Memorial Day Weekend 2008

Here are some observations and ramblings as a result of my expeditions over Memorial Day weekend.

I had my first “spring creek experience” on this weekend. Spring creek fishing is one of the touchstones in the career of one who seeks to fool the wily trout with the artificial fly. Fly fishing seems to have a bunch of touchstones, and one can only try to touch them all. I’ll never come close, and I suspect that those who make a living fly fishing, or travel the world in the quest just for entertainment, are disappointed (or encouraged) to discover that touchstones just keep multiplying anyway. I can only imagine being one who, upon touching what he thinks is the last one, like catching Arctic char in the former Soviet Union, opens a magazine or reads a classic journal only to discover that there is something else he is supposed to do before he dies.

A spring creek is just what it says. It is a creek that emanates from a spring rather than from melted snow or cool rain. Their current is languid, they are typically fairly shallow, maintain a constant temperature, and don’t have the cobble bottom usually encountered in freestone streams. Spring creek trout are notoriously selective, healthy, and beautiful. Montana has the Paradise Valley, Idaho has Silver Creek, Wyoming has Flat Creek, and I think there are number of them in the East, Pennsylvania, New York, etc. Washington has Rocky Ford Creek which is not as famous as the others mentioned, but a spring creek none the less. I would guess that the spring comes from the fact that the Columbia River is dammed up so tight, it just oozes out of the ground here and there.

One reason it is not as famous might be because it is in the middle of the flippin’ desert, wedged between a couple of huge impoundments on the Columbia River system in Central Washington. The desert locale makes the place particularly intriguing. You would think the banks of such an oasis would be choked with cottonwoods, alders, and what not, but Rocky Ford Creek has only some reeds and small willows. There is no impediment to the back cast; a false cast over the water might snag one of the many impervious ducks that paddle along on the placid and extraordinarily clear water. Wading is not allowed, and catch and release regulations apply. The fish are all rainbows, and you can easily see them cruising at their selected depths, occasionally sipping unseen miniscule invertebrates. You can learn a lot about the behavior of trout just by watching them. You can see why many takes of the artificial go undetected even by the best fly fishers because sipping is a literal description of what they do. I even saw one right at my feet take a mouth full of detritus off the bottom, sort out the morsel he wanted, probably a scud, and spit out the rest. You can bet your ass they will spit out a morsel with a hook in it in a microsecond.

The fishing was great. I didn’t fool many trout, but the ones I hooked were large and powerful, and the challenge made for what a spring creek experience is supposed to be. I camped by pitching a tent at the edge of the gravel parking area the evening before I fished. I didn’t fish more than about three hours because the place started to get loaded up with people (yuk) and the wind turned into a good ol’ western desert gale (more yuk). There were four big assed cigar butts on the ground near where I pitched my tent. They looked like big turds with gold bands around ‘em.

This brings up notions of things that are supposed to comprise the complete fly fishing experience, be it on a spring creek in the stinking desert or on a Maine brook trout stream (Uh-oh! Another unattained touchstone). After testing his skill against the aforementioned wily trout, the fisher is obliged to sit on a rock, log, or even a camp chair, preferably a Maine Lounger from L.L. Beane, and smoke a fine cigar and drink some single malt Scotch made with water from the River Spey. He should do this while wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. I figure the dorks who left the banded turds never heard of the River Spey.

I spent a day and a half in the Central Washington desert before the wind and heat reminded me the I didn’t move to the Northwest to sweat my ass off in country just like that I left. Don’t get me wrong. I have a love for all the varied terrain and climates of our great country and the West especially. I’ll be heading for Rocky Ford Creek next winter when I get the urge to stretch my eyeballs after several weeks under Western Washington’s interminable winter cloud cover. There is no doubt that the lee side desert is an integral part of the Northwest ecosystem and so on. But, like I said dammit; it was bloody hot and the wind had 5 ft. whitecaps and aluminum framed lawn chairs blowing across whatever lake that is you cross on I-90. That lake used to be the Columbia River, but that subject is for another diatribe on another day.

I went south to Yakima and then over the mountains at the edge of Mt. Rainier National Park. The route took me over Chinook Pass which is a seasonal road like Independence Pass or Trail Ridge Road in Colorado. It was white, and green, and lush, and cold enough to. . . .
Oh well, diversity, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.

See y’all later,