be a bonus. Cool by me. To get totally psyched, I read Trey Combs’ book Steelhead Flyfishing before coming on the trip. I even tied some steelhead flies. As it turned out it was a great year to go – there’ve been very good followed by very hard times (and vice-versa) this year but it just felt right to go to British Columbia. The 2004 roller-coaster continued when I arrived in Smithers, BC. My wife called at 2 A.M. Eastern Time (there are NO good calls at 2 A.M.!) to tell me that our college freshman son had been arrested for underage drinking – ugh, if he could only be as responsible as I was at that age…”right Dad!”
Here’s my story put to music…
Day 1: “New Kid in Town” (Glenn Frey) – Eagles After that couple had a raging argument in the parking lot at 2 am (during which my REM-interrupted thought was, “please don’t pull out a gun.”); after that party broke out in the room downstairs at 3 A.M.; and after sirens roared half the rest of the night, I awoke wondering if Smithers was the sister city of NYC. At that point, the Frontier Farwest Steelhead Lodge (FFSL) Suburban parade that arrived to pick Tom, Brad, Chico, Timmy, Greg (the “SLC Posse”) and me up for the ride to the lodge was a most welcome sight. Actually our Suburban headed to the lodge while the other went back to the airport to, purportedly, reclaim lost luggage. No biggie, Air Canada only chose to leave the other guys’ rods behind in Vancouver – how stupid…send the fishing gear…hell, we can wear the same clothes but we can’t fish with our…well without our rods. Fortunately, most of the erstwhile bags and gear were collected (Greg’s Scott spey rod collection hung out in Vancouver for another day or 2).
As soon as we got to the lodge, we met Andrew from Seattle. Apparently, he made a bunch of money in the software business (where I’ve spent over 25 years) then retired from that pursuit to buy a fishing lodge in Alaska. Andrew is 31 or 32. When I turn 32 I want to retire. Bummer, I’m 48. Any way, after a bit of mulling around and unpacking, we got dressed (I wore my Phish t-shirt for luck) and “wadered up”. Greg and I were assigned to Kelly that day, and our companion dory was captained by Joel and occupied by Chico and Tim. On the way to the put-in, I asked what “the river is blown out” meant (a term I’d heard the old timers use). It means the “fishin’s gonna be tough this week boys ‘cause it’s been rainin’ for the last 10 days and the river’s up over 2 feet” – in other words, don’t measure the trip’s success based on a dollars invested per fish landed, per fish hooked or even per fish imagined basis.
Into the boat and the fast moving Bulkley River we went. Greg suggested that Kelly stick with the rookie, me, until some level of comfort set in. As we moved along, a one-eyed yellow lab tracked us from the bank. He was a cool dog, seemingly unaffected by his debilitation – the first of many meaningful lessons during the week. After a short float, we pulled over and got out to wade. I pulled out the Loomis 9 weight, Islander reel and attached the Type 3 weighted tip to my line. Kelly looped on a Maxima leader then tied on a lollypop, an articulated leech (and I didn’t even know the daggumed things could speak, much less fluently), or a tube fly of some sort. Second lesson was what to do if/when a fish strikes. “When you feel the strike do not pull up, pull back easily and when you feel him gently lift your rod then hold on,” Kelly kindly instructed. I took this to mean that I should act like George Constanza and do everything exactly the opposite of my instincts. Within 20 minutes I felt a tap tap What did I do? Lifted up & lost touch with the tap. I backed up a step and recast to the same swing in the current – tap tap…lift rod…guide says, “Fro, didn’t we talk about this? Steelhead strike, trout set – that dog won’t hunt my friend.” Lesson learned…I think.
The day ended with zero fish landed in our two boats, but several tugs. Chico reminded us that “the tug is the drug”. I was happy as a clam in spite of no fish because I just felt at home in this faraway place. It was also fun casting a spey rod – learning to do “it” two-handed seemed easier than with one hand, probably because I had excellent instruction this time vs. “teaching” myself. No doubt, the steelheads were happier knowing that a first-timer was on the Bulkley. When we got to the lodge we learned that Brad and Tom each landed a steelie on another part of the river. That gave us a reason to keep the beer flowing, devour the excellent food and BS until late in the evening. The weeklong joke-a-thon began that night and although I can’t commit any of them to (electronic) print, suffice it to say that Jim Bakker’s cellmate, lepracons’ bar antics and the true story of a buddy’s comments to a marriage counselor about what he and his now ex- had in common provided laughs throughout the week. I’m sure you can pry the real “stories” (as my Dad calls jokes) from any of the guilty parties with a cold Canadian beer.
Day 2: “Nantucket Sleighride” (Felix Papallardi/Gail Collins) – Mountain We wadered up after a massive breakfast (at least for a guy who eats a Clif Bar on the run every morning) and jumped in the Suburbans. Today, we would have a full day of fishing the Bulkley starting at the point where we pulled out the day before. Greg I were paired with Joel for the day. While Kelly is the most tenured member of the FFSL guide team, Joel is the young buck. His enthusiasm is infectious and he’s always ready to hunt steelhead. After a couple of hours of drifting, wading, and perfecting (a relative term) my spey casting, we stopped at a streamside Starbucks (replete with no wireless hotspot and no gourmet coffee – perfect!). There was a soft seam just downstream from the dory so Joel put me in it after I guzzled my Folgers. Under the watchful eye of my 2 tutors I had a good strike. I didn’t panic this time, I pulled back easily then pulled the rod up felt a few head shakes then limp line. “What’d I do wrong?” Joel asked if I let the reel do the work vs. keeping my finger tight on the line – nope, fat fingered it = another lesson learned. I think Edison said, “I have not failed. I’ve found 10,000 ways that don’t work.” I’m only up to three and a bit miffed with myself. We got in the boat and drifted a bit farther…Kelly congratulated me over the radio for not using the trout set again…baby steps.
We stopped river left where all 3 of us spread out to fish. I was trying to get myself back in tune with the river after my little faux pas and was in my own world when I glanced downstream to see Joel’s rod bent. I bet on a rock so I kept working downstream…cast take 2 steps, etc. When I got close enough, Greg said, “come over here Fro and see what we’re fishing for.” A beautiful hen was in Joel’s hands. This must be a good sign and I was ready to get back in the game. Next stop Greg hooked 2 fish: the first one wrestled a bit before sneaking off, the second one was within reach and freaked when he saw that ugly human mug when bam, Greg’s prototype Scott rod snapped at one of the snake guides in the tip section. Guess that’s why they pay those professional guides the big bucks or at least why they get all the free equipment – they do all the clinical trials.
Downstream a bit, Greg hooked another fish that almost jumped in my arms and scared the sh*t out of me. Then we settled into a nice slow moving pool at the mouth of a side channel. The bottom was silty soft which made wading easy. Joel gave me one of Kelly’s rigs (a 6-wt. Sage two-hander with a Hart reel) and I started casting at 900 and getting a decent swing. Almost immediately Greg hooked up again, and again the monster tried to jump in my arms. I was beginning to feel like a flanker on third and long. Two casts later…wham, a fish hits my fly and before I know it he’s jumping…once, twice, three times…rod up, reel in reverse (it almost broke a knuckle on my left hand)…fourth jump…I skate backwards on the silt and slip but keep the rod high (drying off seemed a far easier task than hooking steelheads)…fifth jump, a pirouette, then slack…bummer…reeled up, then boom, he’s there and I’m running downstream. Long story, short (if that’s possible at this point): Joel “escorted” me downstream about a ¼ mile holding me up by my wader belt (major 3-layer wedgie), while Greg pulled the boat downstream. I climbed in the boat and felt like George Washington crossing the Delaware. Out again and we chased this determined fighter downstream – Joel tailed him after 45 minutes and about ½ mile or so downstream – only to find he’d spit the fly and it lodged in his dorsal fin. I didn’t, and still don’t, know whether to count him because of the foul but they said, “score it.” We hooked up with 7 fish that day. Greg educated me on steelhead math: after Day 2 my count was 1 landed, 1 hooked, 1 squirt (the trout set on Day 1, a PE for sure!). Unfortunately, there was not much action in the other boats that day. That night, I dreamt that I landed a Leslie West-sized steelhead.
Our 8th fishing partner showed up that day too. John, an almond (“AM-und”) farmer from CA, was Andrew’s roommate and a Frontier Farwest veteran. Eliminating the ‘L’ in the pronunciation of the nut that he farmed led to a week’s worth of elocutional (sic) fun. John said, “They shake the ‘L’ out of almond when the massive vibrator machines (btw, that’s not the proper name for the equipment) knock the fruit from the trees.” The rest of us formed a new L-less vocabulary; as in, “I’m from Sat ake City and I came to the Buckey River to fish for stee-head trout.” Idle (and alcohol-driven) minds at work! But has Peter Pau(l) been wrong all these years?
Day 3: “Stormy Monday” (T. Bone Walker) – Allman Brothers BandAs we left for the first day of the Upper Canyon float, I assured Greg that he needn’t feel obligated to hang with the rookie every day (he said he liked hanging out with older guys). It was a drab Monday, colder and windier than the other days. Within the first ten casts I got a tap – rock, scissors or steel? Rock won. That seemed like a decent omen. The day seemed to portend good things when we rounded the first bend and Greg spotted two bald eagles perched in a tree (with a snow-covered mountain peaking through the fog in the background). Then the radio crackled and Gordon let Ron know that Chico had landed a fish. (Greg was relieved because Chico ain’t the man when he don’t land no fish! He landed 3 that day – uda man Dan.) The hot soup that our faithful leaders served for lunch that day was more than welcome as I was starting to feel the effects of thin Southern blood. I caught a Dolly Varden (note: proper steelie set, hard rod lift to really stab him, then taught the poor thing how to water ski (pretty fish though)). No doubt, the highlight of my day was watching the young female eagle with “silver dollars” under her wings circle me for about 10 minutes as I cast my fly. Very, very cool.
We got to camp at dusk and I was impressed. Two nice big tents with heaters? This was like no Boy Scout camping trip I’d ever been on. We passed Timmy’s flask around to celebrate their fish (3 apiece to our zilch), hung our waders to dry and got warm clothes on for the night. Chefs Gordo and Ronnie served up T-bone steaks, potatoes, roasted vegetables and blueberry pie. The warm food created an aromatic cloud in the dining tent. Absolutely fantastic eats. I slept soundly with only one bladder relief break, which was a bit of an adventure – with my miner light on my head I ventured out and tried to avoid peeing uphill or into the wind (as I recall, I succeeded).
Day 4: “Slip Slidin’ Away” (Paul Simon) – Paul Simon I knew it was gonna be a great day. Hell, we had pancakes and fried eggs for breakfast…this was home cookin’, but next year I’m teachin’ ‘em how to make grits! I also discovered the delight of the outward looking door-less outhouses. Never have I “seen a man about a dog” (hope y’all are familiar with that phrase) with a more scenic view – a river ran through it, or damned close. We broke camp a little after 9 AM and Gordon was responsible for Timmy and Fro for the day. By this time it was obvious that in spite of our differences in height (I’m 76” tall, Tim is not), our golf games (he has a +1 handicap, I don’t) and baseball teams (Yankees vs. Braves), that Tim and I were twin sons of different mothers. I will forever be indebted to him for teaching me to say, “F*ck you…and I mean it” in an authentic Jersey (“JOY-zee”) accent. Another lesson learned.
We floated about 20 minutes downstream when Gordon dropped the anchor in the middle of the (insert favorite “ing” adjective) river…and I mean THE middle of the river. He jumped overboard, and, while hanging on to the side, said it was too deep for Tim but “fine for Fro.” So I eased over the edge thinking that this sure didn’t look like a place that a steelhead would enjoy and it sure as hell didn’t look like the place I would have chosen to fish (and Gordon was new to the river, having guided here for only 25 years or so). The water was about 3 feet deep, or just south of the shrinkage line. I made some casts and Tim (while calling me “Big Bird”) encouraged me to go just a little farther down river. Inching would overstate how slowly I was going. I was now in waist deep high-speed current, stepping on greased bowling balls and thinking, “Lynn (my wife) is gonna kill me if I drown.” After 10 minutes of spotting where I would was ashore when I lost my balance I suggested (it might have been a bit stronger than a suggestion) that we move on. Fortunately Gordon agreed.
Stop 2 was river left and was where “Coach” Gordon showed up. He positioned Tim upstream and we wandered down the rocky shore about 200 yards. He told me not to be offended by his direct style (“I don’t say ‘please’ very much.”) – offended? He’s speaking my language. I told him that that was refreshing for me (heck, at our shop direct-speak is what we do) and be as direct as he wanted to be. His approach to “watching” the drift was a bit different than the other guys. “Watch the line and if it straightens out at all start pulling back, and if you feel something then you have pull/lift/jerk/whatever it takes to get him hooked.” No more than 10 casts later, WHAM! He coached me through landing a nice 36”, ~17 lb. buck that had the beautiful double red bands of a Bulkley steelhead. It took about 15 minutes to land him and Coach got action pictures of the fight, and the landing, and the fumble. What a rush that was…I was warm again. I got no hits for the rest of the day but Tim landed another fish and Gord got one on a dry fly. The day was clear and blue and I got in a lot of casting practice (including learning about the “white mouse”). What an awesome classroom. We went back to the lodge that evening and welcomed the hot showers, warm food and cold beer.
Day 5: “Rock Lobster” (Fred Schneider) – B 52s Talk about your bad start to what started as a day of great promise. Before we cast off I managed to break the tip of one of Joel’s rods when I stepped on a rock that fell against it. He was a good sport about it though (“we buy expensive rods because they have lifetime warranties”). Greg and I piled in with Kelly. To break the ice, so to speak, I said something to the effect of, “we’re gonna outfish them boys today.” Silence…awkward silence…turns out that I might have pissed the steelhead gods off. Turns out that I did! We rounded the first bend in the river just in time to see Chico fighting a fish. Good for Chico! Are those gods really real? In a fit of foreshadowing Kelly chided me to “treat everything as a, even the rock. Set on all of them.” Well, I found every rock in the river during the day. I also found a bunch of techniques for dislodging flies without breaking any more rods (and I didn’t lose a fly until casting in the dark). Oh, did I mention that there were a lot of rocks in that river?
We stopped at a spot where there is (normally) a lot of wade-able ledge rock – remember “blown out river”. Kelly positioned Greg mid-river and drifted a bit left where he dropped me before he took the dory to shore. After a few casts, he guide-dogged me across a deep trough in the river then I crossed back into the river at a shallower point. I got in the flow: Cast, rock, unhook. Cast, rock, unhook. Over and over again. Then, cast, rock, unhook, rock moving, rock shaking…Kelly…KELLY, do rocks shake their heads? Next thought, where’s the camera? And next thought, it’s on a fly I tied. Kelly suggested a move back to shore. A roll, mad reeling and backing up to the river’s edge proved a bit much though, and I pulled the fly from his mouth. I was pissed…really pissed off…at me. I tied on a new fly and went back in the river for some casting practice and a pity party. As we floated away I told the guys that I hate losing more than I like winning (which I do). Greg’s response: “Well Fro, steelheading is going to rock your world then, because a 50% success rate (fish on vs. fish landed) is about what your average will be.” I was doubly disappointed because that was my fly (a black & blue bushy looking bugger) and, as a relatively new tier, landing fish on “my” flies is a major major rush.
Any remaining poutiness or anger was washed down with beer, strip steak and a bunch of laughs around the fire. That night I slept really well…if you find snoozing between shivers restful. It was cold…by any standard…especially after the gas heaters went dead. How cold was it? It was so cold that my (previously wet) boot laces had erections the next morning. It was so cold that Kelly’s dentures froze in the cup by his bed. In other words, it was damned cold…brrrrrrrrr!
Day 6: “Crazy Train” (Ozzy, yes Ozzy!) – Ozzy Osbourne Cold? We celebrated Joel’s 32nd birthday by wading into water that was twice as warm as the air (the water temp was 360!). Chico and I took pictures of the icicles that were all along the riverbank and on our rods’ guides. Greg said as we left camp that we needed to “have some of these guys climb aboard our flies today.” That got me to thinking about trains. I love trains. My grandfather (my namesake and whose 57th birthday I was born on) loved them too. He took me to lots of rail-road crossings when I was a kid visiting him in Virginia every summer. So I broke into “Casey Jones” and fished away. Through the painted canyon we drifted…no fish. Clear skies gave way to ominous looking, low hanging clouds…no fish. “Trouble ahead, trouble behind, Casey Jones you better watch your speed…”. Nuthin’ … Nuthin’!
So we ate lunch, then I changed flies…and changed tunes. “All aboard, ha ha ha ha ha ha...[dun-nun-nunna-nunna – guitar intro!]”...I was considering air guitar but a 14 foot “axe” seemed a bit unwieldy. About half an hour after lunch, I felt the tug drug. Perfect set, he rolled, my adrenaline kicked in, he was gone. Fly was gone too. What the heck? Knot failure…bummer. The knot broke at the point where the Maxima leader was looped to the fly line. Who tied that knot? Mum’s the word. But the song seemed to have worked and I was feeling chipper. We jumped back in the dory and immediately saw “smoke signals” as we headed downriver. Kelly had built a rip-roaring fire for a mid-afternoon warm-up. As we floated by Timmy’s back was to us as he searched in his waders for an inch worm or a small fly of some descript – always looking for extra little advantage.
The sky started to spit snow when Joel said we had one more stop before we’re done for the day.
The Last Shot Saloon/The Final Tune: At our final stop of the day, my final stop of the trip, Joel put me on a stretch of beach that had a wonderful soft seam adjacent to a nice current. At about 4:45 PM he told me to take 10 more casts and walked back to chat with Chico. After my 9th cast (I counted ‘em) he was back at my side telling me he’d landed 2 fish at that very spot during the season. I said, “Joel, if I don’t get a fish on this swing I’ve got one more cas-s-s-s, holy sh*t Joel, there he is.” To which he replied, “Holy sh*t Fro.” He was a monster (imaginations are great things) and he dragged about 150 yards of my backing downstream…after about 15 minutes of fighting him through an eddy (reel whine downstream, mad reeling upstream) he spit my fly…fair fight, he won…I was loving life. Snow was in free-fall at that point…
Collin, the most experienced Bulkley fisherman of all-time (I read that…in several publications), was watching from our take-out spot on the opposite shore. When we landed, I asked for his counsel on what I could have done better. He told me that his philosophy is to “stick him hard, palm the reel, stand your ground, and if you’re gonna lose him, lose him early!”
Final lesson learned…class dismissed…
“I wish I was a headlight, on a north bound train; I’d shine my light through cool Colorado rain [or British Columbia snow!].” “I Know You Rider” (Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia) Grateful Dead
The next day, Friday, I flew home literally and figuratively. What an awesome trip. I will not miss it ever again. The missed flights couldn’t even disrupt my sense of calm and well-being.
Epilogue: Sadly, I learned from Andrew that John had a heart attack and died during a dance contest just after returning home (to California) from BC. If it’s any solace to his family, he lived his last week in this life well. He fished hard and landed fish, he took ribbing good-naturedly and gave it back, he offered experienced counsel freely, and he laughed easily. I only wish I’d had the chance to fish with him during the week.
The fisherman’s prayer says: God grant that I may live to fish until my dying day And when it comes to my last cast I then most humbly pray That in his mercy I be judged as big enough to keep. Rest assured, John, your sprit was bigger than any fish you ever landed or even dreamed of.
“There are some things which cannot be learned quickly, and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring. They are the very simplest things, and…it takes a man's [whole] life to know them...” -Ernest Hemingway
“Oh Atlanta” (Bill Payne) Little Feat I’ve been home for a couple of weeks now and ofoto.com has been busy sharing my Bulkley River photo album. My friends now know that a steelhead is a migratory fish and that Fro caught “some”. And now they want to know if they can go…don’t know yet, I’ll have to ask the Posse.
I’m thankful for a lot of things but I’m especially thankful to have a great family and many wonderful friends. From this trip, I take with me not only fond memories but also a bunch of new friends and an ounce or two of new knowledge…
I owe Greg a debt of gratitude for his patience, Timmy a high-five for his laughter, and the staff at Frontier Farwest Steelhead Lodge much appreciation for taking care of a now seasoned veteran steelheader!
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