A few weeks back I had a rare day to myself. I had also just borrowed my uncles smallish two wheel drive pickup, so I had a vehicle that didn’t kill you with it’s mileage. I decided to take a drive down an old road that ends deep in the park on the Queets River. Like most old forgotten roads that enter the park, I found that it was washed out by a creek. Never one to be discouraged, I strung up my rod and hoofed the half mile or so the river.
What greeted my determined hike was not encouraging. Run-off has been absolutely horrible this year, and the Queets was the color of bad pea soup. I knew it had been very dirty down below, but I though this high up away from the influence of tributaries that have been degraded by logging and development, it would be better. In any event, I doubt the spot I stumbled into would have improved much with clear water, it was much to fast and broken here, with very little holding water and pea sized gravel replacing the boulders I am accustomed to on the Quinault. I also found myself in the age old predicament of being on the wrong side of the river.
I decided to head upstream to look for green pastures, this meant scaling a pretty monolithic log jam. When I got to the top I peered upstream to see a beautiful stretch of water. The river took a lazy turn against a cut bank littered with woody debris. It had a smooth glassy tail out and a nice boulder field at its head. I started toward the run with much more enthusiasm. I began to plan my next few hours. The run was probably four hundred yards in all. If I still had my spey rod I would have wasted the day covering every inch with as big a fly as I could cast. As it stood I had my little five weight and a floating line. My biggest fly was a size four Brown Heron, which was now tied to my leader.
I would have to settle for probing the tailout. The boulder field and midsection seemed dangerous wades in the inflated river, and I wouldn’t be able to reach the better lies of those sections with my little rod unless I waded to my armpits. I was almost running now, hopping recklessly through the last stretch of the log jam. Suddenly something exploded a few feet in front of me. Mottled grey wings thumped inches from my face and very large and aggravated Heron protested angrily as he flew upstream. He landed just before my run and ducked under a log and out of sight.
Moments later I reached the spot where he landed and was surprised to find that I could walk under the log with ducking. “That wasn’t a Heron it was a Pterodactyl,” I thought. I rounded the log to find the bird several yards upstream and staring, almost glaring, directly at me. He was absolutely magnificent, almost six feet of dirty grey elegance. I gazed sheepishly down at the Brown Heron secured in my hook keeper. I lifted my head with a smirk of irony on my face.
“It’s schlappen, I swear.”
