Dog Days Pt 2.

July 03, 2016 by Drew Griffith

The dog days of summer can seem endless. Much of it spent waiting in anticipation for some change in the weather, the wind or the swell. The days are the longest of the year, and for the weary weekend warrior, being first on the water is a seemingly impossible feat. Here on the Northcoast, it is a time when the angler finds that they think more about fishing than they actually go fishing. And yet opportunities abound. It might be fishing 30ft sink tips with monster clousers for Lingcod or Blacks when those ocean swells finally acquiesce. I keep a beat up old Scott 10wt handy for just that occasion. There are places where the headlands sweep down towards the sea and meet rocky outcroppings that extend into deeper water. There was a day last summer when I was lazily stripping my fly back into me, had it right at my feet in the last foot of the water column, when something that looked like a baby harbor seal suddenly materialized from the fathoms and before I could say "holy shit" I was into my backing. It was a Ling. The fight that ensued was a slug fest. With each ruthless head shake I thought my tackle would give out or the fly would come free. My 10wt turned into a noodle. It was amazing.

Neil with an epic black caught offshore. Photo Neil Montgrain

A blue ling caught off the jetty. Photo Neil Montgrain

There are mornings when the fog rolls in thick off the sea and creates the perfect cover for targeting coastal cutthroats in the snaky reaches of the small estuarine creeks and sloughs that populate the Northcoast. You will find yourself forging through brome grass high up to your head, half asleep still, walking in the tracks of Roosevelt elk. The water is dead calm as you tie on the best of your reverse spiders and try not to catch your backcast on a low hanging alder branch or derelict fence post. Half the time you cast to nothing, but every once in a while you hit it. The cutthroats will surge after the fly throwing a wake off of their dorsal as you furiously strip retrieve. The takes are violent and exhilarating, the kind of stuff that keeps you coming back for more. You will know a veteran angler of the coast by the way they gush over these fish, and for good reason. They are tenacious fighters, all mouth and muscle.

Waiting for the sun to dip below the treeline

It is now the end of June and I am back at the lodge waiting for an old friend to arrive with his family in tow. The trip is less about finding time to fish than it is about spending time with one another, the Klamath river estuary our backdrop. I take them to a favorite creek, a picture perfect freestone tributary of the S. Fork Smith for an afternoon of swimming. The water is ice cold, a welcome respite for the few summer runs that will return to this inner sanctum. As we brave the frigid water a small cutthroat flushes from its cover and shoots down the pool. I let out a yelp of excitement as I've never been able to spot one in this creek until today.

Brandon, living the easy life for all of us sinners

We make plans to take it easy for the night and wake up early to swing Blakes. Joe Pa, as his two young grandkids affectionately call him, will take over parental duties for the morning. I rise early, somehow uneffected by the whiskey sours from the night before. I look at my phone. 5:23 am. Perfect. Mindlessly, I proceed through the busy work of getting all of my gear in the truck and wader up. The conditions could not be better. A heavy fog has crept in during the night and now lays thick over the river valley. There's no wind to speak of. After knowing Brandon for over half of my life I've come to understand certain things about him. First and foremost he is not a morning person. So when I shake his tent and beseech him to rise I'm greeted with language you might call colorful. He gets it right back. At this point it's become a time-honored ritual of cussing each other out before coffee.

The road into Blakes is not for the faint of heart. You pass several ominous signs forbidding your approach. Making matters worse is the fact that during this time of year the summer grass obscures your view to the point that it becomes nearly impossible to see if another vehicle is coming up the way. We pass an upturned SUV, its been gutted and shot to pieces.

Coming down onto the flat I can just start to get a glimpse of the run when I spot the white metal roof of a truck parked exactly where I want to fish.

Damn it. Someones beat us. Probably some gear guy parked in the best part of the run.

It is, of course, a gear fisherman. He's throwing a big gold spinner on a swivel, standing in the juiciest piece of water. We eye each other as Brandon and I step out of the truck. I start putting up our rods as he prepares coffee and breakfast on the tailgate. We both hum Marty Robins' El Paso as we set about preparing for a mornings fishing. As I get closer to having the rods put up, all the while shooting glances at the fisherman in the run, bemoaning his presence, he starts to step down. A gentleman after all. I suddenly feel foolish for being quick in my judgments. I take Brandon up river, give him a little tutorial on the double spey and leave him to his devices. Wading down a ways I step in and get into a good rhythm with my Meiser switch rod. Paired up with a 475 grain Skagit max short the thing is unstoppable.

Every once in a while I look back towards Brandon, just to make sure he isn't snagged or hasn't fallen in. I see him struggle with a cast, make the necessary adjustment, and then he sends one out with a nice tight loop. Behind him the fog is starting to lift off the hillside, revealing more of the surrounding country with every moment like a bride pulling back her veil. It is etherial. A just reward for us waking at such an unreasonable hour. A bald eagle ambushes an osprey on the far bank, making it drop a fish from its talons. Brandon and I hoot towards one another as spectators would cheer a good play at a sports game. I cast, I mend, I step down. I come to where we've parked when the gear fisherman comes down the bank and asks if he can step in above me. Absolutely.

Brandon takes a moment to take in the grandeur

The dog days linger on. It is a good time to become reacquainted with favorite fly patterns and favorite books. Lately I've been doing a bit of both. Soon, less than a week from this posting, I'll be attending Confluence outfitters guide school outside of Redding Ca, aka trout town USA. So I've been making myself busy trying to learn and tie all manner of trouty patterns. It's a world apart from the usual fare I have grown accustomed to here on the coast. Steelhead flies, especially winter steelhead flies, are the gaudiest most ostentatious things imaginable from the fly tiers perspective. They are as eccentric in character as the individuals who fish for steelhead.

Winter warriors adorn the "fly wall" in my garage.

By comparison the opposite could be said of the flies that fill my trout boxes. They are sparse ephemeral things. There is a zen like quality to tying a pattern as simple and effective as an elk hair caddis or pale morning dun. If tying a fly as time consuming and embellished as a dual stage intruder could be likened in literary terms to an epic novel such as Moby Dick or War and Peace, then by contrast a Parachute Adams or BWO would be a Haiku.

Dog Days

July 03, 2016 by Drew Griffith

It's the beginning of June and the end of another numbing week of work when I get word from Neil that a client has shown up at the lodge with his new boat and wants to be shown up river. It's the perfect excuse to cast all prior weekend obligations to the wind and scurry up the 101 for a good two days of fishing. It's Spring Chinook we're after, and although it's a slim chance in hell, the temptation to swing one up on the fly is too much to resist. I hastily throw all of my gear in the truck, pick up the obligatory case of beer, and I'm off. Pulling into the lodge the place seems oddly deserted, like everyone's gone on vacation from their vacation. Neil comes from some unseen place.

Hows it?

Good buddy, where's our ride?

He took his boat out to motor around the estuary. No rush dude. Just get your gear ready on the dock so we can get out of here when he comes back. This guys a trip. He's Russian.

Another Russian?

Another fucking Russian.

We drink a beer and put up my old Sage 6wt. It was my dad's rod before he left it to me. I put an old Ocean City reel on it paired with an OPST Commando head and some lazar line to boot. We're goofing off seeing who can huck it the furthest when a boat appears up river.

That's him.

And so it is. He pulls his boat in and we help him tie it off and assist him and his dog onto the dock. He's a giant of a man, dressed in swim trunks and sandals and atop his head a green army cap with a red communist star on it. I shoot Neil a wry smile before I shake his hand and we introduce ourselves. His hand engulfs mine as he takes it and with a boyish grin he says:

I am Olich. This is Beeskit.

Biscuit is a twelve year old Vizsla who is small for his size and skittish around the boat. The yellow life vest strapped around his torso seems like some kind of body cast. We get loaded up and shuffle around the boat negotiating the best seating arrangements. I end up on the bow laying back facing the stern, propped up by my elbow with a seat post between my legs. I just hope Olich doesn't hit a snag.

Neil guides Olich through the lower stretches, occasionally gesturing to steer left or right, keeping him in the channel and off the shoals. We pass the old bridge, knocked out in the great flood of '64. Being on the Klamath, and seeing the river from the vantage of the water, is like glimpsing back in time to some old weird and forgotten part of the country's past. If you look close enough you can just make out the last vestiges of Mark Twain's America. There are ramshackle camps in thick brush that have been erected next to springs that gush from the hillside. Jon boats are tucked on rocky outcroppings twenty vertical feet above the water, their metal carapace glinting in the sun. The Yurok have fish camps that come right down to the rivers edge, and as their children splash around on the bank, above, the adults mend nets under the shade of giant pole tents. We give a wave as we pass, a few wave back while others simply stare.

We head up river to a run that fishes well in high water. The Klamath can take weeks to drop in, and although it is already the beginning of June she is still shedding her spring runoff. The water is green and cold. "Really thumping" as I once heard an old fisherman remark. It won't last for much longer. Neil and I unload our gear on a muddy bank and send Olich and Biscuit up river to do their own exploration.

I go to Blue Creek. See you guys in a few hours ok?

We watch them as they motor off, both wondering silently to ourselves if we will ever see him or the dog again. The mud bank gives way to a grassy berm littered with small shrubby trees and we find a hollow between two thickets to rig up and make a mid day snack of canned sardines and crackers. I'm excited to put the newest rod in my quiver to the test. A true spey, the 8134 Burkheimer Classic is the biggest gun in my arsenal, and with the river pushing from bank to bank it is just the tool for the job. I pair it with an old Fenwick reel, and like the way the glossy black finish of the reel matches the black hardware of the rod. I take pause to look at the run below, and decide to throw on a lengthy chunk of T-14. Neil goes the other direction, fishing a MOW tip with a short chunk of T-14 and an unweighted fly. This has become our custom when we have the opportunity to fish a run together. One of us will dredge the outside, the other fishes small on the inside. "Everyone gets a look" we like to say.

The round up: Beulah 8124. TFO 7130. Burkheimer 8134 and Meiser switch 7110

I step in. Neil goes up above. The river looks amazing. It has a slate green stain to it and is huge; all of it is moving unencumbered. It seems like the river is alive in a way that I haven't seen in the past. I feel out the new stick, looking for its sweet spot. Somewhere half way down the run we fall into a rhythm. The casting becomes less mechanical and more intuitive. This seems to be the hallmark of any well-crafted object. There is a quality that guides the user in opening up whatever potential might be locked within. It has depth, character, personality. I hope for the inexplicable, the big heart stopping grab of a unicorn, a Springer. The big chunk of T-14 I put on is doing its dirty work. I can feel it digging into the swift current, feel the hum in the butt of my rod telling me that the big fly on the end of my line is sunk deep. It's down there hunting. Nothing happens.

Neil and I meet up at the hollow. The sun is baking down on the gravel bar and we are eager for shade. We rest between the thickets, with their branches arching overhead, nearly touching, and wait for Olich. He appears upriver after what seems like a long time. He has his trolling motor out for some odd reason and is casting a spinning rod with a bobber off his bow. We laugh to ourselves at the sight of it. The moment we meet him on the bank Biscuit leaps from the boat and makes for the gravel bar. He sprints 200 yards up the bank and parks himself on the grassy berm, staring back at us in defiance. Olich calls out to him from the boat where he is still casting his spinning rig bobber combo.

Biskeet you are son of beech. Biskeet what do you want huh?

Then Olich confesses to us that there is a small problem. He tells us that he went to Blue Creek, but decided to keep on going up river.

No gas guys. No gas in boat.

These are the dog days alright.

Dead Bear Run

June 20, 2016 by Drew Griffith

The day starts early well before the dawn. It comes with a hangover from the night before. The wind has already begun to blow down from the north and brings a bite of cold hinting of snow in the high country. Neil and I brave the morning chill and make our way to the Hiouchi Cafe for our customary breakfast. Before us, yet another day of winter steelheading on the fabled Smith. The rain that was forecast to fall during the night has disappeared somewhere out over the Pacific, but the sky still threatens, and we take it for a good omen of what might come. We head north up the 199 to a familiar spot, constantly breaking our necks to look down and see the river below as we pass the usual haunts. The boys are on it this morning; the tell-tale 4x4 in every pull out signifying that below is a good run and the fish are in.

It is always with nail biting apprehension that we come to our destination. Constantly craning to see above the last slope in the dirt road trying to spot the glint of metal that will signal we've been had by the earlier bird. On this day we prevail and are alone when we park and prepare to hike in. It has become a kind of ritual rigging up here. We must be fast, less we talk the better, for we both know one day we'll be right in the middle of putting around when a caravan of gut-slingers will come down the road and snake us. That'll be the day.

It's a decent hike in, with enough gain in elevation to keep you honest about your health. The perfect remedy for my hangover. From time to time we take pause to rest, and from this vantage we can see dark clouds mounting in the west.

"We might get soaked today."

"Hell ya."

We trudge on, two pilgrims on their way to the promise land. It really did feel as such, for we had both done well fishing this water the month prior. Both of us had fought and lost fish that neither of us will likely ever forget. The Smith held true to her solemn promise of offering up creatures that defy all expectations to those who are willing to put in their time and effort and pay their dues.

We make our descent and come upon the middle run, the best of the three, and rest under the cover of a madrone. It feels like it could start pouring rain at any moment. It would be welcomed, for the river is low and clear, and that is not making either of us brim with confidence.

"I'll walk up and fish the top and give you the middle. When we're done swinging this stuff I'll show you where that fish grabbed and broke me off."

"Sounds good."

An hour or so goes by. We meet up at the madrone and stare down into the run below.

"Anything?"

"Nothing, you?"

"Same."

Neil shows me where he hooked his fish and we go through the play-by-play of the fight as we meander down the cobble towards the end of the gravel bar.

"He took me right through all of those willows there, ha! I was sweating my ass off dude, the reel was screaming! I thought I was going to break Mike's rod. And then I started to scramble up those rocks there and I got to that point way out there."

He points down river to a rocky outcropping that juts out into a swirling back eddy. Below are rapids that spell certain death if one were to slip.

" I think my skagit head wrapped around that big rock out there. That's where he came off. Once it's summer time I bet I can swim out there and get my line back."

"Your line's gone man."

Standing there, we can just start to make out the hint of the next gravel bar and run down river from us. Normally, if the water was up, you wouldn't dare take on such a scramble for what could amount to peanuts. On this day, however, it might be just what the doctor ordered. You can only fish new water once, so why not. It's hard immediately. An arduous one step pivot and step affair. The river rages right beneath our feet as we boulder hop, it's relentless torrent drowning out any sound but that of itself. We come to a dead end and march upward, finding a game trail along a narrow ridge that leads us into a heavily wooded flat 100 ft above the river. Neil is ahead of me and comes upon it first. He stands back and waits until I am beside him and we both stare through the alder and huckleberry brush in absolute disbelief and amazement. The skeleton of a dead bear lays before us. As we step closer the leaf litter starts to squirm and it takes a moment to realize that dozens of newts are retreating from their feast. There are mushrooms erupting from the soil where the flesh of the animal has rotted away, and its claws litter the ground and shine like alabaster in the dappled half light of the afternoon. We stand and look at the skeleton for what seems like a long time without saying anything at all. It was as if we were stealing a glance at something that was never meant to be seen. The bear lay in such a place so hidden away from the rest of the world that it may never have been discovered or known of by anyone, save for the other animals. We felt like wild men, like we were pioneers. We were earning our stripes as steelheaders out in the last bastion of unmolested country and it had given us a glimpse of one of its most closely guarded secrets. We stood there above the Smith and beheld the tomb of a god.

We fished the run below, dead bear run, and had no luck. The days end fast in the winter months, and it was with sudden haste we made ready to hike out. As we ascended the ridge the clouds started to push in right on top of us. One moment the weather would be in so thick you couldn't see but ten feet ahead of you, and then it would suddenly break open, giving a view of the entirety of the river and valley below. It was grand. Out in the western sky you could see the sun was making ready to set over the Pacific. Neil had gotten a good ways ahead of me on the trail, and every once in a while I would look up and see him and he would turn and look back and gesture with a shrug and a smile as if to say does it really get any better than this?

Not a chance.

Gold River

May 24, 2016 by Drew Griffith

Its late May at the Gold River Lodge and getting on towards evening time. There are rumors around the camp that the Springers should start pushing in now at anytime, but so far its been a crap shoot. Brother Dave is hard at it preparing dinner for all, meticulously watching the temperature of the oven to make sure his ribs come out just right. Kenton is down on the newly installed docks scrubbing out the lodge jetboat, preparing for clients due to arrive mid-week. Neil has snuck off to the tie room to crank out a new batch of flies in hopes of the evening bite producing another monster cutthroat. Brother James is out of sight, but every once in a while his laughter breaks the tranquil evening air from some unseen place. Its a big uproarious laugh that you cant help but feel in good company with. To learn more about the lodge and guided fishing on the Klamath go to www.goldriverlodge.com