This past weekend featured the annual appearance of Fly Fishing Show, held at the lavish Lynnwood Convention Center. Lynnwood, for those who are not in the know, is 16 miles north of Seattle via Interstate 5. There’s not much notable about Lynnwood other than it being a sprawling hub of retail activity with an emphasis on furniture stores.  Lynnwood does, however, have a convention center so it must be some sort of destination for those seeking enlightenment beyond merely shopping. The convention center is easily accessed from I-5 and shares a large parking spot with Chuck E. Cheese,  and the two times I’ve been to the convention center encompass the only two times I’ve been remotely close to a Chuck E. Cheese. I don’t know how, but I managed to dodge that bullet when my kids were young. Certainly cause for celebration, I digress: back to the Fly Fishing Show.

Parking is free, just non-existent. Thankfully it was a nice day for a walk so I didn’t mind having to park  a 1/4 mile away and walk uphill both ways, to the show.

Once you’ve been to the Fly Fishing Show, or any other similar trade show, each subsequent visit conjures up a strong sense of deja vu. Certainly it’s always good to see familiar faces and to meet some new ones, but unless there’s nothing else to do (including furniture shopping), I find that these shows offer very little of interest to me as a common attendant. So why, you might ask, do I attend?

Two years ago I was invited to attend the “Authors Booth” as hosted by The Angling Bookstore, where I sat for two one-hour sessions and signed copies of the Olive the Little Woolly Bugger books for the 3 customers that were interested in that sort of thing.

Last year I did not attend (I was furniture shopping).

This year I was invited, along with Evan and Derek (1st and 2nd chairs, respectfully, of The Open Fly Podcast), to sit on a panel of Fly Fishing Media professionals and discuss a variety of fly fishing media-related topics, moderated by Steve Duda (Editor of The Flyfish Journal). The panel included, in addition to Derek and I (Evan had to man the Allen Fly Fishing booth so he was unable to partake), Copi Vojta (esteemed photographer and Photo Editor of the Flyfish Journal) and Brian Bennet (the man, myth and legend behind Moldy Chum).

The questions were well-conceived and I believe gave those in attendance a unique glimpse into what goes on inside the various forms of media in the fly fishing industry: a veritable treasure trove of information for those seeking that sort of information to further bolster their brand.  We covered topics such as blogging, writing for print publication, podcasting and photography. Engaging stuff, seriously. But what was discussed is of less significance than those who were in attendance.

All two of them.

OK, while not altogether untrue, that may be a slight under-exaggeration: When the discussion began there were, in fact, two gentlemen seated in the conference room. The silence may have been deafening but panel was undaunted—we were, after all, professionals, so we forged ahead. As the discussion progressed 3 more people meandered into the room; 1 quickly left after realizing the neither April Vokey nor Hilary Hutchison were seated on the panel. As the discussion reached its crescendo the room began to gradually fill with others, and the panel members began to puff out our chests in a display of confidence and fly fishing media bravado. That was short lived as we realized these late stragglers were actually arriving early for the next presentation. We were kindly asked to wrap things up as the next presenter was on deck. Apparently the security detail for the next guest needed to do a sweep of the room.

As they say in the media, it was a wrap. In closing, I will say this: those in attendance of our discussion got their money’s worth. And they stayed awake for the entire hour.

I later learned that our discussion was forced to compete with a casting demonstration by Simon Gawesworth being held at the same time, upstairs, at the casting pond. Apparently there are more people who need help with their casting than they do with their media campaigns.

I know I do.

I had every intention of posting this a week after I posted Not fishing in Hawaii, Part I, but then this happened and the train of daily life was derailed. The train still doesn’t feel like it’s fully back on the tracks, but life goes on, one day at a time. And the editors at National Geographic—the ones looking for underwater photos of sea turtles—aren’t going to find me if I wallow in self pity and never post these photos, so…

At Black Rock.

While we were on Maui I had hoped to see a honu (green sea turtle). In a quest to fulfill that wish we rented snorkeling gear one day and ventured a half mile up Ka’anapali beach to Black Rock, a popular snorkeling spot for people staying at the nearby hotels and condos that line the beach. Black Rock is a large crag of volcanic rock that extends outward into the ocean, forming an enticing environment for small reef fish, and I’d heard, the occasional sea turtle. It should be noted that early in our vacation we thought it was cool to “shaka” (throw down the ‘hang loose’ sign). We would learn later that it was a total haole thing to do. Especially with both hands.

The universal sign for “I’m a dork.”

As we geared up and swam along Black Rock, the first thing I noticed was how crowded the water was with others doing exactly what we were doing. It was a bit like playing bumper cars with our flippers, and when you added to that the wave action and fairly shallow water, the visibility was not awe-inspiring. Still, I was in Hawaii, snorkeling amongst a myriad species of fish I’d never seen before. Pretty cool.  And then I saw my first turtle and my breathing grew more rapid. The gentle creature swam below me toward the deeper water, affording me a quick view but no photo opportunity. But hey—I had seen a turtle, mission complete!  I made my way back to the beach to tell the waiting Mrs. UA of my snorkeling prowess. As I neared shore I saw a group of people crowded together in knee deep water, clearly focused on something of great interest.  Upon closer inspection, that something turned out to be another turtle, cruising the shallows for what reason I don’t know.

Green Sea Turtle in the shallows at Black Rock.

If this particular honu was looking for human companionship it found some, although everyone honored the law and did not touch the turtle.  In Hawaii seat turtles are protected under the Endangered Species Act of 1973, and Hawaii state law. I’m not sure the actual terms of the law, but I’d heard that touching or harassing a sea turtle would come with a hefty penalty if caught (as high as $25,000). Vacationing in Hawaii is expensive enough without the additional fine for touching a turtle so I made sure that I didn’t brush up against the beast.

While the turtle sighting at Black Rock was cool, it would pale by comparison to what we would see a few days later.  On our last full day on Maui we booked a group trip on one of the many catamarans that are moored off Ka’anapali Beach. Our token Cruise Director, Julie McCoy (not her real name) signed us up for a trip on the Queen’s Treasure, a beautiful 65′ vessel that would take us a few miles south for a snorkeling adventure at Olowalu Reef. The boat picked us up at 9 AM on the beach outside of The Whaler—very convenient. They served us some fruit and pastries en route to our destination. It was a beautiful morning for a cruise.

Queen’s Treasure at Ka’anapali Beach.

I’ll skip the details  and get right to the meat of this post: awesome snorkeling. After the captain and crew secured the anchor line at Olowalu Reef, we geared up and hit the water. We could not have had a more perfect day for our chosen activity. No wind meant a glassy smooth surface to the ocean’s watery canopy, making visibility exceptional.  We were told that a ways from our mooring spot was a “cleaning station” for turtles so we may see some.  A cleaning station refers to a spot where the turtles congregate to have their shells cleaned by the thousands of reef fish.  Over time the turtles’ shells accumulate a considerable layer of algae growth which apparently creates drag in the water and slows them down. In order to streamline themselves, they enter coral reef areas and let the fish do their bidding. We certainly hoped to see a turtle, but until then we were mesmerized by the plethora of coral munching reef fish.

After 15 minutes of exploring the reef and observing countless different fish species, my snorkeling buddy (Schpanky) and I got into turtles.  I’ll just let the following images tell the story that words cannot adequately describe. First up is a quick video that shows a freeloading turtle drifting lazily as reef fish janitors do their thing. We should all have such a good life where personal attendants abound.

This honu is missing its right front flipper. 

And this honu is missing its left front flipper.

Up for air—perhaps my favorite shot of all.

Photo-bombed by my daughter.

Front view.

Rear view.

OK, while Nat Geo may not come knocking on my door, I was real pleased with the quality of these photos taken with my Nikon AW1. No filters were applied; Photoshop was only used to add the watermark. It’s a sweet little camera—I hope to get some good underwater trout footage this summer.

After the snorkeling excursion ended we once again boarded the Queen’s Treasure and headed back toward Ka’anapali Beach. Along the way we saw some humpback whales, which was also pretty cool. But I’ll wait to post about that until next week. After all, I need filler material—it’s hard to come up with any fishing related content this time of year, when I haven’t been fishing.

Thanks for looking.

UABFF

Hemangiosarcoma is a form of cancer fairly common to certain breeds of dogs, including Labrador Retrievers. Typically it occurs in middle-aged dogs and older. It’s an aggressive cancer that involves the blood vessels and most commonly manifests itself in the spleen. By the time it is detected it’s nearly always too late due to the rapid rate at which it metastasizes. I’ve learned more about this horrible form of cancer in the last month and a half than I never wanted to know. Frankly, I wish I’d never heard of the disease before.

Eddie on the day we brought him home.

My dog, Eddie, is a chocolate Lab. His whelp day was March 8, 2006;  which makes him 8, approaching 9, at the time of this writing.  We first started noticing a change in Ed’s behavior on December 8th. He acted like he didn’t feel too good—as if he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. We just assumed he had gotten into something he shouldn’t have gotten into because he’s been a notorious garbage gut since he was a 6 week old pup.  But he was drinking water and passing stools so I wasn’t concerned about an obstruction. I was concerned because his appetite was suppressed—he wasn’t interested in his kibble. Labs are always hungry. Eddie is always interested in his kibble. For him to not be meant something was wrong. He did eat some boiled chicken breast, but wouldn’t touch his regular food for a day or so.

The little acorn, soon to be a mighty, gentle oak.

Gradually he began to feel better, and after a couple days he was back to his normal routine of going on daily walks with me. But after these walks he would appear tired; more so than normal. These tired spells—during which he appeared somewhat unresponsive—wouldn’t last too long, though. He would snap out of it after a while. His belly seemed a bit distended, too, but it was hard to be too concerned about it because he’s a big boy and is prone to packing on a few extra lbs each winter. He’s very tall and long for a Lab, not stocky, so with his frame he can carry a few extra pounds before it becomes too obvious. I was always conscious of his hips, and as he got older I tried to keep his weight around 100 lbs so as not to put any extra stress on his body.

At 2 mos: Going for a walk with the whole family, including our old brown girl, Kate.

After being out of town for a couple days I returned home and Eddie continued to show signs of abnormal behavior. His appetite was inconsistent and his stools were a bit soft. From time to time he would grow weak, and although he was awake he appeared almost unresponsive—his head hung low and eyes glazed over. And then he would be fine.  I decided it wasn’t just a passing bug so I made an appointment at the local veterinary office for Monday, December 15th.

Mama’s boy at 4 mos.

When the vet weighed Eddie I was a bit shocked—107.3!  That was higher than I expected by at least 5 pounds anyway. He was running a temperature and his pulse rate was elevated. Well, considering he shakes and shimmies and absolutely becomes a nervous wreck at the vet, I figured elevated vitals were to be expected. He was x-rayed for an obstruction but it turned out negative. Still, he acted like his digestive system was out of whack.  Blood work revealed that he was also slightly anemic; his red blood count was down a bit, but there didn’t appear to be any immediate concern about that. We went on our way with a mild antibiotic to ward off any infection that might be causing the elevated temperature. Eddie was always glad to leave the vet’s office and he had a skip in his step as we did.  I should note that he appeared to be his same old self that entire day, and the next day he was hungry for his breakfast chow and acted just like the old Eddie. We went for a good 2 mile walk that afternoon, after which he took a nap like he always does.

Edward Dorkopotamus at 5 mos.

At 9pm that night (December 16th) Eddie lapsed into that semi-unresponsive, weakened state and remained that way throughout the night. I slept on the couch in the family room, next to his bed so that I could keep an eye on him if he should become somehow distressed during the night. The next morning he remained the same so I called the vet’s office.  Unfortunately the entire staff, including the doctor, were sick with the seasonal crud so they referred me to an emergency veterinary hospital a few miles away.  We arrived there at 9:30 AM, by which time Eddie’s files and films had already been sent over by his regular vet’s office. Eddie was not shivering or shaking like he did every other time he’d gone to the vet. In fact, he was remarkably calm as he walked in laid down on the floor.  He was miserable and I could see it in his eyes: he knew that I’d brought him to this place to help him.

7 months and finally starting to grow into his ears.

The first thing the ER vet did was take Eddie’s temperature and pulse. Temp was still high, but down from the day before. His pulse was still elevated and his gums were still pale. The first test was a stool sample to rule out an intestinal parasite. That would have been too good to be true but I was hopeful—after all, he’d been to the boarding facility over Thanksgiving so the chances that he may have picked up something there seemed not out of the question. When the test came back negative I could sense that the doc knew what it likely was. When he mentioned ‘splenic mass’ my stomach jumped into my throat. “Mass” is not a word one wants to hear any time one is sitting in front of a doctor. An ultrasound was next and I was told it would take a few minutes to prep Eddie for that.  When they finally called me back into the room there was my big guy, looking very comfortable (thanks to the pain pills they’d given him to help him relax) laying on his back in a foam cradle, legs splayed like a frog. His belly was shaved and covered in jelly. The vet moved a “mouse” around on Eddie’s abdomen just the way the doctor had done on Mrs. UA’s belly when she was pregnant with our two kids. He showed me one edge of Eddie’s spleen, describing that the nice clean edge is what we want to see. But as he moused to the right the spleen became less defined to the point where I didn’t know what I was looking at. The Doc noted that it was an indication of a sizeable mass. The black areas which seemed to dominate the screen indicated blood.  This mass on Eddie’s spleen was bleeding into his abdomen. That accounted for his pale gums and enemia. It explained his bouts of weakness: when he had a bleeding episode he grew weak. Then the bleed would clot and he’d feel better.  Gradually over the days the bleeding became more prominent and prolonged.  He would need surgery immediately, I was told.  The vet also said, “But before do that I want to take an x-ray of his chest to look for signs of tumors in his lungs. If we find that, there’s no point in performing the surgery.” It would be another nerve-wracking 15 minutes of waiting before I heard the “good” news: no sign of tumors in his lungs. They would prepare Eddie for emergency surgery to remove his spleen.  I went home and waited for the call, which came three hours later.

One year old, enjoying his first snow.

The good news was that Eddie came through the surgery “pretty well”. He had lost a lot of blood—in fact, they pumped nearly 3 liters of blood from his abdomen—no wonder his belly was distended, he was acting weak, and he was so heavy! His red blood count had been low before surgery and the Doc said he expected it to drop to an even lower level. As long as it held there he’d be fine. The doctor would be monitoring Eddie through the night but for now he was resting comfortably and on plenty of good drugs to keep him quiet. The vet also mentioned that while he was removing the spleen he did not see any obvious signs of tumors elsewhere.  This was good news, but I understood that it did not in any way mean that the cancer hadn’t already spread. There was just no visible indication of it having done so. I latched onto that thread of hope.

Those of us who are owned by dogs know they’re not going to live long enough—there’s no such thing as long enough—and when our canine companions reach a certain age we cannot help but acknowledge that they have fewer years ahead than they do behind them.  Following the diagnosis and surgery it was particularly hard for us knowing that Eddie’s time was limited.

Eddie’s and Schpanky’s first pheasant.

Eddie came home the day after surgery, on December 18th. In the days that followed, he healed nicely and gradually got his energy back. By December 23rd he seemed to be 100% of his old self. Our Christmas gift was that, except for his shaved belly and long incision, you couldn’t tell Eddie had just had major surgery: Appetite, check. Enthusiasm, check. Stamina? Well, we had to gradually work up to our normal daily walking distances but he was eager to get out of the house each day. During this post-op period it was hard to look Eddie in the eyes and hide my inner sadness, knowing that sooner or later—hopefully later—this cancer would once again rear its ugly head.

Eddie had an affinity for sticks.

On December 29th we had a follow-up visit with Eddie’s regular veterinarian and everything looked good. His red count was a little lower than normal but it appeared to be coming back nicely—the bone marrow doesn’t replenish the lost red cells overnight. We would follow up again in a couple of weeks to make sure the numbers were normal, but for now we were assured that he was doing very well. At this time we were also given the name of a veterinary oncologist who would be able to provide us with a better idea of what to expect going forward, long term. I would make that appointment after our week-long family (sans Eddie) vacation.

The bigger the stick, the better.

When we returned home from vacation on January 14th our big brown guy looked great. He was the only reason we were glad to be back home after a week in the sunshine of Maui. I scheduled a consultation with the oncologist for January 28th, and with each day that passed Eddie seemed as fit as he’d ever been. We walked daily, sometimes twice when the weather beckoned. I thought a lot about the oncologist meeting during these walks: I had a lot of questions for them. I didn’t expect the oncologist to be able to give us an exact answer but I hoped they’d be able to give us an indication as to whether it would be 3 months or a year, or…?

We never made it to that consultation.

Always on Squatch Watch in the back yard.

On Friday January 23rd Mrs. UA and I set out with Eddie for our morning walk. We got as far as a couple hundred yards down the road when it became clear that Eddie wasn’t feeling very well. There was no skip in his step and his eyes told us he was uncomfortable. He’d also been slow to eat his breakfast that morning. We turned around and walked slowly home.  As much as we hoped it might be something else there was no denying the familiar symptoms. During the day his belly had begun to appear more and more distended, again. When he refused his afternoon kibble, I called the veterinarian. We arrived at the clinic and were quickly admitted to an exam room where the doc drew blood and ran an analysis. Eddie was anemic. Again. There was blood in his abdomen. Again. Without an ultrasound or surgery to confirm, there was no way to know for sure the source of the bleeding. Probably a tumor on his liver. Damnit, hemangiosarcoma moves fast. Everyting was happening too fast—I just wanted to take Eddie home. I also wanted to make sure he was comfortable so we were sent home with 24 hours worth of pain relievers. The rest of that afternoon and evening were torturous for my family, and while Eddie could sense something wasn’t quite right, he gladly accepted a few extra treats and many offerings of usually forbidden foodstuffs. Time passes so slowly once you’ve made the decision that nobody ever wants to make—it was a long night.

He was a very handsome boy.

On Saturday January 24th at 1pm, after a long, quiet morning that seemed to last for eternity, we made one last visit to the veterinarian. This wasn’t my first time doing this—I’d done it twice before as an adult. And while each time had been painful, this time it hurt the most. Eddie was a big, soft-headed, sensitive, calm, gentle and kind boy. Everyone who met him loved him and generally he returned the sentiment. He had not one ounce of malice in him except perhaps when it came to coyotes, squirrels and cats, and who could fault him for that? Dogs are never with us long enough, and certainly Eddie was taken too soon. But he gave us everything he had in the 8 years and 8 months that he was ours we were his.

He loved his ball right up until the end.

It took me 52 years and 6 days but I finally made it to Hawaii. All in good time, I reckon—it’s probably a good thing I didn’t visit the islands in my prime or I may never have come back to the mainland. Had I gone when I was younger I’d have likely ended up either working as a sandwich artist at Subway or unsuccessfully pitching time-shares; living in a van down by the beach, and surfing (though likely not very well). I’m well past my prime now, however, and I feel mostly confident that I can enjoy Hawaii occasionally without it becoming a threat to my current lifestyle and commitments on the mainland.

UA in HI?

I’ve always had a vision that Hawaii would be akin to a sort of Fantasy Island and my expectations were handily exceeded thanks to splendid travel companions, and perfect weather the entire week we were there. Actually any weather in Hawaii would have been an improvement over the dreary crap we left behind when we took off from Sea-Tac International aboard a Hawaiian-themed 737. Western Washington had just received (another) deluge of unseasonably warm weather and heavy rain that caused our limited mountain snowpack to melt and rivers to flood. It seemed the best way to deal with the Pineapple Express was to go straight to the source and confront it head-on. Upon touching down on Maui it was immediately clear that we’d made the right decision.

Goodbye (aloha) to this.

Hello (aloha) to this.

We did the typical touristy thing, staying on Maui at The Whaler at Ka’anapali beach. Our 3rd floor room (Tower 2, room 373 to be exact) may not have had a grand ocean view, but we did have a unique view of the loading dock area and dumpsters: a glimpse into another side of paradise that most tourists never imagine exists. The garbage and delivery trucks came and went with the rhythm of the ocean, affording me the opportunity to connect with the working folk on the islands. This kept me grounded—a reminder that even in paradise, people have to work.

The UPS man bringeth…

And the trash man taketh away.

To be fair, I should note that we did have an alternative ‘garden view’ and even a peak-a-boo view of the ocean if we leaned over the railing of the lanai and stretched our necks.

Our alternative view.

Our room was spacious and well appointed: a full kitchen allowed us to prepare a few meals in exile from the expensive restaurants that could be found up and down the beach. We knew going into it that Hawaii comes at a cost—I’d been told that everything is expensive, and it was. But it was worth it. This was a family trip that included Mrs. UA and our two children. Schpanky would turn 21 while we were there so that was a bonus feature of the trip. We were joined by good friends who’d been to this very spot several times before and had things dialed in.  It came as a relief to have someone else making the important decisions so that all I had to do was tag along, enjoy the occasional Mai Tai, perhaps a few Longboard lagers, and a cup of Island Vintage Coffee each morning—all without a care in the world. The toughest decision I made all week was which Hawaiian shirt to purchase: I labored over the decision for several days, but in the end the fish theme won out. It somehow seemed fitting, and it was also the cheapest of the contenders so it had that going for it as well.

Which Hawaiian shirt? That was the question.

What the trip was not was a fishing trip, and frankly I didn’t mind.  It seems I don’t fish much any more anyway, so this vacation was a nice continuation of that theme. We kept busy frolicking in a wide variety of other ways and when we weren’t busy with specific activities we simply lounged in the sun on the beach, and occasionally by the pool. Just being there in the perfect 78-80 degree weather was enough—anything beyond that was gravy. With regard to structured playtime we did spend a half-day with Kapalua Ziplines, which was great fun after the fear of equipment failure (and subsequently plummeting to one’s death) went away. Mrs. UA was dreading this activity but even she managed to enjoy herself, after the initial run.

Fun at 100 feet above the ground going 50 mph.

If you’re ever on Maui and want to do this sort of thing I highly recommend Kapalua Ziplines—it was only a few short miles north of Ka’napali so we didn’t have to waste precious hours getting to and from the place. There are some great views to be had from 2000 feet up a mountainside, so that alone was worth the excursion.

The view from halfway up the zipline mountain (the islands of Lanai and Molokai in the distance)

While the ziplining was fun, the highlight of the trip for me was, and I can probably speak for everyone else, a snorkeling excursion on our next to last day on the island.  Our Island Boss (aka Cruise Director) booked the trip on the Queen’s Treasure, a gorgeous 65′ catamaran that picked us up on the beach right in front of the hotel. We boarded at 9 AM and ran south to Olowalu Reef. The ocean was exceptionally calm and it only took us about 45 minutes to reach our destination. Olowalu Reef is one of the top snorkeling locations on Maui and it quickly became clear why. I won’t go into detail—you can find scads of info if so inclined—but suffice it to say it was amazing. The weather could not have been better; the lack of wind made for exceptional underwater visibility and lighting.

The Queen’s Treasure, Ka’anapali Beach.

I was a SCUBA diver many years ago. All my diving was in the cold, dark waters of the Pacific Northwest (Puget Sound and the San Juan islands); never in tropical waters such as what we encountered on Maui, where visibility seemed nearly endless. This was my first opportunity to use my Nikon AW1 under water and it performed better than I had hoped. Aside from the ‘auto’ mode, the AW1 has several “creative modes” for shooting in a variety of conditions: this includes an underwater mode specifically for snorkeling and diving (to a depth of 49 feet). Mind you I am merely a hobbyist photographer, but I think you’ll agree that the photos below are pretty darn good (no Photoshop was used other than to crop a few of the images and add my © watermark). We snorkeled in water that ranged from approximately 8 to 25 feet deep, filled with breathtaking underwater scenery that included coral, reef fish and more reef fish. And turtles (more about the turtles next week).  I’d have loved to see some of the Manta Rays that inhabit the reef, but that was not to be. For now let me leave you with a few shots of various reef fish we encountered (click to enlarge the photos if you feel so inclined)

Anyway, mahalo for stopping by.

Blue Tang

Striptailed Damselfish, aka Scissortail Sergeant

Yellow Tang (Lau’i pala)

Humuhumunukunukuapua’a (the state fish of Hawaii)

Hawaiian chub

Ornate Butterflyfish

Black Durgon/Triggerfish (Humuhumu’ele’ele)

Striptailed Damselfish and Black Durgon

Needlefish

Jump ahead to Part II if so inclined.

In case you hadn’t noticed (and nobody has), there’s been no activity here in a long time. I haven’t gone fishing in even longer.

I was going to take the blog for a quick spin today but when I tried to fire it up there was nothing there. Apparently the UA battery is dead. One of these days I’ll clean up the terminals and put a charge on it.

Meanwhile, as you were.

In order to achieve balance in life there must be highs and lows; good and bad; dark and light. You know—that old Yin & Yang chestnut.  And so it is that with the great success of a blog like mine comes an equally great downside: a swollen head. I realized this recently when my lucky fishing hat no longer fit.

My hat has always been a bit snug; something I’ve just lived with, and kept my hair fairly short to minimize the discomfort. But when recently I donned the lucky lid it seemed to have become even smaller since the last time I wore it—so much so that wearing it was now out of the question. Everything seems to shrink as it gets older, and I readily accept that. But this discovery was particularly troubling. My lucky fishing hat, while not really lucky at all, has been with me for a lot of years. And it shows: Weathered and worn, it’s been rode hard and put up wet often. And therein lies the problem: it’s gotten wet and been allowed to dry many times over the years; each time it has dried it has gotten just a bit smaller.

What to do?

I went to the library and used the vast microfiche system to do a bit of research. I discovered options with regard to increasing the size my hat. One of those options was to find a hat shop and have them stretch my hat. Problem: where does one find a hat shop in this day and age? Baseball style caps abound, but do enough people wear brimmed hats to sustain a business based solely on hats? Perhaps I could find a hat specialty shop somewhere in Texas, where everyone wears cowboy hats, but that wouldn’t be a geographically feasible option. I quickly dismissed this option because even if I did locate a hatter within 25 miles of my home I assumed that they’d likely refuse to service my hat. It is, after all, a little on the crusty side. And there’s an odor…

The next option was to purchase a hat stretching device. These seem like the perfect tool for stretching a hat like mine that had become too small. The problem with this option was that I didn’t want to spend $15-$20 (plus shipping) on a device that may or may not work, and may only get used one time. I’m practical, and cheap. Spending any amount of money on an old hat in an attempt to get it to fit seemed impractical and foolish. That $20+ could be put toward a new fishing hat—something that fits; something that might actually bring me more luck.

And then I discovered instructions on how to use steam and a bowl, or similar round-ish container, to stretch a hat. I could find no bowls that would suffice, but I did find a small (6-quart) tapered bucket in the garage that seemed to be about the right size for my task at hand. I decided to forego the steam and just submerge the hat in hot water instead. I measured neither my head nor the bucket to determine the proper target diameter for stretching the hat—I simply slipped the hat over the bottom of the bucket and forced it down until the hat was very snug and could be forced no further. Did I mention that I didn’t take any measurements? I left it on the counter to dry overnight.

Did it work?

The next morning I awoke eager to see if my home-remedy had been effective. I ran downstairs like an excited kid on Christmas morning and proceeded to remove the hat from the bucket. I could tell that some change had taken place, but it wasn’t until I placed the hat on my head that I realized just how effective the hat trick had been. Whereas the hat used to sit fairly high on my head (unless I pulled it down, and in doing so felt like I had put my head in a vise), it now slid down easily—too easily, in fact. Now it rests too low on my head, causing my ears to fold over like certain terrier breeds.

This could be a problem.

I guess too much of a good thing really is bad, because now my lucky fishing hat is too big. Luckily I believe I can remedy this by dampening the hat and then tossing it in the dryer to shrink it a bit.  If it shrinks too much I know how to stretch it again.

Or maybe I’ll just let my hair grow out, or get a new hat. Maybe both?

I am not an advocate of tearing down every single dam on every single river in the country. That would not be economically feasible, or smart. However, there are many dams across the nation that should be looked at closely and many should be removed because they’re doing more harm than good.

I recently lent my signature to a petition with the intent of tearing down dams. More specifically the petition needs 50K signatures before it can be submitted to President Obama, urging him to issue forth the mandate to remove, among other outdated dams, 4 dams on the Snake River.  These dams are controlled by the federal government so your tax dollars pay to keep these “run of river” dams that generate very little hydro power and only serve as a passage (via a system of locks) for barges moving cargo. Ironically a perfectly good railway system parallels the river, making the dams completely unnecessary and completely wasteful. These dams also serve to block passage of salmon and steelhead, making their natural spawning journey more difficult than it already is without man-made barriers. So these dams should be removed to benefit the taxpayer and the fish.

I would ask you to do one of two things:

1. Watch DamNation on Netflix.  It’s an amazingly well done film. You’ll learn something and enjoy doing so. If you don’t already have Netflix, they’re giving away a month free. Use that free month to watch the film.

2. Sign the petition HERE.

I have a feeling that if you do #1 above, you’ll then do #2.

On June 12, 1987 President Ronald Reagan said, “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall.” And he did.

Now the people will be asking President Obama to tear down some dams.  Will he?

At this time less than 15K signatures are needed for the petition. Please sign.

If you’re still reading after Day One and Day Two, welcome to Day Three of our brief trip to Fernie, British Columbia (Canada).

On our third and final day in Fernie we fished on our own, thus avoiding the challenges brought on by the language barrier we struggled with the day before. We chose to follow the recommendation of a friend and pay a visit to one of the many Elk River tributaries, Michel Creek (sounds like ‘Michelle’ only its missing an extra  ‘l’ and ‘e’). Using sign language and rudimentary hand-drawn maps, the good folks at the Elk River Guiding Company were forthcoming with such information as where to go and how to get there. Despite that it was a 45 minute drive from Fernie into fairly remote country, I’d been told that we should not expect to be fishing alone because it’s quite a popular little river stream creek.

I’ve actually never been sure what criteria determines the difference between a river and a stream, or a creek, or even a brook. But in my opinion a creek is a small trickle of water that one can hop across in a single bound; maybe two.  In that regard Michel Creek is more of a river, albeit not a very big one—at least not this time of year (late Spetember).  Perhaps it’s more of a stream. Michel was skinny and creek-like in places, and in those places it could be easily forded without getting wet above the top our wading boots. In other spots it was more streamlike: knee deep and fairly wide. And in other areas there were pools that were downright deep, making it more like a bonafide river.  We fished the deeper runs and pools, of which there were plenty. Oh, and I was also told to expect wildlife sightings. My friend who had recommended Michel Creek told me he’d seen elk, bear, deer and coyotes all on the same trip in about a 2 mile stretch on the river creek. I didn’t expect to see elk, given that it was elk hunting season and the last thing you typically see during a hunting season is the animal which is being hunted.

Looks fishy, and grizzly.

What we did not see were other fishermen. In fact the only other people we saw were elk hunters, one of whom cautioned us to be watchful of Grizzlies.  The entire Elk Valley is known for its high concentration of bears, and because of that I’d purchased a can of Counter Assault before embarking on our trip. Unfortunately I’d left the can of spray at home. Marck and Jimmy had bear spray, so I reckoned that I’d be relatively safe in the event of an encounter as long as I stuck close to them, though not close enough that they could turn the spray on me. That said,  for the first hour of the day I headed upstream while they headed down. To say that I was a wee bit paranoid of a bear encounter would be accurate, and for the first hour I whistled as I worked the water, looking up repeatedly in hopes of not seeing a large bear emerging from the thick brush that lined the river creek. I didn’t, and as the day wore on I became slightly less concerned about bears and more concerned with catching fish.

One needn’t look far for signs of coal mining in trout country.

A two lane road follows the course of Michel Creek so it was easy to see why this river creek gets plenty of attention from anglers. It’s certainly a wild place, though a pristine wilderness it is not as there is ample sign of the mining industry throughout the area. I reckon I shouldn’t have been too surprised as there are very few places, shy of actual dedicated wilderness areas, where one can go and truly be in the wilderness. But after gearing up and walking a short distance to the river I had to admit that I was a bit disappointed. The Michel didn’t look like much, and didn’t produce any fish right off the bat. Upon further exploration upstream, around a bend, things changed for the better. Once out of sight of the road the river creek soon revealed its better self; its surroundings taking on a much more pleasing appearance. Plenty of structure in and along the riverbed, suggestive of big Spring flows, had created some tasty looking trout water. But the Michel didn’t prove to be the welcoming neighbor to the north that I had hoped for. At least not immediately.

Fish the foam.

After fruitless attempts at rising a couple of fish I saw in some large pools, I worked my way downstream, hoping to catch up with someone carrying a can of bear spray, and catch more fish. As I descended I happened upon a spot where a skinny riffle encountered an unyielding rocky bank, forcing the river creek, which looked indeed like a creek in this spot, to make a 90 degree turn.  At this bend was a small but dense patch of foam. It didn’t look like much but a voice in my head said, “Fish the foam. Always fish the foam.” For once I was glad I listened to the voice in my head because the foam produced my first Michel Creek fish. Despite the smallness of the water, the fish in Michel Creek proved to be disproportionately large and the fat 16″ cutthroat was a beauty, and a lot of fun on my new Sage ACCEL 4 weight. For a few minutes I even forgot to glance over my shoulder.

Always fish the foam.

Now that I was no longer facing a skunk, and less concerned with encountering a bear, I began to fish with greater confidence. That doesn’t mean I began catching fish, however:  as I worked through plenty of nice looking water I began to think that I might be little more than a one-fish wonder. I finally caught up with Morris, who was fishing a very deep pool where the river creek met a vertical embankment which dramatically changed its course (the kind of big, deep, swirling pool where you can’t see the bottom). He’d been catching some fish, and in fact had pulled a couple nice trout out of this very pool. Here the creek looked more like a river and there was plenty of room for two so I rigged up a beadhead soft hackle nymph and swung it through the depths. On my second attempt I hooked an agreeable 12 inch whitefish before moving on. Despite that Morris did not have bear spray either, we fished close together for the next hour or so before finally catching up with Marck and Jimmy, and their canisters of security. Undaunted by the possibility of a bear sighting, they were able to relax and focus solely on fishing. And because of that they’d been slaying fish—nice fish—for the better part of the day. Of course they had also been fishing untouched water. Morris and I were fishing their leftovers, and in a small stream with well-defined holes where the fish would be, one does not want to be 3rd or 4th in line.  We opted to break for lunch so we bushwhacked our way back to the road and then walked a mile or so back to the truck. It’s amazing how much distance one can cover while fishing without realizing it constantly looking over one’s shoulder for bears.

The long road ahead.

Following lunch we hopped in Marck’s 4Runner and drove downriver a find some new water.  After dropping Jimmy and me off at one spot, Marck and Morris drove further down. The plan was that Marck and Morris would fish down from where they parked while Jimmy and me I would fish down to where they’d parked. Then we (myself and Jimmy) would drive down and pick them up at the end of the day. And so we hit the river once again, rejuvenated from a beer and sandwich; eager to cover some unmolested water. It felt good to be fishing near someone who had bear spray, too.

The water we’d covered before lunch was far more varied and took us further from the road. It was better water at these low flows. The water we fished after lunch didn’t have as many deep pools and defined holes but we caught a few fish. In fact I caught more trout in the afternoon than I had all morning, but the water was less inviting overall, and the fish a bit smaller. At one point Jimmy and I came upon a run where large rocks broke up the flow of the river. There were no stretches of water that were very deep, and when a BWO hatch came off in the middle of the afternoon there were no fish rising. Not obviously, anyway. But we began to hook a few fish in small pockets behind rocks—in water that appeared on the surface to be too small to hold a respectable fish. They were not the 18 inch fish of the Elk which we’d caught 24 hours earlier, but they were beautifully colored and appeared very healthy—no Selenium-induced deformities.

Jimmy with a nice Michel Creek cutthroat.

After encountering a few welcoming fish we continued down the Michel, covering likely looking water that gave up no fish. The w#nd picked up and it threatened rain but did little more than spit a few drops on us which was a relief because there’s not much enjoyment to be had getting drenched while not catching fish. After a short while we came to a railroad bridge over the river. There had been recent maintenance work on the bridge and from the looks of things the construction crews would probably return soon to finish the work. There were drums of unknown fluids, tools and materials stacked along the side of the tracks. The smell of fresh railroad ties hung in the air—the smell of creosote. Beneath the bridge were chunks of discarded railroad ties, in the river creek. I’m sure the crews would be back to remove those. Marck and Morris were standing along the river a short distance upstream from the bridge, working a long deep run and we could see fish rising from our vantage point. We hadn’t expected to encounter them here as the 4Runner was parked just a short distance away alongside the road.  We expected to have to drive a mile or so downriver to pick them up, but as it turns out Marck and Morris had started heading downstream from the bridge but the water wasn’t very enticing. And they’d found several more chunks of creosote-soaked railroad ties scattered throughout the river below the bridge. The lack of regard for the river creek by the railroad crews was fairly disconcerting.

We called it a day on the Michel and headed back to the car. The collective opinion was that everyone had enjoyed their time on this small river and that we wouldn’t mind returning a little earlier in the year when there was a bit more water volume.  We also acknowledged that if we were to come back earlier in the year we’d encounter more fishermen and perhaps even some critters. In the end no wildlife was seen, and no bear spray was deployed. That said, if we do come back I won’t forget my bear spray next time: you never know when you might have to use it on a railroad worker who’s throwing scraps of toxin-coated wood into a river that’s already dealing with issues from coal mining pollution. 

If you plan to fish Michel Creek, this article will be of much more use to you than the article you’re currently reading. Read the article—it’s a good one, and points out why a dandy little stream like Michel Creek should not be kept a secret—it needs friends.

And thus concludes our trip to Fernie, BC. It was everything I had expected, and more.  Canada is indeed a welcoming place, but the currency issue, language barrier and their unwillingness to drop the metric system are discouraging. And not that you would, but don’t eat the fish. Instead take a multi-vitamin supplement if you want safe doses of Selenium.

After our brief introduction to the river on Day One, we were eager to see more of the Elk and keen on meeting even more of its hospitable inhabitants. I was particularly interested in hooking up with some of bull trout that the river is known for as well, although I fully acknowledged that our timing may have been a bit late for prime char time.

Not our guides, Bob and Doug.

Our guides, Kevin and Tyler.

We arrived at the Elk River Guiding Company and met our guides, Kevin Green and Tyler Carson.  Jimmy and I were paired with Kevin while Marck and Morris joined forces with Tyler. We’re not competitive or anything like that, but the night before we each tossed $10 (American) into a hat and it was declared that there would be a friendly inter-boat contest for the most fish, and the biggest fish. With less than $40 Canadian 40 Loonies at stake, it’s not like we were vying for huge sums of money—mainly bragging rights (and the losers would buy beer that evening). The first thing we did was inform Kevin that we must win, and whatever it took to declare victory must be done. Kevin was undaunted by the additional pressure, though he likely assumed that his tip was dependent on our winning the contest. He informed us that he’d been on the Elk nearly every day this season. He was the man for the job. If we could just get past the language barrier we’d be all set. Speaking of that, as a public service to my 12 readers (13 Canadian) here is a cheat sheet that may enhance your next visit to Canada. 

The biggest truck in the world.

We set off upriver about aboot 18 miles 30 kilometers from Fernie toward our launch point at Sparwood, a town that boasts the biggest truck in the world. We didn’t stop to see the truck up close, but to give you an idea as to how big this truck is, it is easily capable of hauling the largest ball of twine in the world. Sparwood’s livelihood appears to rely solely on the coal industry and, as was mentioned in my previous post, the Elk River flows through coal mining country. While mining began in 1897 the river was there long before then. There are 5 such mines in the greater Elk River valley and as with any extraction process coal mining is not without it’s detrimental impact on the surrounding natural resources. Elevated levels of phosphates, nitrates and Selenium, byproducts of coal mining, are found in the waters of the Elk River and some of its tributaries.

Vitamin S

I’d heard of Selenium before, and in fact it’s an ingredient in the multivitamins I take daily. However, the levels of Selenium in the Elk are far above what is needed for cellular regeneration/life sustenance. Too much is highly toxic, and levels in the Elk River are too much. Curious, and slightly concerned, I asked Kevin what some of the visible effects of the Selenium levels in fish are. He noted that shortened upper jaws and missing gill plates are seen from time to time, but the fish survive with these deformities.  He also mentioned that they don’t encounter fish bearing the signs of Selenium poisoning all the time, and while the morbid curiosity that lurks within would have liked to have seen and photographed such a deformed fish, I am pleased to report that no such specimens were seen or caught.  That doesn’t mean that this isn’t a huge issue facing the Elk watershed—it is—but I’m not here to go into detail about it. My buddy Derek Young fished the Elk in 2012 and did see evidence of Selenium poisoning in at least one fish (photo below).

What’s missing in this photo?

Mining is bad for rivers and ecosystems no matter what country you’re in, period. And Canada has had its share of bad press with regard to mining pollution this year (read up on the Mount Polley disaster here). I hope the Canadian government gets on top of things and makes damn sure that the mining companies do their part to clean up their acts. Here’s an article on CBC News British Columbia that talks in greater depth about the issues, and an even more recent article sheds more disturbing light on the matter here. The Elk River is a world class fly fishing destination and the cutthroat in the Elk River are known for their size. Could it be that the fish owe their girth to the mega doses of “supplements” they receive? The fish in the Elk seem to be doing fine for now but too much of anything is a bad thing. Let’s hope that things improve before the entire fish populations are pushed over the brink there, and in the states.  You see, the Elk flows into the Kootenai Kootenay River, which flows into Montana where it’s known as the Kootenay Kootenai River. Therefore the coal mining pollution has become an international boundary water dispute.  

First fish: gill plates in tact.

Enough aboot mining pollution; let’s go fishing, shall we eh?

As we prepared to set off down the river we strung up our 6 weight rods with sink tips and our 4 weights with floating lines. We’d be throwing streamers early in the day and switching to dries as the day warmed up and the fish began (hopefully) feeding on top. We would also do a bit of nymphing but we don’t want to talk about that openly—one does not go to the Elk River to nymph. However, if one does one will be fishing with just one fly—no dropper, per fishing regulations. I’m not sure if this one-fly limitation is in place to protect the resource or to discourage nymphing. Either way I had no problem with it because I nearly always catch fish on a dropper. Since we only used one nymph, that was the dropper in my estimation.

It didn’t take us long before we enticed the first fish on a streamer, and while it wasn’t a particularly large specimen it got the skunk off the boat early. We were officially on the board and as we proceeded in the direction of the river’s current we would stay plenty busy fishing this method. The cutts slammed the streamers with enthusiasm—the beauty of streamer fishing—and we caught some decent sized fish up to about aboot 17 inches. Each time that we floated over a big, deep hole that looked like it might hold a bull trout or two, I got a wee bit excited. But no bulls were seen in the big pools. Many if not most were already up in the tribs getting their spawn on. No worries, we were catching fish—nice fish: beautiful orange and gold cutthroats that seemed more brightly colored than other westslopes I’d seen before in the states. In the back of my mind I was still hoping for a shot at a bull (fish, to be sure—not an elk, although it was elk hunting season in the Elk Valley). A side note aboot bull trout: those who’ve fished for them know their propensity for attacking a trout that has become hooked.  I’ve seen it first hand, but nothing quite like what we would eventually experience on the Elk. Yes, we would see some bull trout, up close and personal. Keep reading.

At one point Jimmy was playing a smallish cutt when it was attacked by a very large predator that grabbed the trout in its mouth right at the boat.  The trout escaped mostly unscathed and we did not see the big predatory char again. Downstream a short while later as Jimmy was playing a 12 inch whitefish in a fairly shallow, broad riffle, the whitey was bull-rushed by not one, but three big char. Holy cow Jesus Murphy! The whitey darted madly as one of the bulls snapped at its tail, again right at the boat in shallow water. Kevin was clearly as excited as were we—he’d never seen anything quite like this. Whether that was the truth or he was just building up the event to ensure a generous tip we will never know. It didn’t matter. It was cool. I slapped the 3 inch streamer down into the foray hoping one of the bulls would lash out in anger and take the fly in a fit of confused rage.  That didn’t happen, and the whitefish was saved from the jaws of death and counted toward our fish total. The 3 bulls moved a short distance from the boat and continued to lay in the shallows for a period of time. They were each in the upper mid-twenties in length. I wanted one, badly, and put the streamer in front of their noses on several occasions. It was just like sight-casting delicate dries to rising trout, only the streamer was anything but delicate and the char weren’t trout, and they weren’t rising. In fact they weren’t having anything to do with my streamer whatsoever. Eventually they moved off into the depths of the river. We’d had our load of bull for the day, and it was quite a memorable experience.  I tossed another American quarter into the tip jar and we proceeded on.

Lunch break.

We met up with Marck and Morris for a lunch that, despite having not included back bacon, cheese or poutine, was quite palatable. Tyler’s boat had not been streamer fishing all morning so they’d fallen behind in the ‘most fish’ competition. They’d caught some decent fish, as had we, but with the competition only halfway over the biggest fish was yet to be caught. What Marck and Morris had that we did not was beer—an oversight on our part. That, perhaps, became our advantage. By lunch time the day was quite pleasant despite that the clouds were stubborn and refused to burn off. I was really hoping for some bright sun rays to show off the Elk River in all its Fall splendor, but that was not to be. Still, as the day warmed we hoped the fish would be looking up.  They would be.

The other boat had beer.

We learned the this would be Kevin’s last day guiding the Elk for the season. In two days he would be loading up his truck and camper and girlfriend and embarking on a 15 hour drive to chase steelhead for 2 weeks in the mecca of Canadian steelhead waters. Had we known all this prior to the float we may have requested another guide. After all the season was nearing its end. Kevin had fished long and hard, putting in over 60 days on the river with nary a day off. And now he was aboot to embark on vacation. Surely his head wouldn’t be in the game. Very likely he would not be mentally capable of saving his best for last.  That proved not to be the case as he worked hard for us all day long, putting us on many a good fish, all the while doing so with enthusiasm and a great sense of humor. The language barrier would ultimately prove minimal.

After breaking for lunch we broke out the 4 weights and began throwing dries. My brand new Sage ACCEL caught Kevin’s attention so we talked a bit aboot that. When I mentioned that I got the rod because it reminded me of my beloved Z-Axis Zed-Axis, it turned into somewhat of a Sage lovefest. As it turned oot Kevin is also a fan of Sage rods and has a fondness for the Zed-Axis as well. But I digress. Our lunch was barely digested when Kevin slowed the boat and dropped anchor in a fairly nondescript little run. Sure, it looked fishy, but then again so had many other spots we’d floated past withoot spotting any fish rising. Kevin wanted to give this particular spot a closer look, and we were glad he did: fish were soon rising in great abundance. Anchored a mere 30 feet 9.144 meters from the bank, we observed fish feeding in current seams every few feet, sipping on mayflies. The bugs were small; the fish were not. We got a good look at each individual cutt as they rose and picked off bugs: some were larger than others, but it would be not untruthful to say that the smallest fish were 15 inches. Some rose delicately, sticking just their noses above the film while others porpoised completely out of the water. We targeted the fish nearest the boat first, working our way gradually toward the bank. We caught fish in every seam.

Kevin offers up the international sign for “accomplishment”.

As we worked closer to the bank, it became increasingly more difficult top present our flies (or at least it did for me). Casting toward overhanging branches was not without its challenges and at one point I tested Kevin’s patience by hanging up in the same tree no fewer than three times. On three consecutive casts.  While Kevin re-rigged my tippet and flies, Jimmy was afforded the opportunity for a power play (that’s a hockey term; Canadians do like their hockey and Fernie is no exception—it has its own hockey team), of which he took full advantage. He would land our team’s big fish of the day while I remained in the penalty box (another hockey term). Noteworthy in particular was one fish that took Jimmy’s fly and instantly acted like no other trout I’d seen before. Without the slightest hesitation it ran, at warp speed, toward the boat, then upstream, downstream, and finally toward the bank and into a snarl of partially submerged branches before snapping off.  All Jimmy could do was hold on and laugh. We were amazed at how fast and strong this particular cutthroat was, and how differently it had reacted when compared to the scores of other fish we’d hooked in the same locale. They were all strong fish, but this one had a particularly nasty, un-Canadian-like disposition. It must’ve had a particularly large dose of vitamin S that morning. Perhaps it was even missing a gill plate…

Jimmy hits paydirt with a nice fat cutt on a dry.

Jimmy’s strikes gold with his big fish of the day, on a dry.

The trouts rising in this fairly nondescript run left their welcome mat out for well over an hour and a half as Jimmy and I took turns landing several and losing several more. There was one last fish; a big, darkly-colored coloured fish rising tight to the bank under the same overhanging branches that had put me into a timeout a few casts earlier. I wanted that fish as much as Kevin did not want me to lose another fly so I adjusted my angle and made one last hope shot toward the bank. Kevin breathed a sigh of relief as my fly cleared the shrubbery and drifted right over the nose of the fish. Because I was fairly certain I couldn’t duplicate that cast, I breathed a sign of relief when the fish sipped my fly and the hook was set. I breathed another sigh of relief when that fish was brought to the net. It was the last fish we’d catch from that nondescript little run, and as it turned oot it would be the last fish caught that day. Time-wise we’d fallen way behind and had some water to cover to catch up with the other boat so that we could humbly announce to them that we had already won the “most fish” competition, and likely the “biggest fish” as well thanks to Jimmy’s 18+ inch bruiser.

The last fish.

We pushed through a couple miles of river, fishing streamers occasionally when things looked right to do so, but mainly cutting the distance between our boat and the takeout. As we proceeded quickly downriver we had time to sit back and reflect on the beauty of the area. Aspen and cottonwoods were turning shades of yellow and gold, further enhancing the natural glory of the area. But a coal train served as a reminder that beauty is sometimes skin deep.

Beauty…

…and the beast.

The day threatened rain but never made good on that threat, thankfully. The w#nd had begun to rear its ugly head and the temperature was dropping as we encountered the other boat above the takeoot at Olson. A brief exchange indicated that Marck and Morris had not encountered the same pod of rising fish in the nondescript run that we had. But again, they did have beer. It was clear that the 30-some odd fish we’d landed would best their total, and while it was likely an act of welfare Jimmy and I conceded the biggest fish to their boat. We split the pot with them and that night we would share in the cost of beer—probably a good thing since it cost $38 (Canadian) for 2 pitchers jugs of beer. And Canadian jugs are no bigger than American jugs.

The next day we would head into the bear-infested hills past Sparwood to chase fish a small trib of the Elk River, so tune in next week, unpleasant persons hosers.

Everybody was a winner on the Elk River.