Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [63]
Before we left, the chief told us the area’s lushest fishing holes were set back deep in the forest. To get there, Fergie and I had to rumble out of town over a gravel logging road with potholes so wide in parts you could lose a Volkswagen in them.
We followed a rushing stream filled with spawning salmon for about forty-five minutes. You could actually see the fish, their golden pink skins flashing metallic in the sunlight, skimming the water as they struggled against the current. We also caught glimpses of a few bears and foxes foraging in the dense woods. But none of these scavengers looked any bigger than cubs; they didn’t carry enough size to frighten anyone.
We drove until we reached the largest clear-cut in the world, a gap in the forest so wide it appears on most satellite imagery. The townsfolk had no desire to destroy the woods that had once shaded miles of fertile land, but they had no choice. An infestation of spruce budworms had ravaged acres upon acres of trees. A spruce budworm is one hag of a critter, olive brown and mottled with two spots, sickly white as fungus, on either side of its torso. These pests defoliate acres of strong timber with all the thoroughness of Agent Orange. A spruce budworm will bore so deeply into a tree, all of the sap will run right out of it. After dining on the bark, the budworm uses the tree’s needles to floss. The wood quickly dries until all you have left is a tinderbox. A fire had already claimed one section of this forest. The townspeople had to harvest the remaining trees for lumber or risk losing them entirely. It saddened me, the thought of all that beautiful scenery being reduced to ash.
Fergie and I drove past the wreckage and followed a side road to a bridge that a flood had recently washed out. We arrived at the mouth of the stream, a place where, according to one fisherman we met near the fire station, the salmon would jump into your bag without you even nudging them. Fergie parked close to the riverbank, and we unpacked our gear.
The place had a prehistoric feel with its downed, nearly petrified trees and its cloying stink of rotting vegetation. Shattered boulders and splintered logs, remnants left by the river’s hard-driving currents, jutted from the water. We immediately saw some forty-pounders flopping against the tide, but I knew they would not be interested in anything dangling from our lines. Large salmon and humans share at least one common trait: when they are set on spawning, no bait will deter them. Even if you attach a live fly, a salmon’s favorite delicacy, to your hook and jiggle it in front of them, they will not waste a glance on it. We decided to try catching some smaller silver salmon, the midget chinooks that trail spawning fish upstream hoping to devour their roe.
Fergie chose to fly-fish that afternoon. That is a delicate art. Fergie would have to cast three or four times before throwing out his lines. He had to exercise supreme patience. The key for any fly caster is how slowly he can lead that fly over the water. The idea is to simulate the movement of a live insect struggling against the grip of the stream. I lacked the touch for that.
My preference is to bait a hook with whatever I find at hand, drop it in the water, and wait for the fish to discover us. I considered using a roe sack, a powerful lure albeit hardly a choice for anyone squeamish. To assemble one, you must first find a pregnant female salmon and strip the roe out of her— either push down on her belly to force out the eggs or slice her open to reach the roe cluster. You tie up the eggs in a tight little