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Old 10-10-2011, 03:00 PM   #1
MikeWaters
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Default Fly fishing in the Northwest this summer: tales from an idiot non-savant

Here is my report from my recent trip to the Northwest and my very first attempts at cold-water fly fishing. I have only taken up the fly rod in the past few weeks, with most all of the advice I have received coming from folks online. This ended up much longer than I expected. It's the usual windbaggery from me, so you know what you are getting into if you start. The smart ones among you will know to not start!

After acquiring a 4 weight TFO, I began practicing on a local creek in Dallas. Was able to practice casting and catching a good number of bluegill and a couple of small blackbass. So at the very least, I was confident that I knew how to get my line wet in water.

Going to visit the inlaws in Washington this summer, I began to acquire all the gear I would be needing to fish for trout up in that part of the world. The list is long. But it included an 8 weight rod, with 2 reels with 8 weight fly line, waders, vest, flies, and various tools. This thing was cobbled together with large parts enthusiasm, delusion, and absurdity. Casting instruction was obtained via 10 minutes of study on youtube, followed by a session in a local park, and then the aforementioned creek.

Before I left for the Northwest, I had posted in a flyfishing forum asking for advice on guide services in that part of the country. A poster there asked me to email him. So I did. His name was Tom Foal (names changed to protect the innocent/guilty). I emailed Tom and waited for an answer. A week later I checked my spam filter. Two emails from Tom. Doh! I quickly emailed him back. Tom said that he wanted to take me to this river and that lake, and we will fish for this and that. Very nice, and very enthusiastic. To someone (me) who had 1 total post on his forum. I mentioned the email to my wife saying either this guy is the nicest guy alive, or he is a serial killer. I gave him the dates that I would be available and left it at that. I didn’t hear from him before I left. More on him later. On to the fishing.

My one request to my wife was that we rent a beach house. I had even bought salt water flies for the purpose of fly fishing in the salt. Hell, I had even brought my full-body wetsuit, just in case. The day before we get to our beach house, my wife informs me that the beach is Indian land and off limits to the public, and the nearest beach access is 6 miles away. Son of a #@$@$!!!!

The first river was the Quinalt. It’s on the southern edge of the Olympic National Park/Forest. We drove the North Shore road past Quinalt Lake and then got to the bridge that goes over the Quinalt River. Gorgeous area This would be my first attempt at getting my line wet. The view below is looking upriver from the bridge. The river was quite consolidated into one channel, and fast flowing without many obstructions at all. The rocky bank in the river bed allowed unfettered casting. I cast in both the faster deeper channels as well as the more shallow slower area a little upriver. Nothing. Didn’t note any holes, and probably would not have recognized any if they had been there. I lost a couple of flies on snags and became discouraged. I don’t know what I’m doing and the chances of me catching a fish are zero. Kids were getting grumpy with the wife (who were all watching me), time to go. But beautiful country.



The next day took me up to the Hoh Rain Forest and the Hoh River. I had read that the Hoh river is one of the most pristine amazing fisheries in the country. Maybe my luck would be better here. At the ranger/visitors station, I asked an old ranger about fishing in the Hoh River. He said that there were currently no runs of any sort, but that I might be able to catch the random cutthroat or a bull trout (illegal to catch/keep). Great. Does not sound promising. Not far south from the rainforest ranger station, approached the river from a pullout. Kids and wife in tow again. This was a varied-channeled meandering river with little pockets of shallows everywhere with a really deep blue/emerald channel on the far side. A lot of territory to cover, time for the waders and boots. Feeling like a true fly fisherman.

This was essentially the same situation as the Quinalt River—fast flowing without much if any pocket water around me. I floated some flies down the channel without any luck of any kind. Of course, I didn’t have really any hope of catching anything, given the ranger report, and my complete lack of knowledge and skill. But at the very least it was beautiful.





The next day we returned to the Vancouver area to be with the inlaws. I was batting zero, but there was still time. When we got into Vancouver, I checked my email. Tom Foal had finally emailed me back. He said that he was heading up to the Lewis River today, that if I wanted to go he would drop by and pick me up. He would be leaving at 3pm. I looked at my watch. It was 3:15pm. Doh! He had not left a phone number. I emailed him back saying “YES CALL ME.” Finally someone to show the ropes and it looked like I would miss out. In true stalker fashion I did an internet search looking for his home phone number. I found a likely number and called it. Answering machine. Dang! The wheels were turning in my head. Maybe I could meet him up at the river. He had sent me a map of his favorite fishing spot there on the Lewis River, so it had to be somewhere around there. Maybe I could pack up, go to the store and get a fishing license (you don’t need one in the national park), and find this Tom Foal. The fishing spot was only about 50 miles away, so it would not take long to get there.

It was a beautiful drive, great view of a snow-capped Mt. St. Helens on a clear day. The road goes though a narrow mountain valley with three valley reservoirs. Truly spectacular scenery. But a helluva harrowing drive on a very narrow fast road! The drive actually is about 1 hr 15 minutes gunning it pretty good slalom-style.

So I finally arrived at the bridge across the Lewis River where I suspected Tom Foal to be. He had said the fishing upriver from the bridge was spectacular, so I figured him to be up there. He had also warned that trekking upriver could be a beast. Got all my stuff together, noted the sign that said catch-and-release only and headed up a trail on the bank, looking for this friendly serial killer who was God knows where. The trail was tough. A lot of boulders and fallen trees. Soon the trail petered out completely and there was nothing but an extremely steep sandy and bouldered bank face pretty high up from the bank. There was no path closer to the bank due to numerous fallen trees. I was huffing and puffing and falling, slamming my rods onto various rocks and dirt as I made my way through this sand. This was ridiculous. Any one of those boulders above me could come unglued from sand and kill me. This was no place to mess around. I couldn’t see anyone on the river. Well maybe if I go a bit more upriver to where I can actually get in the river, I’ll be able to reach the bend and he will be up there. So I plodded onward, bent over, trying not to fall and kill myself. After a good ways, I realized this was stupid. I could see a quarter-mile upriver and there was no one. Screw this, last thing I want to do is be climbing through this crap in the dark, trying to get back to my car.

Better to just go back and find a place to fish. I gave up on Tom Foal. He was merely a ghost who MIGHT be on the river somewhere.

I finally found a place where I could get all my gear together. I noticed that I had lost my trout line out of my backpack along the way. Great start. Got into the water and started casting. Except it was very difficult to cast. I was having to do a backhanded cast and I couldn’t wade too far because the water was fast and deep. What kind of fly does someone put on when he doesn’t even know what flies he has? I had a random assortment of flies that someone online had recommended, so I grabbed something. The usual travails of the inexperienced fly fisher. Line tangling. Fly getting caught on bushes and driftwood. Fell into the river. Moved up and down a bit along the bank, trying behind rocks, floating the fly down the river, and so forth. Nothing. The pictures below are first, the view upriver where I was fishing, and then downriver.




It was getting kinda close to dark. And now the fish were jumping, just to mock me. This sucked. Gonna be skunked again. Wait a sec, the fish are jumping. Maybe I should put on something that looks like it will float. You would be embarrassed to watch me tie on flies. It literally probably took 15 minutes. So I started casting my dry fly in the area where the fish were periodically coming to the surface. Except my dry fly was now a water-logged wet fly and not floating. AC had said that frog’s fanny was an absolute necessity, so I had purchased some. I’ll put that on, I thought. Went through everything. No floatant. I literally had the kitchen sink in fly vest with 10 rolls of tippet and the like, but no floatant. Another sigh.

I tell you, the moment that the fish hit my dry fly and I knew I had a fish on the line was sheer pandemonium. HOLY HELL, I HAVE A FISH! With the next thought being, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT LOSE HIM, THIS MIGHT BE YOUR ONLY FISH OF THE TRIP! Frantically trying to strip in my line, worrying that he might bust my line, I brought in my very first trout on the fly. And the first trout I had caught in the wild since I was a young teenager. I DID IT! It felt like the culmination of a lot of effort. My goal had been to catch a fish. I knew I would catch one on a guided trip, but now I had caught one with no instruction whatsoever. I was filled with an unjustified and inordinate amount of pride.



Kept fishing the same fly, and another one hit. I think this was the big one (memory getting fuzzy now). Quite a bit bigger than the first one. Now I was really excited. The picture below doesn’t really do him justice. He was by no means a very large fish, but the dept of the net makes him appear smaller than he was. It’s the opposite of what everyone complains about online with fish pictures. I also learned, fumbling around with my net, my rod, and a camera, that taking the artful fish-held-in-hand pics are quite difficult. At least without practice.

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Another trout soon came to hand. Wow! It was getting dark. But I didn’t feel at all like leaving. Fish were jumping! By this time, my fly was toast, and I had to put on a new one. One more fish, and I will go home! It took some time, but finally the fourth and final rainbow came to hand.



I was now deep in the shadows, with the sun long gone. I looked to pick up my TFO from the bank. It was gone! I quickly saw that it was about 15 feet downriver from where I had place it. In my haste, I had dropped it in the shallows of the river, but the fly line had snagged and kept it from going further. My luck was continuing! What had turned into a wild goose hunt for an internet phantom was now the first successful outing on a beautiful river. Truly a memory I will always treasure.

In the parking area by the bridge, I sauntered around a bit, checking out the river downstream. I noticed a man taking off his waders, sitting on the bumper of his SUV. “Excuse me, are you Tom Foal?” Sure enough it was. He had actually driven further up the river and entered far beyond me. I never would have caught up to him. He was very gracious, gave me advice, and showed me a rainbow he had caught below the bridge (where you can keep). I’m not kidding, it was huge. The biggest trout I had ever seen. It was probably over 10 pounds. It had hit a topwater fly. This trout made my trout feel like the kids in high school who hadn’t hit puberty! Wow. This place was trout paradise. Trout jumping and feeding, schools of huge ones there for easy pickings. I was scheduled to go visit friends in Oregon the next day. I was sorely tempted to cancel on them and come back the next day.

It wasn’t until the next week that I returned. This time I wanted a keeper. I wanted something I could take back to Vancouver and eat. This was going to be easy. I would get a keeper or two or maybe even five and then head upriver and fish the wilds. I fished on the near side, where the river is shallower, allowing me to cast. There were a couple of boats anchored in the river, using spin tackle. They were getting all kinds of action. I was getting nothing. I tried my wooly bugger and a couple of other flies. I tried going as deep as I could, the water above my waist. No action. So then I left and went across the bridge to the other side of the river, where it looked deeper, where the boats were. Nothing.

Screw this, I’m going back upriver and will go to the part that Tom Foal was at. A good half mile upstream from where I had previously fished the week before. Once I finally arrived up there, I noticed that like Tom had said, there appeared to be pocket water everywhere. This was a very bouldered river. Tom had suggested floating wooly buggers through channels, and hitting all the pockets with other kinds of flies as well. So I went at it. No hits. After moving down river a ways, I decided to go upriver. To do so, I had to get past a large inlet stream, which meant climbing back on the road and crossing using the bridge. Up past this tributary I began fishing again. Two bedraggled teenagers were coming back from upriver, holding their spinning gear. I asked if they had any luck. No, they said. They had been all the way to “the mouth” (the source?) with no luck. I continued for a time, but absolutely nothing. At no point in the day were the fish coming to the surface like they had been the previous week. My wet flies weren’t doing jack.

It was starting to get towards evening and I went back to the stream and the keeper area. I looked down from the bridge and could see HUGE trout just holding at the bottom of the river. A friendly man and his son struck up a conversation with me. He was from Canada and had some experience. He looked at my flies and suggested I use my nymphs and my sinking line to try and get some to bite. So I did so. In all the time I tried, I got one hit (but didn’t stay on the hook for but a second), and one trout to hand. That was literally three inches long. I was getting discouraged. This was supposed to be easy! The fish were there for the taking! By evening there were about three fly fishers on the shallow side where you can freely cast. They weren’t raking in the fish, but it seemed each had bagged a single trout.

It was desperation time. I decided to go back to the EXACT same spot I had been to the week prior. By now it was evening and most of the river was in shadows. It was the same time. The ideal time. I made the trek and set up shop. Cast towards the downed tree like I had done before with my dry/wet fly. After a bit, I brought a trout to hand. By this time my point-and-shoot camera was toast. I had placed it in a “waterproof” pocket in my waders and it had gotten soaked. This fish was pretty small, and after a bit of casting and such with no fish rising, I decided to leave for my next venue.

Tom Foal had told me about this magical place called Merrill Lake that was about 20 miles away. Where there is an incredible hex hatch in the evening. The day before I had been to the local fly shop in Vancouver and had bought two hex flies, probably tied by the purveyor himself. The Greased Line. The fish hit the flies at the surface like you wouldn’t believe at nighttime, he said. So I took off in my car. The trip was further than I expected and when I arrived at the lake, it was flat dark. This was going to be tough. Wading into an unknown lake, trying to fish in the pitch black. When I got ready to set up, a guy was coming in from his inflatable pontoon. Hatch is over he said. Worth my time? Go for it, you might get a random hit. The lake was fully of aquatic plants, and I was in for a mess. Every single fisherman out there (fly fishing only) was in a boat or inner tube come to find out. Casting in the dark was tough, but I went for it. Roll casting without seeing what I was doing. These hex flies are quite large.

It wasn’t but a few minutes that I lost my fly in some kind of tangle. I had only purchased two. I had been at this all day. I was cold and tired, I had lost my fly and was standing there in the dark watching all the guys in tubes and boats heading in. I should go. Maybe I should put on my other hex fly. What the hell, when else was I going to use it? With a flashlight in my mouth, I tied on the other fly, and cast it a few times. Nothing. It was getting late, time to leave. As I packed everything up, I took a look around. A shooting star met my gaze, and the stars were something incredible like I haven’t seen in a long time. They seemed to be infinite. No moon. No city lights. Tucked into the mountains by Mt. St. Helens in this alpine lake. Truly spectacular and moving. Another shooting star. I started down the road back home, and stopped as black buck in velvet stood on the side of the road staring at me. It had been a terrible day for fishing, but a great day overall with a beautiful ending. Merrill Lake. A special place.

I had one more day to make amends. And this time I had a strategy. What good was it for me to float nymphs without an indicator. So I picked up some indicators and weights. I had perused the internet and discovered that this was supposedly an effective method. All would be well now. Yes, the day prior would be made right today with my new technique.

This was the final day of fishing on my vacation. I set up shop on the deep side of the river and began trolling my nymph + bobber + split shot. Nothing. There was a fish that kept feeding at the surface pretty close to me, so I switched to an elk caddis and my floating line. I slipped on a rock and went down. When I got up and was reeling in, I noticed my reel handle had broken off. Inauspicious start. Put the other reel on with the sinking line. Decided to move to another part of the river and walked past a couple of guys also fishing from the steeper bank. Struck up a conversation with the fly fisher, and he said he had caught a few but not having much success. I explained that I was brand new to this, and he said here, let me show you what I am doing. If Washington has good ol’ boys, he is definitely one of them. Fishes this river multiple times a week with his trusty St. Croix and old crotchety reel. Gave me casting advice and a few flies, including a couple of nymphs and a caddis elk hair he suggested I used on the bluegill when I got back to Texas. Very nice guy. His name was Jim.

Back to the shallow side of the river in the keeper section, because I was sick of my terrible roll casting. Here I could let these nymphs fly. Jim had suggested that I tie on a stretch of 3x to my now shortened leader, and then a stretch of 5x. I was ripping and roaring like a guy in love with false casting who had watched Brad Pitt a time or two too often, casting as far as he could into the river. Nothing.

I went back on the bridge and looked down at the trout in the river. There were some big ones just sitting on the bottom of the deep section, not far from the bank. So I headed down there again. Jim had told me that the best flies during a bright day are your brightest flies. I looked down in the water, maybe 10 feet from the bank, six or seven feet down was a HUGE fish. As in a 10 pounder. He soon became the object of my desires. I switched from the nymph to this very large gold fly fly, about 2 inches long, that I had brought from my saltwater fly kit. I attached split shot and began trying to troll this monstrosity past him. Difficult roll casting, but the advantage of this fly was that it was large enough to see on the bottom. I kept going and going and going with no success. He was not interested. And then suddenly he hit it! I had the monster on the line. OK, OK, don’t let the line go loose! This was a big fish, and I knew I was in for a fight. Twenty seconds in, he made a fierce turn and SNAP my line was busted. Heartbreak. The line had failed at the junction of the 5x and the 3x, despite my double nail knot. Argh! I was kicking myself, I shouldn’t have been so aggressive, let the fish run. Finally I had a big fish on the line, here on the last day, and I had totally blown it. The fish was gone. And my chances were in the toilet. I told Jim about it, and he said, yeah, I was thinking that you being brand new here with no experience, that you would probably be the one to hook the big one. What kind of fly did you use? I told him. Big fly, huh? I knew it. I only fish small flies.

Now I had become irrationally determined to catch a keeper, and I decided to use the same technique. I used my two other huge salt water flies, but somehow lost one of them to the river, and the other just wasn’t working. I switched to nymphs. I went up on the bridge, and looked down to scout out the fish. After an hour or two, I noticed that a big one, similar to the one I had on the line, was a bit further out. I mentally mapped out his position based on bridge and bank landmarks. But the roll casting was difficult that far out. I kept at it, using fly after fly, trolling it along the bottom as best I could. A few folks, including Jim, were now on top of the bridge commenting on the huge fish there next to me. They’re right there. A 10 pounder. Just cast cast there. This was not helping. Yes, I know the fish are there, and no, I cannot catch them.

I had told me wife that I wouldn’t stay late today. By this time I had switched to just 3x line. I put on my hopper and a weight. Hadn’t tried the hopper yet, and began casting. Just a few more casts and I would have to go home. It was not long at all, before I had a hit. Prayers answered! I started to bring in the slack, and then the fish made a run, and my reel was screaming. SCREAMING. I had another big one on the line, but this time I had not been sight indicating, so I had no idea what I was dealing with. And I desperately did not want to blow this like the last one. I was actually under the bridge out of the water standing on the rocks. When the fish would slacken, I would reel, otherwise I let him run, palming my reel like I had read about. The adrenaline was pumping. At least let me see him, before my line breaks, I was thinking. Back and forth, this fish was making huge runs but I managed to get my line to about 40 feet away. However efforts to bring him closer were not working as started to make runs down the river. As the angle began to be more parallel to the bank, I began to worry about the large rocks in the river that he might be able to get behind. I needed to get downriver immediately! By this time, many minutes had passed, and I was beginning to get tired. My right arm was beginning to throb. I stumbled down into the river and began thrashing my way downriver, trying to keep the line tight, but also let this big fish run. HE JUMPED. He was huge. Just like the TV shows where the huge fish goes into the air. YES, YES, YES. I moved toward the large outcropping of rocks in the river. Finally I got to them. By this time twenty minutes had passed. At least that’s what it felt like. I have no idea how much time it was. And I was in the middle of the rock outcropping so he couldn’t out-connoiter me. He jumped again. My heart was pounding. Now he was close, maybe 30 feet away. I reeled some more. SNAP. I let out a roar of anguish. The biggest fish of my life, the biggest fish battle of my life. So close, and now he was gone. And the day was about over on my very last chance in the northwest.

My heart was still pounding and I was feeling all kinds of emotions. Disappointment, but also respect and excitement. As I thought about what had happened, I realized that I could live with this. That we had battled, and he had won, and while I desperately had wanted to bring him to net, I could live with this. That this was a huge accomplishment for me anyway and something I would never forget. It would make me appreciate the big one that I one day would bring to net even more.

Upriver vantage from where I hooked my two big ones.



Where I was sight-indicating the first big one I hooked.


View downriver from where I hooked the second one. I had to traverse the river from here down to those rocks there on the left side of the bank.


Panorama of the scene from under the bridge.


I was completely soaked with my desperate river run. I cast a few more times, but it was time to go. Forget my promise to my wife to get home early, I would go for the hatch at Merrill Lake. Away I went.

I waded into Merrill Lake and realized I was freezing my but off. I was completely soaked inside my waders, and it turns out that without the air insulation, you can get cold very fast in cold water up to your chest. A guy came in from the lake and said “no hatch today.” I got out and took off my waders. Struck up a conversation with a guy on the bank. He had come out with his buddy and couldn’t fish because his tube had a leak. So he was hanging out drinking a beer. We talked about fishing, kids, hunting, everything. I was soaking up the last few minutes of my vacation, not with fishing, but with talking. Only a few fish rose to the surface. The mad hatch with incredible action was not happening tonight. And now I did actually need to take my soaked self back home.

Merrill Lake from the boat ramp.


It has been the most successful least successful day of fishing ever for me. In just a few days, from the time of the Quinalt River to this last day, I had made a ton of progress. I had become much more efficient with everything, from tying on tippet, efficiently switching flies, improving my casting, and my strategy on the river. Still terrible, still don’t know what I am doing, but eons better. A guided trip is going to be the next step for me, so I can improve in technique and strategy.
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