I think everyone has that place, that when they where very small, was always a question on their lips. Each weekend or free day they would go, pleading and puppy dog eyed to their parents with a request to visit that place. For me that place is a smallish creek off of a big river that runs through beautiful pristine rainforest.
Me and my dad would go there and camp where the Q2000 road crossed it. We would camp under the bridge and walk up and down it each evening and morning with light spinning rods in hand and a pocket full of mepps spinners. Back then my dad was an alcoholic of the worst kind, but on camping trips like these he always stayed sober. His love and concern for my well being obviously won out over the booze, and that fact was something I unconsciously clung too in those days. It planted a deep love for camping and cutthroat trout in me, and that love lingers today.
It had been far too long since I had visited the creek last, and with my flight date for Alaska in three days, I decided I better make a trip. Me and my fishing partner Leroy packed up camping and fishing gear into our bronco saturday morning and we made out for the creek. It was a long drive, filled with huge old growth timber, passing Elk herds, and a few too many wrong turns. The logging roads in this particular valley can sometimes seem labyrinthine, and it took us an hour longer to reach than expected.
We arrived in early evening, and the river was gorgeous. It runs through a shallow canyon at the bridge site, and the crystal water sparkled in the late sunlight. The canyon walls of reddish brown sediment looked almost scarlet, and the green and striking yellow hues of spring framed the creek, it was an absolute picturesque scene, and true to murphy’s law, we had forgotten the camera.
We quickly set camp and I took off down the creek fly rod in hand. The water was unfathomably low and clear, despite the fact that its parent river had about 3 inches of visibility. The fact that this creek had its roots in a couple of snowfields and springs makes it a very good secret spot when the rains of winter make the glacial rivers of the southwest peninsula unfishable.
In early summer, however, when runoff blows most streams out, this creek stays super low and clear, which can make it almost impossible to fish in. I walked for a good while before seeing anything that resembled holding water. When I got there I tied on a three nymph rig, a big bead headed stonefly with a size 14 Gold Ribbed Hares Ear and a size 16 Pheasant tail trailing. I usually go with a simpler two fly rig when I nymph, leaving the Hares in its box, but the stream was so coated with grannoms that it was literally impossible to step in the water without stepping on one or several of the little caddisflies.
I worked through the first couple of pools without success, probably due to the fact that I could see my flies through every run. I worked through two more runs, then two more, then a big section of pocket water. Just as I was finishing the last sections of pocket water I heard some rustling in the bushes behind me. Turing I saw the massive face of a huge bull elk, still in velvet. The wind was completely gone from my lungs, and my heart tried to jump out of my throat. The big brown eyes weren’t more than three feet from mine. I tried to scream but my heart was still in my throat. The elk simply grunted and then ambled back into the bushes.
Despite the excitement I was begging to lose confidence in my special creek. Then I rounded a bend and saw an enormous log jam. I could see from fairly far off that the water was exceptionally deep. A kingfisher was working the run in front of the log jam. I carefully climber up the log jam, much to chagrin of the kingfisher, to look down in the pool. the run in front looked promising, but it was the tailout, with a 15 foot deep head, that caught my eye. I could faintly see three huge dark shadows hugging the bottom, and I once caught the glint of the silvery Spring Salmon, huge and powerful, holding in the only cover that this creek seemed to offer. From what I understand this river and its tributaries once enjoyed a fabulous run of Spring Chinook, but now only a few make it up the river, and even less call my creek home. I suppose the indian gill netting have something to do with this, but I’m not so quick to point fingers in a place that has suffered from overfishing of every sort and habitat degradation the form of development and logging.
I rested the pool for about 15 minutes the made a cast into the head. the First cast rewarded me with a fat 10 inch cutthroat, it was amber flanked and heavily spotted, the kind of fish that painfully reminded me of my forgotten camera. after three fruitless drifts I walked around and began working the tailout. I was having trouble with the casting angle but finally landed a beautiful cast right at the base of the log jam. My yarn indicator drifted to the right then broke sharply upstream. I strip set into a fish that was not made for a 5 weight. It made a searing run downstream, taking me into my backing. I pumped and worked the fish in the broad shallow run bellow the log jam hole. I began to wonder what in the world was on the end of my line. Huge resident cutthroats weren’t common in this creek, and I had never caught a Dolly Varden here. It was too early for summer steelhead, and the winter runs would all be kelts. After a five minute battled a pulled to hand a silvery fish about 20 inches in length. It had a green-blue back and was spotted in its head, back, and tail. It showed a faint purple/crimson on its back and flanks. the gums are what told me what I held. the hosted prominent teeth and where a splotchy black color. A spring salmon jack.
While I revived the fished I marveled at three things. First, that the beautifully colored salmon and trout that call the rivers here home seemed to complement the host of rainforest greenery like nothing else could. The idea that these fish where made for this place seems to me to be an inescapable conclusion. Secondly I wondered at how special a place is when one could possibly catch not only four or five different kinds fish in the same place doing the same thing, but four or five different salmonoids, wether the fish on the end of my line is the gorgeous amber flanked cutthroat, or the nobly colored steelhead, or the gaudy and beautiful char. It can’t be known until the fish lies in ones hand, and for a precious moment the fisherman knows why he remains confident and optimistic through fishless drifts and fruitless days. Finally I marveled at how lucky a man I am. to have been raised in such a place. A silent prayer of thanks nicely concluded my wonderment as I began the long trek home.
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