Chinese Fish Compliments

So, as I sit here in the heat of the summer of 2010, I realize I have been keeping you all in suspense of the whereabouts of the Best Secret Fishing Spot On The Planet is.

Meanwhile, 28 comments, primarily in Chinese have hit the blog.

Not being schooled, or having a remote idea as to what the cryptic tic -tac- toe figures are trying to convey, I can only assume that the Chinese are getting impatient with me.

Perhaps they are complimenting me on my writing style, or begging for the location, so one billion Chinese fisherman can converge on the hills of Southern Oregon to catch the 12 inch trout that reside there! My curiousity has peaked as well. I have contemplated taking Mandarin Chinese at one of our local high schools here in Southern Oregon, just so I can find out why there is a sudden interest in my blog in China. I promise you, I have not outsourced my blog, nor have I found it cheaper to "peck out my blog" with a Chinese firm in Shanghai. I worry that I may be being cursed at in a foreign language, in which I am ill equipped to defend myself. Occasionally, I see some "confucious like" pearl of wisdom, attached to the Chinese comment, but I think this a smoke screen, and don't believe for a minute that my fishy blog has inspired these contemplative philosophical renderings.

So, I sit here clueless, internet neophyte that I am, and I suspect that this is some sort of internet SPAMY thing or content pirating -that boards "sleeping blogs" and makes use of it's owners seemingly disinterested state.......or demise.

Well, I am here to tell you that fishthis is here to stay...for awhile anyway, and is only suffering the writers block that comes with having a ten year old soccer player. And as soon as she gets through with her mandatory Mandarin Chinese language course, i will have a snappy comeback to your Chinese compliments.

Until then......stay tuned!

The Best Secret Fishing Spot On The Planet.....

Timmy has been talking about this place for years.

He would talk, and I would sit there riveted, hoping he would slip up and divulge the location of his own private fishing Nirvana. Each time he told the story, he would give a few more bits and pieces, and like any good super fish sleuth, I would make mental notes, and go home and pull out maps trying to find this "needle in a haystack" creek.

It is not like he hadn't offered to take me there someday, it's just that each year seemed to pass by, and we just didn't seem to make it there. Then.... the next year we would eventually drift in to fish talk about "secret creek", and I would start the whole process of mentally picturing the bubbling springs, wildflowers, plentiful trout, and wild solitude.

Tim had been going to this place since he was "knee high to a chicken",(do chickens have knees?) and according to Tim, this place hadn't changed much since his "Baba" had dragged his sorry butt up and down these Oregon peaks and meadows.

"Nobody fishes this place." Tim would say.

Then he would tell me of fish after fish after ever lovin' wild fish, he and "Baba" would catch and release. They would crash through brush, climb over logs, slog through mud and all the while keep looking over there shoulders just to make sure a bear or cougar wasn't sneaking up on them.

Fishing Nirvana.

"These aren't the biggest fish in the world, most are 9 to 12 inches with an occasional 18 incher." Tim would say.

"And you'll have to belly crawl and sneak up to a lot of places, and we really can't fish it until the snow melts and the runoff settles down in mid July."

"Let's go." I would say, emphatically making sure he knew I was of the same ilk as he was when it comes to fishing.

The summer of 2006 was the year.

Plans were made, and I still looked on U.S. forest service maps trying to make last minute guesses as to where we were headed. I half expected Tim to blindfold me like some hostage negotiator being led to an undisclosed location, so as never to find this place again. But, Tim probably figured no one in there right mind would venture into this spot alone.

Tim told me the first day we were only going to scout, just to make sure the water levels were right and had receded enough to fish the creek. We drove high into the mountains, hauling our four wheelers so we could get back easier on the road that led higher and higher into the mountains. Up we went on a goat road, until we came to a spot where a small creek crossed under the road. We stashed our quads in the trees. Then we hiked a mile or so up a creek with no trail. There was a fair amount of water still coming down this high mountain creek, but Tim said, "looks good".

Of course he also said our fishing spot was still five or six more miles up stream.

I emphasize the part about... no trail???!!!

I stood looking at the creek and peered into the water hoping to see that "occasional 18 incher", but saw nothing. In fact, as I looked at the series of cascades, drops, and logjams, I could hardly believe this place could hold so many fish. I kept picturing a massive runoff that certainly would tumble all these fish into the larger river miles downstream. Nonetheless, I trusted that Tim knew his Nirvana.

The next day the plan was to take two vehicles. We would drop one "close by" the tail end of our hike out and drive the six or seven miles upstream and fish our way down back to our rig.

We bumped our way up a typical logging road almost to the crest of this steep Oregon range of mountains. Then we again stashed our rig in a place where no one would have a clue why we were there.

Very covert operation...

After making sure we hadn't been followed, or spied upon, we grabbed our hidden fishing rods and literally-"walked into the woods".

Timmy is a surveyor by trade, so I felt confident that even though he seemed to be wandering off into an endless forest of spruce, Doug fir and cedars, he knew exactly where he was. We kept climbing and weaving our way in a westerly direction, picking up small deer trails.

Or maybe they were Bigfoot paths!

As we hiked the couple of miles up and down one draw after another, Tim was transported to his youth, and it started to really come clear why this was his favorite fishing spot.

He talked of his deceased "Baba", a true Oregon homesteading pioneer, who would drink Old Crow whiskey and crow about all these new fangled granola types moving into our area and "screwin' with it". He would name off species of trees, point out the sick ones- probably some of the same trees his "baba" had pointed out to him--and talk of a big buck or bear he and "baba" had tracked.

He talked how he and his son had made this same trek, and how Andrew complained about having his sorry butt dragged all over these hills, and then falling in love with this same place like the three generations before him.

We'd stop to unsnag our fishing lines from branches and slide down steep hillsides, climb over logs and you could feel the anticipation in the air as Tim-redescribed- for the hundreth time what we would see when we got to our creek drainage.

And then it was there.

Just as promised, we reached the headwaters of a small mountain creek, somewhere here in the mountains of Oregon. Water bubbling out of the ground from numerous fingers, wildflowers galore, and a giant snow rimmed wall of rocks and trees all around us.

end of part one.....

If I Did It....

I'm not saying I did it, BUT if I did... here is how it would have gone down....

......The river was gin clear, and I had had it up to here.

Steelhead? Can't live with them, can't live without them.

I had been chasing after my trophy hen for days, and so far my North Umpqua Steelie, the "Nickel Bright" one that made me feel like a man, had been busting my chops. On top of that, my bank account had been dwindling, and "Nickel" had threatened to suck me dry, if I kept stalking her up and down the banks of the river.

"Nickel"--you don't mind if I call her "Nickel"-- and I had had a stormy existence to say the least.Early in our relationship, everything was great, I was a young athletic guy in the prime of my life and I was frequenting rivers throughout the Northwest. There were so many fish in the sea-so to speak- and I never got tired chasing them all. I could go all day, dancing up and down the banks, hitting all the hot spots, eventually hooking some unsuspecting young thing. All bright, feisty, full of life, along the river bank we would dance, and at the end of the day, I might even head home with one--sometimes two!!

Whoa, what a life!

I was the envy of all my buddies.

Then one day it all changed. I met "Nickel.

She was a bright one alright, and after a long day of chasing her-I hooked her.

"Nickel" was the hottest Steelhead I had ever hooked, and back in the San Fernando Valley where I grew up, the "boys in the 'burb" were pretty impressed with my prowess over these bright tails.

At least that is what I thought.

"Nickel" was wild, bright, fresh, and I planned to make her mine.

But wild North Umpqua Steelies don't go home to stay with anyone.

For one, the fishing regulations say so, and two, city boys like me, don't wind up with wily hens like this.

That just made the challenge more fun.

I hooked her alright, and she jumped, flipped, ran and did all she could to keep from coming under my control. But soon I had her under my power and it was just a matter of time before I planned to have her. She began to submit to my steady pressure and I felt just like a man should. Powerful and in control.

Then something changed.

"Nickel" refused to yield and her wild nature took control. She refused to be possessed by any man.

She ran.She hid. Under a big boulder, to be exact. I - I - mean, IF I was to be exact!

I could not get her to budge.

I tried to reason with her. "I am the man, and YOU are the fish!"

But it did me no good. She was arrogant and she meant to have nothing more to do with me.

I became angry. My buddies starting making fun of me, saying they knew I couldn't hold a hot trophy like that. "Your not as young as you used to be, hotshot--break it off and let's go golfing."

Now I was incensed. They were challenging my manhood here.

I stalked her up and down the riverbank, applying light pressure, then trying steady force,all to no avail.

The laughter from my friends was deafening, and her beligerance only fueled my anger. I begged and pleaded. "Come on baby, you and I have come too far to have it end this way."
Still, there was no reasoning with her.

My friends were embarrassed, and it was getting late, so they just left me there alone with "Nickel". Just the two of us, a wild river, a wild fish, a moonless night and two wild souls that would not back down.

I have always had my way with fish, and this trophy would not be any different. I grabbed a glove from my vest, my hands were tired from fighting this hen,and blisters were starting to develop. I grabbed my swiss army knife from my pocket and was finally ready to just cut the line and break it off.

Then something happened.

She rolled over and came free of that boulder.The young fishing stallion re-emerged in me and I was back on the hunt. We fought and tussled, but she was worn down from my constant pressure. I pumped up and down, reeling like a man possessed. Soon she was at my feet, exhausted and breathing hard.

And so was I.

I had been here a thousand times. " Come here baby, let me release the hook and you can be on your way." I grabbed her by the tail fin, and the wildness in her would not let her submit. She thrashed, kicked and actually came off my hook.

After that everything happened so fast.

I became angry. If it was time for us to part, it would be MY decision--not hers!

I dropped to my knees, and grabbed with my gloved hand around her throat. I dropped my swiss army knife somewhere in the water and couldn't find it, so I grabbed a rock and smashed it into her bright beautiful head, over and over and over until she laid blood soaked on my glove.

"What have I done?"

"Nickel Bright", full of life one minute, and now in my fit of anger..... GONE..... a lifeless WILD steelhead cut down in her prime. A.J., WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, I thought to myself. She shouldn't have challenged me that way! Why did she have to be so defiant? Why didn't she just submit just like all the other "hatchery" hens before her?

I panicked.

There was no one around, so I tossed her to the side. I couldn't get caught with this wild fish in my possession.

I pulled my "bloody glove" off and tossed it into the bushes. My swiss army knife was somewhere in that murky water, but it was to dark, and I had to get out of there.

I grabbed my fishing rod, and ran. I jumped into my Ford Bronco and slowly and sadly drove away.

There was nobody there to witness this and even though the game warden came across the grisly scene the next morning, nobody could "prove" that it was I who had killed "Nickel Bright". In fact, they tried to get me to fit into that bloody glove, but thank goodness, it must have shrunk. My swiss army knife has never been found, and that rock..... well ...it's secret lies somewhere at the bottom of the North Umpqua river.

NOW YOU KNOW....

.......I mean..... IF I DID IT..... that is the way it would have gone down.

What Happens On A Fishing Trip--Stays On A Fishing Trip...

Much like the marketing slogan of the city of Las Vegas, what happens on a fishing trip...stays on a fishing trip.

And with good reason.

Now, before you let your mind wander to seedy places and envision some sort of steamy Desperate Housewives in waders scene, understand that what I am talking about here, is mainly the transgression of grown men to a state of adolescence.

Of course, what some may call transgression, may actually be a state of bliss for others, and most card carrying males would prefer to remain in the eighth grade anyhoo.Most fishing trip foibles are caused by a slight abuse of alcohol, (O.K. maybe a little more than slight) in deadly combination of serious abuse of the legume.Most women would be surprised to find that men are such patrons of the arts, commonly re-enacting the scene from the movie Blazing Saddles worldwide.

Doctors, judges, CEO's, and other well respected pillars of society would certainly quake in their boots if information got out on the sophomoric pranks that take place on fishing trips. Again, most are innocent and consist of "gross smells", waking up in odd places, grabbing odd places, the misuse of personal property and carefully placed fish heads and carcasses.

All that being said, a few years back, my good friend Ovis and I were on a fishing trip and decided to let our wives in on the secret world of the fishing road trip.

Big mistake.

We didn't actually invite them on the trip, which would have been cause for immediate termination of our man cards, but we did get the hairbrained idea of filming segments of our trip so they too could see what FUN we were having. In fact, we may have unwittingly created the first reality TV show since this filming took place well before Survivor or The Nanny were even gleams in their producers eyes.

The results are still way to painful to watch.

Let me explain.

We shot some nice footage of us flyfishing on the famed Blackfoot River in Montana, which if you are familiar with the movie A River Runs Through It, is the same river they used to popularize and immortalize the grand sport of flyfishing. Our footage, of course, set the flyfishing world backwards about 10,000 years, and even the best film editor would have been challenged to find 2 minutes of usable film. Perhaps, had we stopped at this point our wives would have said something like "nice scenery, do you guys actually catch fish?", and we could have saved face as only being lousy flyfishermen.

This was not the case.

After a sandwich and a cold beverage, we decided a couple games of Cribbage were in order, before we went out for our afternoon casting session. At some point during the Cribbage game, while we sat partaking of some "potent iced juice and whatever" concoction, one of us came up with the bright idea to film our card game. This decision was made based on the assumption that we were really quite witty and were getting funnier as the card game progressed. In fact, we were so sure of this, that we decided to include the footage in our reality fishing show. We were just cracking ourselves up,and as we dead-panned for the video camera, which now sat atop a tripod, we just knew the writers of Seinfeld would be contacting us to join their writing team soon. We even played back some footage just to make sure we were funny--and you know what?-- under the influence of "potent iced juice and whatever"..... we were!

A full half hour of non- stop cribbage action. "Whoa, that's a double run and knobs for 9".

Funny stuff.And they think Texas Hold 'em is a made for TV game!

Upon our trip home, we informed our wives we were about to let them in on the secret world of the male fishing trip. Somewhat of a risk, but it was time that we let our wives know just how much fun they were missing by getting the wrong mix of chromosomes.

Sort of a gloating session, I guess.

The evening was set, we had some dinner, a beverage or two, and kept teasing our wives with some material from what was sure to be the best fishing film....ever!! They didn't seem to get our unique and dry sense of humor, but some guys are just funnier on TV, and what would you expect from the Y-chromosomally challenged anyway?

So we moved to the sofa, plugged in the videotape, and prepared to watch our wives roll in laughter, as they realized they were really married to Eddie Murphy and Steve Martin.

Somebody must have switched tapes on us.

For the next 45 minutes we watched what looked to be a training film, for the sobriety tank at the county jail. Oh, the fishing footage was OK- if you like watching two middle aged men NOT catch fish and then get excited over the landing of a lunker 7 inch trout. But when the "cribbage show" came on the air, our wives simply sat there blinking slowly as their jaws dropped open into what may be the world's record for the longest period of jawdropping blank stares.

If they have a record for that sort of thing.

Truth be told, we would have had to have consumed an equal amount of "potent iced juice and whatever" to even remotely have found the footage funny. We tried to use the excuse" I guess you had to be there."But evidently we weren't there at the time ourselves!!

So, the secret of what happens on a fishing trip, stays on a fishing trip, will forever be protected and be our guiding mantra from this point forward. For there are some things our wives just don't need to know about...

...Like their husbands never got out of the eighth grade!!

Early Summer Steelhead Run Encouraging...

With a dismal Spring Chinook season ready to come to an end, the early return of Rogue River Summer Steelhead has anglers brimming with hope.

With over 4000 steelhead over Gold Rey Dam, (as of July 21st) angling for what many consider the crown jewel of Rogue River fish, has been consistent, if not downright HOT!!

Reports of ten pound(or better) fish have been coming in,and these fish are aggressive and seem to be taking both bait and flies. As an extra bonus, with the lack of salmon fishermen lining the banks of the Rogue, the ultimate fishing experience is downright pleasant.

I spent a day last week floating the upper Rogue and between our six fishermen we boated over 150 fish.The bulk of them were trout and half pounders, but our boat landed four steelhead over six pounds, with the largest a nice wild 30 inch beauty that had us doing a Chinese fire drill as we chased it down river. For those of you familiar with the summer run of steelhead on the Rogue, you know that fish much over 24 or 25 inches in July are pretty rare. So, to say that this early return of steelhead is encouraging, is quite the understatement. Just for good measure we hooked --but unfortunately lost- a couple of Spring Chinook that kept us busy for twenty minutes while we tried to land them on eight pound test.

We were also lucky enough to get a cool cloud covering that kept us from suffering in the predicted 106 degree temperatures that had been forecast for that day.

So, for those of you that are depressed over the poor return of salmon this year on the Rogue River, you can get out your flyfishing gear, light tackle, and Tevas and start fishing for Summer Steelhead.