Recently I had the occasion to visit the Washington State Fair in Puyallup (pronounced (pew-al-up). This is the grand-daddy of Washington’s state fairs: it runs for nearly the entire month of September and attracts a large and varied lineup of big name entertainment. We were there to see Alan Jackson, who happened to put on a great concert.
I hadn’t been to the Puyallup Fair since I was in high school, which was 35 years ago. I’m not a big fan of state fairs—too much traffic getting to and from, crowds—lines everywhere. Pretty much everything a social recluse like myself loathes. OK, I’m actually not a social recluse, I’d just much rather be wading in a secluded river than wading through crowds of scone-eating fair-goers. I do, however, enjoy observing people, and people watching doesn’t get any better than at state fairs. In fact, that alone is nearly worth the price of admission. But when given a choice, I avoid crowds like the plague. Hell, if not for crowds we wouldn’t have plagues in the first place. But I digress.
When my kids were young we did take them to The Evergreen State Fair in Monroe, WA a few times. You can’t deny kids the childhood experience of visiting a fair, and they certainly enjoyed seeing the animals. And getting jacked up on cotton candy and soda and then going on the rides. I get that part—it’s all fun (until someone throws up). But what struck me the hardest on this latest trip to a fair was the food. When did state fairs become all about food (and I use the term loosely)?
Actually, fair aficionados will quickly point out that state and county fairs, since their inception in the mid-19th century, have always been about food. Agriculture was at the heart of the matter and livestock judging was a key element to the early days of the fair; something that still exists today. Food, in both its production and enjoyment, has been the centerpiece of fairs from the very beginning: Farmers competing to see who could grow the largest crop specimen; home baked pies and recipe judging. That old chestnut.
And while I’m not sure that the current culinary offerings are what the early fair attendees would have considered food, consumables are still king: Elephant Ears the size of serving trays; tubs of onion rings; loaves of french fries; corn dogs (called Crusty Pups); and burgers, burgers, burgers—every vendor claims to have the biggest burgers at the fair, and the only way to know for sure is to try them all! If its fried, you can find it at the fair, just don’t expect small portions. Serving sizes, like most of the swines on display in the livestock pavilion, are not dainty.
And let’s not forget bacon! Bacon maple bars, bacon stuffed burgers, bacon wrapped hot dogs, bacon on a stick, waffle fried bacon. I love bacon, but some of these concoctions sounded a tad disturbing. I’m sure the 4H swine would have agreed with me.
But not everything at the fair was typical greasy fried fare—there were some more “exotic” foodstuffs to be found as well. For example, Rabbit-Python Sausage. I didn’t try any, but I did have to wonder how it was made. Was the python ground up and then mixed with ground-up rabbit? Or was it an incidental sausage whereby the python was in the process of swallowing the rabbit when it was ground up? And who was the first to think of this combination—someone deep in the swamps of Florida?
At one point while waiting in another line to get a beer (to wash down the Crusty Pup), I noticed a group of young people who were presenting their passports as identification—clearly an indication that they were from another country. It caused me to ponder, if one were a foreigner visiting the states for the first time, and happened to visit a state fair, can you imagine the thoughts running through their heads? “So, THIS is America?” I’m not sure if they would be amused or dismayed—probably a bit of both. I know I am.
So to put the fair further into the distance in the rear view mirror, I’m heading into the remote Idaho back country in a few days to do a little wading in a freestone mountain river. The surroundings will be about as different from a state fair as one could hope to find. If we’re lucky we may not see another person, and the only lines will hopefully be tight to hungry cutthroat trouts, gorging themselves. Like people at the fair.
And there will be bacon. And beer.
I recently received an email from a reader. The email said:
Are you guys off fishing? Haven’t seen anything in a while.
Thanks for caring enough to write. To answer your question, no—neither myself nor any of my compadres have been fishing since our trip to Idaho in July. It’s sad, really, to admit that, but for me it was a really busy summer that went by faster than normal. What with the few weekends we have here in the Pacific Northwest (typically we consider summer to encompass July and August, which equates to 8 weekends), summer always goes by fast. But this year seemed more hectic than normal. Weddings, social engagements, a couple weekend day hikes here and there, yadda yadda yadda. All of a sudden, summer was gone without so much as wetting a line.
The past two years the Rangers have done Fall trips: to Fernie, BC two years ago where we fished the Elk and Michele Creek (read aboot that trip here, here and here); to Columbia Falls, MT last year to fish the South and Middle Forks of the Flathead (read about that here, here, here, here and here). We were planning to do another trip this Fall, but before we could agree on a destination, Goose, Nash and Marck proclaimed their
inability lack of testicular fortitude and dedication to make the trip.
The good news is that Jimmy, Morris and I are headed back to Idaho later this month, and looking forward to seeing one of our favorite places under a different seasonal light. There’ll be a chill in the air—perhaps even frost in the morning. Wet wading will likely be out of the question, the fire danger should be a non-issue so we can gather round a good fire at night, and hopefully the trouts will be eating October caddis. And hopefully no rain like we’ve gotten the past two trips in July. I’ll let you know how it went.
Anyway, I wish you hadn’t had to write and inquire—it means you’re bored and I haven’t been fishing enough.
I’m sorry it it had to come to this.
After our route less traveled via Moon Pass, Marck and I finally arrived at our destination just before 4 PM on Thursday. The campground was full, but fortunately Morris and Jimmy had arrived days earlier and procured a spot large enough for the Man Van and another tent. Much to our disappointment, however, our Ranger compadres weren’t there to welcome us with high-fives, plates of hors d’oeuvres and cocktails (selfish bastards were out fishing).
We unloaded and set up Marck’s tent, and the kitchen canopy. We learned our lesson last year—that the camp galley should be sheltered from the possibility of inclement weather—and vowed to not get caught with our chef’s pants down ever again. Based on the scene we encountered, Morris and Jimmy hadn’t taken particular pride in their culinary center: it was a if they’d been in the woods so long that they had lost the ability to lead a civilized life. We tidied things up a bit and an hour or so later a couple of haggard anglers drug themselves into camp, looking like they hadn’t had a shower or human contact for weeks, which wasn’t far from the truth. Jimmy had arrived at camp on Sunday, joined by Morris on Monday. They had fished hard each day and clearly spent too much time together already, bickering like an old married couple. At least they had their own separate tents, although we had only their word to refute the suspicion that one tent was merely a decoy.
The conversation quickly turned to fishing, and we learned that many and large fish had been caught, and that the river had not been devoid of other anglers. On at least one of the previous days they had seen as many 15 anglers on the water—more than I can recall ever encountering. With a full campground it didn’t surprise me that others were fishing, despite that not everyone camped was also there to fish. As we swatted mosquitos we noted that the dust was down considerably from previous years. Morris and Jimmy proceeded to inform us that they’d been rained on the day before—an intermittent rain, hard at times. That didn’t dampen our spirits for the next day, as there was only a 40% chance of precipitation.
Being the sunny optimist that I always am, I took that to mean that there was a 60% chance that it would not rain. If I were a betting man, I’d take the 60% over the 40% every time. Good thing I’m not a betting man.
We gathered round a good fire that evening, solving world problems by discussing what flies would work the next day. As per usual, Morris declared the tan elk hair caddis to be the only fly necessary while Jimmy argued that a wide variety of flies would be needed. We were briefed on the details of their week: what fish were caught where, on what pattern, on which day. Jimmy and Morris confirmed what I had heard from other anglers who had been on this river this year: the fish were consistently larger than in recent years, with 18-20″ cutthroat being more the norm than the exception.
I attribute the increase in the size of the fish to at least two years in a row of lighter than normal snowpack, resulting in less runoff to scour the river. Admittedly, snowpack is ultimately a good thing for rivers and fish, but the more river scouring that occurs may increase less insect abundance. The more bugs, the better the eating for the fish. The better the eating, the bigger the fish (and we all know how big fish make us feel). My science could be wrong—there’s at least a 60% chance of that being 100% true.
The next morning, Morris—having some obligations that prevented him from staying to fish another day—packed up and left. Jimmy stayed on to fish another day, so the three of us donned our wet wading gear and set off up the trail for a 4 mile hike before dropping into the river to fish our way back. It was a pleasant day with ample sunshine—the stuff one would expect during the second week of July—albeit a good bit cooler than usual. The cooler weather was nice for hiking and the first step into the river felt good after the forced march up the
dusty trail. Despite rains from 2 days before, the river was running lower than normal, and clear as a gin and tonic without the tonic. It felt great to be back on what has become my most favorite river, armed with a 4 weight and a dry fly, and nothing but miles of river ahead of us and a 60% likelihood of no rain. The high clouds seemed only to be passing through—at least early in the day.
It quickly became apparent that fishing was not red hot, which I attributed to possibly two things: First, the river may have bumped up just a tad from the earlier rain; and/or secondly, Jimmy and Morris had pounded the river for 3 days already, not to mention other anglers. Fortunately we started catching a few fish before too long and saw no other fishermen on the water all day. Jimmy fished well ahead as Marck and I took our time, fishing at a more leisurely pace and enjoying our first day on the water.
We fished a variety of dries, catching fish on small mayfly patterns (in a range of colors from dark to light), large and small black ants, a spruce moth, and—just to make Morris happy—the tan caddis. I always fish a streamer at least part of the time and did so for a short spell, catching one nice fish out of a deep run known appropriately as the “Streamer Hole”. I certainly didn’t want to risk catching a bull trout like last year, so I soon switched back to a dry fly in pursuit of surface feeding trouts.
The fishing that first day was exceptional, despite that the catching was considerably off the typical pace. I landed perhaps 8-10 nice fish, many in the 15″ range with one 18″ pig and only one fish under 12″. Marck, not surprisingly, fared better, as he always does. When we caught up with Jimmy in the early afternoon, he had been catching more than his fair share of fish as well.
By around 4 PM, the nice day we’d been enjoying yielded to less savory weather as the 40% chance of rain became 100% rain. With that we donned our rain jackets and continued to wet our lines as a steady drizzle fell. Marck and Jimmy posted up on a particular run that hadn’t been giving up any fish. I moved on slowly, not catching fish in areas I would normally expect to catch fish. Anticipating that the others would catch up fairly soon, I took my time. A half hour later, with no sign of the others and no fish showing me any love, I checked my watch: it was 6:15 PM so I decided to make my way back to camp. I had begun to get a bit chilled from standing in the cold river in the rain, and it was time for some grub and maybe a wee dram of whiskey. But just before deciding to call it quits I managed to pull a 15″ trout out of a fishy looking hole—a nice parting gift before slogging the mile or so back to camp on an increasingly muddier trail. Once back at camp I slipped into something more comfrtable and began slowly cooking dinner, expecting that Marck and Jimmy would be along at any time.
It was almost 7:30 PM when I finished the last bite of my supper. I covered the chicken and reduced the heat on the stove to keep the sauteed squash warm. The rain began to dissipate so I started a fire and was just getting comfortable when my compadres walked into camp, wet, but in high spirits. They had stayed on that one particular fishless run for a couple hours until finally figuring out which bug the fish wanted. Once they had cracked that code many fish were caught. By delaying they also arrived in camp to plates full of hot food served up under the shelter of the canopy. Good for them
the freeloading sonsabitches. That evening the skies cleared, offering a view of a gazillion stars overhead. The conversation around the fire was lively and lasted well into the night. I slept soundly that night. Life was good.
The next morning I awoke later than I would care to admit. Marck had been up for a few hours already, had built a campfire that was already reduced to embers, and had rearranged all of his fly boxes, twice. Jimmy had packed up and left by 7AM (I was in a dead slumber and didn’t even hear him do so—the beauty of a comfortable bed in the Man Van). Marck and I discussed the day’s plans: Despite the mostly blue sky overheard, there was a 100% chance of thunderstorms. We agreed that we would wader up and make a shorter hike up the trail than we had the previous day. I’ve never worn waders on this river but since the forecast called for cool temperatures, in addition to the 100% guarantee of thunderstorms, it seemed the prudent thing to do. Two miles up the trail we may have been cursing our decision to do so, but once we got to the river and the sweat dried, we took comfort in the knowledge that when—not if—the storms began, we would be well prepared. It didn’t appear, at least initially, that we were in for any sort of threatening weather, but we knew how fast that
would could change.
Fishing was slow again for the first couple of hours, which we attributed to a strong low pressure system moving in. Ominous clouds drifted overhead and we expected to hear thunder at any moment. But then the clouds parted and the skies grew less ominous. This would go on all day, with extended periods of mostly sunny skies. On more than a couple of occasions I wished I hadn’t been wearing waders.
We fished slowly—more slowly than we normally would do—taking our time to switch flies often, hoping to find out what the fish wanted. What had worked for Marck and Jimmy less than 24 hours earlier wasn’t getting it done now, but it provided us with an enjoyable and challenging day of fishing. We savored every moment that Mother Nature didn’t unleash her wrath upon us and treated each fish as it if were the last we’d catch that day before the lightning bolts crashed around us and locusts began swarming. That never happened.
We fished into the early evening until our stomachs growled for some of the Shephard’s Pie that Marck was planning for supper (which was delicious). The campfire that night was as good as the night before, under skies that once again revealed more stars than we could have imagined possible. We felt pretty damn good about having dodged the 100% guaranteed weather bullet that day, and slept comfortably knowing that the next day held only a 40% chance of rain, like Day One (and all things considered the rain that first day wasn’t too bad). Our last day of fishing would surely entail more wet wading.
We awoke to another morning of hope and encouragement: a lightly clouded sky that threatened to turn blue. That threat never materialized, however, and over breakfast we noted that it was noticeably cooler than it had been on previous two mornings. In fact, there was a chill in the air reminiscent of early Fall rather than early Summer, so we decided to don the waders once again. We repeated the 4 mile hike from Day One, a decision which resulted in plenty of breathable-goretex-induced sweat by the time we hopped off the trail into the water. Even with waders on, the river felt colder this morning and it wasn’t long before we were glad for having decided not to wet wade. Fishing started out moderately slow, but we were catching fish in runs that hadn’t produced for us the previous day. I landed one nice 17″ fish that, when I extracted my fly from it’s mouth, had another artificial bug embedded in its lip: a tan elk hair caddis. I called Marck over to share my discovery. There was no tippet attached to the hook so he surmised that Morris’ knot must have failed.
Come noon the weather took a decisive turn for the worst as the clouds descended and began to release copious amounts of precipitation. We briefly pondered whether the 100% chance of thunderstorms was merely a day late, but it was too cold for thunderstorms. No, this was just rain. Plenty of it.
The liquid sunshine continued to fall as the afternoon wore on. Mostly it was a steady, hard rain, with sporadic and extended periods of steadier, harder rain. At one point it rained so hard that it distorted the surface of the water, making it impossible to see one’s fly, or rocks on the riverbed for that matter. Wading became a bit precarious at times, though neither Marck nor I took a swim (even in what is known as “The Swimming Hole”). We soldiered on, wondering how much more rain could possibly fall. We tried to stay positive, noting that it just had to stop. Or at least lighten up. It did neither. We fished on.
The fish were actually pretty cooperative for the better part of the afternoon. A couple fish fell to a foam ant pattern, but mostly they were in the mood for small bugs, PMDs in particular. Fortunately I had just the ticket, and caught one of my better fish on a size 20 fly. I fished smaller bugs than I typically ever do, partially because I can’t usually see to thread my tippet through diminutive hook eyes. Thanks to some incredible bugs tied by Aileen Lane of MKFlies and The Old Guys Flies, not only could I thread the oversized hook eyes, but these little bugs floated well and could be easily seen, most of the time, even in the rain. Honestly, these flies made all the difference on a wet day when the low light made it difficult to see much of anything. The fish certainly saw them.
After four hours with no reprieve from the rain, the hillsides had become saturated. Without the ability to absorb the rain, the steep slopes began shedding surface water into the river. Feeder streams were full, and by 4PM the river was starting to show signs of coloring up. The fish ceased playing nicely and we decided to make for the trail. As we negotiated the slippery riverbed we continued to hold out hope that the rain would taper and at least allow us a campfire on our final night. When we got to the trail it was a torrent of brown muck. We slogged on toward camp, hoping that the galley canopy had not succumbed to the deluge. The majority of the smart campers had packed up while their gear was still dry, and the campground was all but empty save for two sites occupied by new arrivals. It was not a good day to have arrived if fishing was the intended goal: based on the rain that had fallen, and continued to fall, the river was going to be out of shape for at least the next day, probably two.
Fortunately the canopy had held up, but it was so wet that even things that were sheltered from the weather were damp. Marck’s tent had also withstood the elements so I didn’t need to worry about renting him a bunk in the Man Van. But even that, coupled with an amazing dinner consisting of Marck’s BBQ ribs in the Dutch Oven, couldn’t lighten the dark cloud of despair that hung over camp. It was obvious that the rain wasn’t going to let up so that we could enjoy a fire on our last night. This troubled me greatly because to me a good fire is the heart and soul of camping—perhaps the best part of an entire day—and without a fire there was nothing to do but hit the sack early, which we did, at 7:45 PM. The pitter patter of steady rain persisted until I nodded off sometime later. At 4:15 AM, when I awoke briefly, it was still raining. When I crawled out of the sack at 6:15 AM it had finally stopped. Not confident that the rain wouldn’t return, I began stowing what gear I could, putting down tarps inside the van to keep things from getting too wet and muddy. Marck emerged from his tent shortly after that and mentioned that it had rained until 5 AM. Based on that I calculated that it had rained for 17 hours straight. We broke camp without so much as making coffee.
As we stowed the last of the wet gear, a gentleman—who bore an uncanny resemblance to a billy goat—walked over from his camp to chat about the prospects of fishing and to inquire as to how long it had been raining (he and his son had arrived the evening before and planned to fish for the next 4 days). When we told him the rain had started at noon and the river became unfishable by 4 PM, you could see the disappointment on his face. We suggested it would be a good day to sit by a fire (if it didn’t resume raining, that is). His shoulders slumped as he admitted that they only had a few bundles of firewood. He perked up a bit when we told him to help himself to the remainder of our dry firewood. This was the second year in a row that we had been unable to burn all the wood we’d brought.
We departed camp at 7:30 AM and headed toward St. Regis, MT, for coffee and a hot breakfast. Despite the dreary end to our trip, at least we weren’t going home 3 days earlier than planned, as we were forced to do the year before. When we got into cell range Marck pulled up the graphs to see just how much the river had spiked with the previous day’s 40% chance of rain. We were both a bit shocked, and grateful that we’d managed to catch some nice fish the day before.
I’m already looking forward to going back next year. And when we do I’m at least 40% sure we’ll bring more firewood than we’ll need, although there’s always a chance I could be at least 60%, or even 100%, wrong.
This is a little experiment to see if any of you read the first post about the route we took en route to our Idaho fishing destination, The Road Less Travelled in Search of Summer. I know of at least 2 people that did read that entry (thanks, Howard and Bob).
When I returned from the trip I noticed I had taken a photo from nearly the same vantage point on two consecutive days. It made for a nice comparison/contrast. Here’s a little eye candy teaser to hopefully entice you to stick around for the second part, which will be titled, “The Forecast Called for 100% Chance of Fishing”.
In the last installment of the Weekly Drivel® I pondered the likelihood that the weather predictors would be right, or wrong, with regard to the forecast for a trip to fish a particular river in the Idaho Panhandle. Well, I’ve been back now for two days and my gear has finally dried out. FYI, that’s a bit of
clever foreshadowing as pertaining to the weather we encountered.
I arrived at Marck’s home in North Bend at 7AM on Thursday, under cloudy skies. Summer hadn’t yet arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and despite that it was the second week in July it felt more like an early Fall morning. After loading all his
shit gear (and there was a lot of it) into the Man Van, and adding to the wood pile on the hitch carrier, we hit the road for an 8 hour drive east, during which it remained cloudy and 20 degrees cooler than what one might expect for this time of year. We could have made the drive in less time but the Man Van is much more road-friendly at speeds under the speed limit of 70mph, which is the posted limit most of the way.
Once we hit the dirt road from Wallace to Avery, ID, the van was right at home. I’d never taken this route before but wanted to see what Moon Pass (AKA Forest Service Road 456) was all about. It was worth the jaunt, despite that it’s much faster to stay on I-90 all the way to St. Regis, MT, and then double back into Idaho via Gold Pass.
A couple miles outside of Wallace, Moon Pass road gets down to business. It’s an often steep and more often winding route where our speed rarely exceeded 20 mph. Much of the time we drove considerably slower, which was necessary to negotiate some very tight hairpin turns. The road is in very good shape overall and wide enough in most places for vehicles to easily pass without kissing mirrors. Where it is a bit narrower there are generally pullouts to allow passage by another rig, but the road was never terribly skinny. It’s not a harrowing drive by any means, nor is it a road where one would want to venture off of the shoulder: it’s a long way down to the North Fork of the St. Joe River, which flows from deep within the western reach of the Bitterroot Mountains. The views are impressive from the top of the pass and the scenery is beautiful the entire way, standard fare in Idaho’s Panhandle.
The last several miles of the 28 mile route take travelers through a series of old rail tunnels. I believe there are six tunnels (maybe 7, but who’s counting?). The tunnels are wide enough for only one vehicle and it’s a very good idea to turn on the headlights prior to entering the tunnels; if one were to encounter an oncoming vehicle, one or the other would need to back up whence they came. Despite that none of the tunnels are more than a couple hundred yards long, I wasn’t looking forward to convincing another driver that it was they who would be yielding. Fortunately we didn’t meet any vehicles in the tunnels, and very few vehicles anywhere else along the way for that matter.
Being a lightly traveled route we saw only 3 other vehicles and a small handful of dual sport bikes on the upper stretches of the pass. And a couple of 4 wheelers, one of which piloted by a crotchety old redneck who apparently wasn’t pleased with our slow rate of travel. I pulled over to let him pass us by—which he did—in a big hurry. As he sped past he yelled something (an expression of gratitude for letting him pass, I assume). How I wish it had been hot and dusty so that he could’ve enjoyed our powdery wake, but surprisingly there was very little dust. In fact there were indications that precipitation had been a recent occurrence.
As we neared Avery, at the southern end of the route, we encountered a few more rigs headed up the road, loaded for camping and mountain biking. The Hiawatha Trail ends near the road over Moon Pass and is apparently a pretty popular trail for riding mountain bikes. That’s all fine and dandy, but where we were headed is way more fun.
Just about exactly 28 miles after leaving Wallace we entered the outskirts of Avery and turned east. The weather remained cooler than normal, but pleasant. There was a 0% chance of rain on this day and the sun even began trying to poke through the clouds as we followed the St. Joe River up the road. In another 40 miles we would arrive at our destination, where Jimmy and Morris had arrived several days earlier. We were eager to stretch our legs and wet our whistles after the long drive. And we were also jonesin’ to get our wet wade on for 3 days of fine, Idaho cutthroat catching.