Suddenly (and luckily), I noticed George’s brake lights come on. Then the reverse lights. My heart started sinking a little, ‘That’s it, we’re lost now!’ The laughing was starting again.
Out of the clouds like some shrouded monk, George appeared next to my window. “I don’t think your truck will make it down this hill, Terry.” he said with subtle profundity, “Well, it might make it down, but not in one piece. Toss your gear in mine, park up on this rise, and just hoof it down to the camp.” “So I can get the ‘full dust effect’ Eh?” I replied looking at the swirling particulates. “No, the next part’s mostly rocks, so it should be fine for walking,” He assured. “But you’d drop your tranny on one of them for sure, and we’re a long way from road service out here.” There was no denying this. Steve, who had been riding shotgun, offered some consolation, “I’ll walk it down, Terry. I know the route and I need to find a tree anyway…” Steve was a regular companion on our overnight fishing trips. Although he rarely raised a rod (I could recall once seeing this happen), his love of the outdoors and the camping experience was profound. “Well, Steve, How can I resist a gracious offer like that?”
Overhanging trees and underbrush heavily guarded the entrance to this old trail, but George seemed to have little trouble finding it. After a few close calls negotiating the way down, I was glad my truck was parked where it was. The trail eventually leveled off and I could hear the sound of the river rushing along. There was a campfire glowing, and Uncle John’s smiling face, greeting us and whooping like a madman. “Yeeee-oop!!!”
Uncle John wasn’t really my uncle, but he had always made me feel like a part of the family, and so the moniker stuck. Aside from being a fishing fanatic, he was also a helluva good chef. The camp was always treated to first-rate gourmet cuisine prepared over a full-blown stovetop – in his outdoor kitchen of course. Looking at the gear this man possessed would make any camping fool jealous. Among the extensive collection was a large canvas tent one could stand upright in, and a small wood stove he brought along to heat it! Uncle John’s camp was never without an ample supply of creature comforts, nor a supply of bourbon – which punctuated several points of the day following breakfast.
George informed me this camp presented an oasis of sorts since the area was literally plagued with poison oak. Unlike Uncle John, poison oak had never made me feel like a part of the family. I would have to keep a vigilant lookout for the vile stuff while hiking, even though the leaves had fallen now that it was late October. The next few days would be a sort of dance marathon featuring deranged versions of the limbo to avoid contact. My willingness to face a menace like this in the pursuit of trout, and how the phrase ‘gone fishing’ also meant ‘losing one’s sanity’ did seem to have some relevance here. I decided that, after this trip, perhaps I’d check myself in. Perhaps they’d have a casting pond.
The next few hours were passed around the campfire along with a bottle of bourbon while grandiose tales from past trips were swapped with ever-increasing volume.
As the clamor rose and fell, I blurted out, “My wife thinks fishing is a cruel undertaking, impaling those poor innocent fish with our steely barbs.”
“Oh yeah, tell that to the fish I caught last month with a fresh fly still in its mouth.” George countered without missing a beat.
It was true, even in my short lifespan I had caught several fish with hook-shaped merit badges still working their way out from recent battles with unlucky anglers. Noteworthy was the time I landed a real bruiser of a brookie from a lake in the Eastern Sierra. It had a decidedly golden tinge that I thought deserved documenting and as I snapped a quick picture in the landing net, I noticed some line trailing from the other side of his gaping maw. Closer inspection revealed it was attached to a fly this fish had ‘stolen’ from me the day earlier when it busted off. At that moment, getting my fly back seemed like winning the lottery (almost). Let me add this fish was far from reaching the starvation point. Evidence like this indicates that pain does not seem to be a major factor regarding hooks. I would even go so far as to say that a hook, (especially a barbless one from a fly which is usually caught in the corner of the mouth), presents little detriment to the daily goings-on of a fish.
It soon became apparent through further discussion, that overwhelming amounts of evidence from our small group alone supported this theory quite well.
As the fire dwindled, Uncle John enlightened us to the legend of Ishi and his persevering stance against the civilized world. “This wilderness was inhabited by Ishi until very recently” he said with noticeable reverence. “He was one of the last Indians to live off the land here, and these woods now bear his name. They seem to have a certain magical quality about them.” We listened with quiet respect about how it was a privilege to be entering this land, to be centered in the wild and Nature’s wonders for a few priceless days.
I gazed at the moonless sky and a glorious display of twinkling stars before crawling into my little shelter - which paled in contrast to Uncle John’s Taj Mahal. I thought about the Indians and how the progress of America had stamped out their cultured way of life by invading, what for centuries was, their domain. As I drifted off listening to the rush of the river, I swear I could hear voices in the gurgling water. Voices calling out, and speaking things I could not discern. The voices of Ishi.
I was in the middle of landing a nice rainbow when the clang of a coffee pot broke him off. Instead, I caught the sweet aroma of the home fried pan bread Uncle John was making. This wonderful camp staple clung to the ribs like glue, and could sustain a body well into the afternoon – when naptime arrived.
I peered out of the tent and got my first glimpse of the river. The bubbly volcanic rock immediately struck me as terrain completely different from the stoic granite-lined canyons of my Sierra stomping grounds. The sun was starting to filter in through the trees, creating a shimmering effect on the dancing emerald waters. My eyes started sparkling a bit too, and I could feel that youthful sense of anticipation springing up inside.
After sizing our ribs with eggs and pan bread, Uncle John and I opted to hike downriver and work our way up to camp. George took the upstream direction with Steve, whose only gear was a backpack of refreshments. I soon realized it was a smart idea to fish with a partner in this area because wading the stream was akin to shuffling on greased bowling balls. How did Ishi do it? Felt soles offered some stability, but eventually I was given an opportunity to bask in the frigid water. I was getting hot anyway…
Aside from the dunking, I absolutely enjoyed the opportunity to fish with Uncle John. It was then that I discovered his enthusiastic personality also had a reserved side, which was more than willing to share with me a wealth of knowledge. We took turns working each new pool (in between whistle whetters from the ever-handy flask), and were consistently rewarded with steady action on small Adams patterns. The fish, wild rainbows, were mostly in the 10-12 inch range with an occasional 14-15 incher putting a real nice bend in the rod. Regardless of their size, living in the fast current gave them incredible stamina. A deep crimson band accented their dark colours. They were simply beautiful fish.
The Autumn air was warming and my level of consciousness seemed to be expanding with each breath. The scent of the forest, the sound of the water, the sight of the fish rising in the pool ahead, all formed a perfect vision. A peaceful yet energized awareness of Nature and its totality swept over me, replenishing my desire to move forward. Life made sense. I wanted to hold this moment, and the feeling it gave me, forever.
But change is constant. While I paused for this impression, the river whirled into a state of commotion as a spectacular hatch of October caddis was unleashed. The trout, acquiescent opportunists, rose to the occasion in frenzy. I looked over and noticed Uncle John’s face beaming as he hurriedly switched flies. He was soon fast to a battling beauty “Yeeee-oop!”
I snapped to attention and hurriedly pored over my dry box for a suitable imitation. After some waffling, I plucked out a fly of my own creation, the Tessa Caddis - named after our dog whose fur comprised the salt and pepper looking wings.
My folks had lovingly given me one of those beginner fly-tying kits, and I quickly turned out some of the ugliest versions of bugs that never even remotely existed on this earth. The accompanying booklet was encouraging, ‘and you can use all kinds of materials found around your house.’ I swiveled around to look at the dog and noticed she was giving me an unmistakable hesitant look. Everyone always commented on how soft her fur was, and I’d also read some sage’s advice that ‘collapsibility of the fly is an important and often overlooked feature.’ As was strongly evidenced in her favourite sleeping areas, copious amounts of the stuff were shed daily. Why not? I felt like the Grinch calling his dog Max as I beckoned her over, eyebrows raising from one side to the other...
After a little dressing, the Tessa Caddis was sailing on its maiden flight to a likely pool below a small waterfall. “Chom!” and I was fast to a battling beauty too.
Unhinged action continued for nearly two amazing hours, during which we caught and released what must have been close to a hundred fish – give or take a few. We worked our way back to camp around mid-afternoon and decided we’d had more than our fair share of action. Hence, with clear consciences, we could hang up the waders for the day.
George and Steve soon arrived back reporting a similar event. “Just incredible action on those October Caddis this afternoon!” George said with an obvious glow, “I’ve been coming here for years but never caught a hatch like this – anywhere for that matter.”
“He caught a lot of fish.” Steve added with feigned eagerness. We all knew Steve held an amusing appreciation for our foolhardiness. “I’m glad there are people like you, Steve.” I interjected. “People that love the outdoors but are not smitten with the overpowering urge to cast a line upon every puddle and drainage they come across. It gives us poor fin-addicts a chance to ply some unspoiled water once in a while.” “I’ll drink to that!” George affirmed. “Yeeee-oop!” howled Uncle John taking a break from his pan clattering preparations of wild goose and rice.
Sleep came early and easily that night as the adrenaline rush of the epic day was replaced with the lulling one of the river. The ever-present voices emanating from those currents seemed even louder, and flooded my mind with vivid images of unrecorded historical events, haunting visions of an unexamined life. The life of Ishi.
Since we all agreed the night before that the afternoon bite was the choice prospect, our efforts to suit up and fish the next morning were markedly unhurried. Being a little hungover seemed to necessitate slow and deliberate movement anyway. Coffee seemed to cut through the fog, and by 9am I was champing at the bit again.
Deciding that enough physical exertion occurred the previous day, Uncle John opted to work the areas around camp. Steve set up his hammock to relax and read a book – an activity which soon condensed to all out napping. We all appreciate the outdoors in different ways.
George invited me to join him in exploring some of the upper reaches to work some of his sweet spots. So off we went, dodging poison oak along a narrow single track that was barely wide enough for the bears which, no doubt, were the only ones who used it.
“How do you suppose Ishi dealt with this stuff?” I asked doing a one-foot swivel while grabbing a limb (which thankfully was not poison oak) to keep from sliding down an embankment into what would surely have been certain death. “Oh, I suppose he either knew how to avoid it, or was somehow immune to it altogether.” George offered doing his own bit of maneuvering. “He did grow up here, as did generations of his people before him. Maybe they adapted to it?” “Well, I certainly have not adapted to it,” I grimaced, “and probably never will.” “Agreed. Let’s drop down here.” George said with a note of finality. It was an odd feeling of relief to be leaving the den of the Itch King, for the slippery boulders of the river.
George’s promise that the hike would be worth it was soon fulfilled. On his first cast, he hooked a chunky rainbow that repeatedly jumped on the end of his line. It was clear that these upper pools held larger fish as a similar sized one grabbed my fly. Even though it was getting a little ragged looking, Tessa’s fur was coming through with flying colours (yes, literally). I wondered if I was simply catching more fish with this fly because I had confidence in it (and was hence using it more) or it actually had some extra special fish attracting appeal due to its (ahem) ingenious design. I would let the fish decide.
Oddly enough, evidence to the latter started becoming apparent. As the magic October hatch hour bloomed once again, the trout seemed to find the Tessa Caddis more and more irresistible. George, in his usual fervor, had started working upstream faster than I, so I was left picking up the spares. Although I was never a good bowler, I was certainly getting a lot of strikes. Even water that George had worked through a minute earlier would produce a bruiser trout willing to slam the Tessa fly. Since George was quite talented in the wand-waving department, the amount of success I was enjoying with my flailing approach was extraordinary. Maybe I’d have time in the infirmary to iron out my loop control.
As yet another unbelievable spare was released, I heard George calling out to me from above. Sloshing upstream, I made my way over to where George stood with a dangling leader. He motioned for me to place my fly in the tongue of water shooting down between two large boulders in the center of the stream. I whipped the soggy Tessa fly around a bit, and luckily laid my cast right on target. Like a ghost from the depths, a large trout engulfed it and swiftly disappeared. My rod bowed down to the compelling force and immediately sprung back as the fish blasted out of the water with a halo of droplets cascading around it. The rainbow then charged downstream like a freight train and didn’t stop. But my line did. The tippet snapped to a simultaneous “Oh!!” from George and I that signaled the end of the match. “Damn, George, that was a monster!”
“That was a big one alright!” George said knowingly. “I think it’s time for beer, I just happen to have two here with me.”
The woods were beginning to darken as we sat there sipping our brews and staring at the pool that had two break offs on its scoreboard already. “This pool’s always been good,” George said calmly, “Boy, he sure wanted that fly, Terry. What were you using anyway?” “It’s my Tessa Caddis – the wings are made of her fur, and the trout here seem to go absolutely bonkers for it!” I said proudly. “You know… I’ve got another one in my box here. Perhaps I should put just one more cast out there?” “Why not?” George said nonchalantly swigging his brew. I carefully inspected the tippet before knotting a fresh fly on.
Blissfully ignorant of my casting shortfalls, I landed a few good drifts in the sweet spot with no results. Before conceding however, I attempted a steeple cast (since the overhanging brush necessitated it) to a small waterfall on the opposite side. A shockingly large head appeared from the gurgling pool but the fly drifted untouched. “I think you better place another one there.” George said with obvious surprise. The next cast the head appeared again. Again, it missed the fly. George was standing up now. “Look at that thing!”
After a rescue mission from the briars by George, I managed to get the fly in the small chute once more. Once again the large head appeared, gulping away but regrettably missing the hoodooed fly. George was now jumping up and down back there on the bank and screaming all kinds of things, but I did make out, “Hook that fish! Hook that fish!” “He seems impervious.” I said bewildered, checking to see if there was actually a hook on my line. I placed one more float through the slot and it happened. “He’s on! He’s on!” I shouted. Exploding from the water and landing with a huge splash, the big trout raced downstream at a furious tempo with my drag singing along. As the line continued to arc across the pool, to my dismay, it began moving toward a deadhead in the tailout. “Keep him out of that tree!!” George cautioned tensely. I applied as much pressure as I dared, and somehow the whining tippet miraculously held. The fish was now in the calm water, and I could see his white mouth open as he tried to shake the hook. After a few more splashy charges, he was wallowing near my feet. “Hold him up so I can get a picture.” George said with the camera ready. I cradled the lunker male briefly for the moment and then flicked out the Tessa fly. As the fish glided away to its sunken lair, I looked in my hand and was taken aback, “Good grief, George! I can’t believe what I’m seeing! I’ve got two flies in my hand right now. Both of them mine!” “Hair of the dog!” said George with startling revelation. “I’ll drink to that!”
The walk out did not seem so long that day. The oak, only a minor obstacle to the rewards it concealed. The voices of Ishi were speaking a loud and clear message. And there were still a lot of flies out there I needed to get back! I’ll check myself in after the next trip…
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