The Days Before

This was my sophomore year of steelheading at the Kahuna Classic on the Bulkley River in, or near, Smithers, British Columbia. In reflection of my freshman effort, I concluded that steelheading is to fly-fishing as putting is to golf. It’s part of the same sport but requires a totally different mindset and creative thinking process. I used to think golf was an addiction; I now know it’s but a trifling distraction compared to steelhead fishing.

Last year I came to escape: a year that included so much death that I became cold to it and a job that I couldn’t stand. This year I came to Canada happy and excited about my family life and my business.

I was happy to rejoin my fall family – hosts Collin (the Bulkley legend) and Cary (who makes the whole operation go); wonderful chefs, Ingrid and Caroline; the guides – Kelly (the old pro and my first steelhead guide), Gordon (the Coach Lombardi of steelheading, who talked me through landing a nice fish last year; apparently an internet target recently – shame on the author of such skullduggery), Joel (the kid of the crew), and Jimmy (who I was meeting for the first time); and finally the Sa(l)t (L)ake City crew – Neil (new this year), Brad, Chico, Timmy (the Irish Buddha) and, of course, my mentor Greg. My name, actually my permanent nickname is Fro. I’m a southern boy from Georgia (“jaw-ja”). We’re all on a first name-only basis here. I love these people.

Our first few days of fishing were fun and far more productive than last year. My goal this year was to average a fish a day. I caught 2 and farmed 5 in my rookie season.

Wednesday Portended por•tend Pronunciation Key (pôr-t nd , p r-) tr.v. por•tend•ed, por•tend•ing, por•tends 1. To serve as an omen or a warning of; presage. 2. To indicate by prediction It is said that life imitates art; however this day was about art imitating life, or at least encapsulating this life journey’s ups and downs in 12 hours or so. In my case, the “art” of fly-fishing (especially casting, especially casting a two-handed rod) is a bit of a stretch but I manage to get fish on the line from time to time. Greg, the one true Renaissance man that I know, is an artist with a fly rod, a brush, a camera, a pen, a song sheet or a guitar in his hands. Kelly, the person I would choose to find myself lost in the wilderness with, is an artist of a different kind – a builder (of houses, a business, a wonderful family) and teacher. Compared to these two, in this classroom I am no more than an advanced finger-painter.

By Wednesday, the fifth day of the 2005 Kahuna Classic, I’d found out that the guides were drawing straws to determine who would guide me. Short straw gets Fro. Seems I’d made a grievous fashion error on the very first day out – I wore a John Deere hat. Not just any JD hat, but a banana colored one. I learned that that can be a lethal combination to landing fish – seems John Deere hats and bananas are known to bring bad luck; but after farming a fish on Day 1, I had actually landed and released 3 steelies and only farmed one other. However, in order to avoid any more superstitious rage from my peers, I chose my Smithers Steelheads cap as more appropriate attire. It was approved only after it was confirmed that the logo was actually a fish and not a snake. I didn’t take any of this personally. Hell, I didn’t know no better!

Wednesday marked the beginning of a two-day float trip into the lower canyon (in at Moricetown, out 20 miles downstream). That morning, I woke up after another poor night’s sleep feeling shitty. I come on these trips and become an excited little kid that can’t sleep at night. Then when I do fall asleep I dream about fishing, only to be interrupted by Timmy and Brad’s weed-eaters whacking away in the bedroom next door. So, I end up snoozing, but never finding my eyes moving rapidly under shut lids. I was running late, grabbed a bagel with a coffee chaser, pecked out emails to my life partner and wife Lynn and one to my business partner and dear friend Joan, visited the reading room (not once but twice), and generally considered the merits of crawling back under the covers. But, what the f***, I came here to fish not sleep…I can sleep when I get home (any sleep disorder I [thought I] might have had has dissipated since returning to my own bed). Buck up and go fish and don’t be a pansy.

It was a gray, overcast, crisply cold day and I prayed that it wouldn’t rain on us. We loaded up the Suburban and as Kelly’s wife, Kris, drove us to the Moricetown put-in I slept, hard (!), during the entire 45-minute drive, all the while holding a Sprite in my hand.

At the boat launch I was very careful when loading. I was groggy as hell but remembered that I had managed to break one of Joel’s rods at this very spot last year. I managed to avoid that fate and took a leak as Chico and Greg floated away in their dory with Jimmy at the helm. There was the usual banter about rod size, and other BS so I just shot them a bird and zipped my fly. As we got ready to shove off, Kris and Kelly kissed, bid farewell for a couple of days, and she took a couple of pictures of us. Kelly suddenly said, “Shit! I don’t have my camera. Honey, will you look for it when you get back to the house?” “You guys wanna take mine?”, she asked. I chimed in with the fateful “no problem, I have mine and we won’t need but one camera.” We launched a little after 9 AM.

I was still feeling groggy and began to wonder if I was getting sick or if my old friend Ralph was in the neighborhood. Ralph is like a grown-up make-believe character in my life that comes around every now and again. He manifests himself in the form of the occasional focal seizure and causes me great confusion and even scares me at times – he got his name from Lynn. She’s the only one that knows when Ralph comes calling – he’s a sneaky bastard. “Ralph, are you here?” No answer…good, very good.

We stopped and fished at several spots. River-left didn’t have current that I could reach a cast into to get a good drift. River-right had great current, great drifts, no fly diners. We pass the spot where Kelly tells me another fisherman got approached by a black bear that was serious about a human hamburger meal. Kelly, in his inimitable fashion, ran the bear off but not before a few tense moments passed. That dude caught a 39” fish during his trip in September.

Several hours passed…

We pulled into a site on river-left with nice soft water just out of the main current’s reach; but close enough that a spaz like me could launch a cast to it. I cast my Type 6 tipped Skagit-variety garden hose 45o downstream. The monster line was mounted on my simple but reliable Hardy Viscount large arbor reel that was attached to the 14’ Sage 9141-4 that I bought from Tom after last year’s trip (he said that since I broke its cherry I should own it). After 20 minutes with no action and more water to cover, Kelly suggested that I take three steps (vs. two) between casts and aim my casts 90o into the current with a mighty mend so that the fly would get deeper as it crept into the prime water. On the next cast as I was leading the fly to the near shore I saw the line start to straighten even before I felt the inevitable tug. Time slowed and I started to think (a big mistake), “Should I give him a bit of slack, pull back gently, sweep the line to the closest bank since my rod is pointed that way, yank skyward with all my might or…?” I tried the all-of-the-above approach and not surprisingly the fish immediately came unbuttoned. Being a good sport about the fish winning, I did everything but lay on the bank and kick and scream like a 2 year-old. I kicked alright, I screamed alright, but at least I didn’t lie down. That’s saving face Fro! Kelly smiled and said, “Get it out of your system right here, Fro. I would; hell, I do when I’m down here fishing by myself.” That made me feel better, and at least I ended my little one-person pity party.

It was getting along in the day, about 3 PM or so, when we stopped for lunch. I was cold and ready for something other than coffee to warm me up. Kelly got the soup out of the cooler and warmed it up on shore and sent me upstream to fish in waist deep 5o (Centigrade sounds a lot colder than Fahrenheit) which made my southern hemisphere feel very wintry and small. Nothing doing but I some practice time, which was a good thing. The soup was good and hot, and spicy. The way I had hoped it would be. Over lunch, we talked about other-than-fishing stuff – families (we have kids of similar age), trucking, wildlife, software, fishing lodges and other topics that affect our lives – but, fortunately, not the weather. We turned back to fishing talk and I said something about our mojo not being good, probably mirroring my somewhat dark mindset through the morning and early afternoon. Kelly said, “I’ve got the answer for ya”, and pulled out a flask and a new fly – the former was filled with Grand Marnier (kiddy liquor that I guessed was the only “emergency med” that Kelly could find). We each took a draw. That was dessert. He tied the fly on the rod and reel combo loaded with a Type 3 tipped sinking line that I borrowed from Greg after my brand new Scott 1307 snapped on its maiden cast (that made me think: don’t most dummies yard cast before coming on a trip like this?).

We radio the other dudes and find that both Greg and Chico have caught fish (even some Dolly Varden) and are a staying a regular ½ mile ahead of us on the river. Just out of sight but not out of contact. So off we go for the trip to camp. Of course, we’re gonna be fishin’ our way to camp. We go through a little white water wave train. These dory drivers just amaze me with their skill at getting the boat through choppy water so gracefully. This time through we hit a wave on its upswing and it leaves a part of itself in the top of my waders, where my camera was stored.

After that bit of excitement we settled into an easy float, stop and fish at this run or that routine that was comfortable. My mood had swung. I was content as we glided through the peaceful waters and started singing a Pearl Jam (yes, you read that right – Jay, my son, convinced me to listen and now I can’t seem to stop) song in my head.

“…Driftin’, Driftin’, Driftin’ along, I rid myself of worries, And the worries were gone, I can run when I want to, And sleep like a dog, I’m just driftin’, Driftin’ along…” 1

About that time we spotted an eagle sitting in a tree about 500 yards downstream. North American Indians always revered eagles and their feathers (a gift of an eagle feather was thought to bring good luck to the receiver and the giver). Kelly had given me a rather unkempt feather earlier in the day. I took out my Cannon point-and-shoot digital camera and snapped pix until my camera’s display went hazy then had nothing but snow. So much for that camera, I needed a new one any way.

A few minutes later we saw Greg casting river-left. We stopped river-right and I made about 10 casts into a one-man slip of soft water before we shoved off. I looked cross-river and Greg flipped me off; I returned the salute, and as he fired off a second birdie WHAM, he had a fish on the line. He was fighting away and we rowed over to see if we could help him land it since Jimmy was way downstream with Chico. Greg landed his hen without assistance but asked if I would take a picture with my camera. I said I would have to use his since mine was in a state of confusion. After a few shots and a clean release, he offered to let me fish the run…decided against it and we headed for the “wheelchair run”. G-man later told Kelly and me that he thought about offering his camera to us since between the three of them they had four cameras and we had none. We decided that the “bird” had become our way of sending good luck; “F*** you and I mean it this time!” has become our motto. Both seemed to work wonders on the river with great regularity.

The wheelchair run is a name that Kelly uses for river locales where even a wheelchair bound fisher-man or woman can get to and have a good shot at landing a steelhead. There aren’t many of those spots on this wild river and I think you would have to airlift to this river-left sanctuary that none of the other guides seem to fish, but anyone would have a chance here. And I had a score to settle from last year. Kelly and I were at this very place in a blown out, chocolate milky Bulkley when I hooked what I thought was a rock, that shook its head, got away after about 5 minutes and left me stewing. Greg’s “steelheading is going to rock your world if you expect to land every hooked fish Fro…” echoed in my head. “This year is gonna be different.”, I thought. The water was relatively clear, no more than tea-stained and visibility was about 3’ vs. 3” in 2004. So, Kelly took the high line in the run and I took the low line in the wide area of rather soft water that sat at the edge of the current, which was within my 50-foot or so casting range. It was about 5:30 PM and the light was waning. Jimmy, Chico and Greg floated by. The latter two flipped me off and screamed out the motto. I felt a surge of optimism.

Above the river’s roar, I thought I heard a “Hey Fro” and turned to find Kelly’s rod bent. “No shit Kell, do you have a fish?” YES, the mojo had changed. He landed and released a nice bright hen and sidled over to tell me that she had tickled his fly and “I just kinda let her hook herself.” He sent me upstream a little and I fished the Type 3 rod set-up with Kelly’s fly. I reset my focus and resolve, and realized that I actually felt good enough to consider drinking a “Pisner” (Molson Pilsner for those that don’t know the story of the “dropped L” from last year’s trip). Within five casts I feel the tickle of a fish and, against all my normal instincts, I let it play with my fly before gently lifting then “Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” my reel sang that sweet hook-up song. I played it out and with Kelly’s help landed a pretty 24” hen. I was satisfied. It was after 6 PM and getting dim with the sun out of sight. We decided to stay and fish just a “few more minutes” (fisherman speak for “the fish are bitin’ and we ain’t leavin’.”).

I jumped in where I had left off casting. A few casts down I felt the same tickle and wondered if I would ever have one climb aboard as I’ve heard they do on this river. I was patient again and deliberately lifted my rod and my reel went in reverse and sang again. I told Kelly that it was a fish of similar size as he joined me with his net in hand (a trough with fine mesh, sealed at one end and wooden handles along its upper sides – resembles an L.L. Bean firewood log carrier). About that time the fish tears off line to the backing and makes a strong run upstream which creates a small water ski-like spray wake. Kelly says, “This is a nice fish.” He said that last year. My knees get weak but I am determined to land this fish. I try to focus on balancing between enough pressure to maintain control but not so much that I yank the hook out of its mouth. Kelly is coaching, coaching, coaching. After some period of time (time slows so I have no idea if it was 2 minutes or 20 but it was probably close to 10), this pretty boy was within sight and was obviously very colorful. After a few last second runs and maneuvers Kelly got him in the net. He was a beautiful buck with a dark green back and tomato colored sides and belly – no discernable stripes, just a nice blend of green and red. We were both excited and I headed for the broken camera just in case and asked Kelly if it was 38” (the size of the largest fish caught so far in our group – it was the number that came to mind).

I got back and snapped a pic but it looked like the cover to a Pink Floyd album. Kelly said he’d measured the fish twice and it was 39” and weighed 20 pounds or so (it was later decided by Joel that he was 39.000000001” so that he would be the longest fish of the season – ha!). He was an inch shy of a Kahuna (40” steelhead are equivalent to a hole-in-one in golf) but a very nice specimen just the same. We radioed the other boat to strategize on how we might get a picture of this fish. Our minds were racing. We decided that we might be able to get him downstream to the other guys but quickly found out that a 39” fish wouldn’t fit in a half-filled 24” cooler (whose original contents were now laying in the seat well of the boat). I let Kelly know that my primary concern was the health of the fish. Of course, he was on the same page and looked at me and said, “Fro, you sure you’re okay with this?” I assured him that I was very okay with it and grabbed his big tail and belly, lifted him in the water and coaxed him into action, and he was away. We shook hands, we high-fived, we hooted and hollered (that’s southern slang), we even hugged (Cary later asked if Kelly really hugged me – he did), and finally we toasted with our mojo changer, the orange liqueur (“SWEET!”).

The day’s formula: Camera mayhem (1 left, 1 broken and 1 un-offered spare) + mention of another big fish + a split fishing rod and a borrowed one + a swig off a flask + a special fly + an eagle soaring overhead and a ratty gifted feather + a double flip-off. It all added up to that one moment on a shore of a roaring river on a peaceful cold evening with the warm glow of knowledge, at least a glimpse of it any way.

Kelly radioed Jimmy and told him the tale. We met up with our buddies at camp and found the fire warm and refreshing, the Pisner damned cold and medicinal, the music (yep, Chico brought his iPod and speakers) was upbeat, and the ax throwing contest was entertaining (Greg stuck it in the log 7 out of 10 times!). We decided that wheelchair run now has a new feature: “Fro’s hole” – many indecent variations were bandied around the campfire – suffice it to say that we got a lot of good laughs at my anatomy’s expense. Of course, the fish’s size and even its reality were called into question by my middle-finger lifting, trash-talking friends. It only matters that its picture hangs in the mind’s eye of two galleries – one rather full (Kelly’s), one just beginning a collection (mine).

I slept rather soundly that night…

“…of all the liars among mankind, the fisherman is the most trustworthy.” ~William Sherwood Fox, Silken Lines and Silver Hooks, 1954

The Days After

I accomplished my goal and averaged a fish a day and only “farmed” 4. We had a great week. My highlights were the friendships rekindled, the wildlife and natural beauty of BC (eagles and rainbows and bears, oh my!), and taking brief moments to listen and learn. I’m already making my 2006 plans.

Portend Wednesday was a most memorable single day of physically experiential and metaphysical extremes – sickness and health, happiness and anger, doubt and confidence, disappointment and joy, excitement, confusion, going deep inside and letting it all hang out, the world is bad, the world is good, the world is really unreal – a day that is permanently pasted in the ethereal scrapbook of my heart and soul.

Thank you Kelly. “The Eagle of Portend”, like life, is bright and clear but a bit out of focus at its edges

‘Fro’ is Jethro J. Felton, III Filed from: Duluth, GA, on 29 October 2005

Fiction Contest for 2006? Fly Rod & Reel, Robert Traver Award, PO Box 370, Camden, ME 04843