IT’S SUMMERTIME AND the fishing is easy. The fishing might not be any better than in the winter, but it never snows in summer and there’s no black ice to drive on.
It’s good to hit the river early, before the sun is on the water. Unless you’re fishing with teenagers whose idea of early is shortly before noon.
It’s OK, because I knew every minute of this day was going to be a bickering nightmare. These were, after all, teenage girls whose idea of fun is video games and riding horses. How their uncle ever got them suckered into a fishing trip in the first place is just another heart-rending example of a family vacation blown into the vortex of bad planning, indecision and blame. I tried to do my part. I launched the boat.
Most anytime some half-baked relation passes through, we end up fishing since many of these people have bad fishing problems that make mine seem mild by comparison. We had to go fishing somewhere. Might as well go to my favorite river at my favorite time of year.
You can catch fish on just about anything now. Maybe you’re a fly fisherman. You enjoy dismembering small creatures for their feathers and fur so you can tie a fly to catch an endangered species and turn it loose. Get some help.
Or perhaps you’re a spinner or spoon fisherman who derives a sadistic pleasure from squandering the children’s college funds to throw gold- and silver-plated lures into the limbs of trees on a far bank — no matter how many times I told you the fish don’t swim in the trees until the water gets higher.
Maybe you’re a bait fisherman. You don’t mind smelling like a dumpster behind the fish market on a hot day in August. Fishing with bait is a form of water pollution if done properly. Which might be a reason using bait has been largely outlawed.
We were going to go fishing anyway. By the time we got in the boat, the teenagers had figured out this was not a horse ride. You’ve really got to hand it to these kids. They’re smart, but they made the best of it.
The kids got busy throwing spinners. This is extremely dangerous while drifting down a river spinning in circles.
Whack! A big #5 spinner hit me right between the eyes with the force of a ballpeen hammer. I might have blacked out, but I was too busy rowing and releasing fish back into the river.
The kids were catching dolly varden or bull trout. These are considered endangered, so you have to throw them back.
If the bull trout are endangered, how come that’s all we catch? The brat pack demanded, like I’m supposed to have the answer for everything and I do. I tell the kids the seals and the fish ducks ate all the steelhead. The varmints got them all.
None too soon, the day is over. We retire to the campground of the doomed for a fishless barbecue.
By the time I burned supper, it was getting dark.
The moon poked through a canopy of old spruce. I slept beneath the stars.
I felt at peace with the universe until I felt something crawling over my sleeping bag. Slowly turning my head, I saw the fluffy white tail of a large skunk waddling through the gloom.
Retreating to the top of the picnic table, I lay awake listening to the skunk wash the dishes.
I couldn’t hate all the varmints in the world anymore.
We’re just doing what comes naturally.
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Pat Neal is a Hoh River fishing and rafting guide and “wilderness gossip columnist” whose column appears here every Wednesday.
He can be reached at 360-683-9867 or by email via patnealproductions@gmail.com.
