Whenever Labor Day rolls around, I think back over the many fine fly-fishing trips I’ve made in September. I recall being on the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus once, for instance, and lucking into an early hatch of October Caddis that worked the trout into a frenzy. On a Sierra County creek, in a blaze of autumn color, I remember casting to wild rainbows who hit every fly I offered, desperate for a last meal before winter. But my most memorable trip — for all the wrong reasons — is one I made to the upper Trinity River with my friend Paul Deeds some years ago.
Deeds put together the trip. He’s man of simple tastes and strong opinions. He’d rather eat at a diner than a restaurant with a Michelin star (“What does a tire company know about good food?”) and thinks sushi is toxic. He trusts the National Enquirer, not the New York Times, and reads it (but doesn’t buy it) at the supermarket. I won’t go into what he watches on TV, but on a river, there’s no better companion. Deeds casts like a pro and knows how to find fish. In spite of being irascible, he’s the best instructor I’ve ever had.
The Trinity trip came about when he heard from an old friend. Let’s call him Tommy. He and Deeds used to fish the Russian until Tommy retired to a Sacramento suburb. They hadn’t spoken for ages, but as folks do after a cocktail or three, Tommy called Deeds to reminisce. He no longer fished much due to an arthritic hip, he confided, and that was a shame, because he owned a cabin on the Trinity that just gathered dust. Maybe Deeds would like to borrow it for a while in late September? There’d be summer-run steelies from the hatchery, a few wild fish, and probably a sprinkling of half-pounders.
Half-pounders are immature steelhead who spend three to five months at sea and can’t yet spawn. They used to be a big deal on the Trinity, but they’ve been in decline since 1982. No one has identified an exact cause, but the size of the smolts on their release from the hatchery, the regulation of stream flow, and a genetic factor have all been suggested.
“Chance of a lifetime,” Deeds put it to me. “Are you in or out?”
The Trinity’s a long haul from San Francisco, where I lived at the time, and I had a book to finish writing, but the offer of a free cabin on the river was too tempting to resist. “I’m in, I guess.”
“Don’t guess, buddy. Tommy’s never once put me wrong.”
In late September, I met Deeds in Santa Rosa and left my car there, and we crossed over to I-5 in his ancient SUV. He hates to talk on the freeway, so instead, he played blues CDs by guys who all seemed to be named Blind Willie Something or Deaf Jimmy Something until we turned onto Highway 299 and the traffic thinned out. Then Deeds cut the music to regale me with tales of Tommy and his amazing angling feats, how he’d once caught an 18-pound steelhead hen in Cloverdale and got his picture in the Press–Democrat.
Tommy this, Tommy that, all the way to Lewiston, where we switched to a road into the mountains. I assumed Deeds had made a wrong turn. “Wrong way, Paul,” I warned him. “The river’s to your right.”
He passed me a slip of paper with some scribbled notes. They were so hard to decipher they might’ve been written in Crayola. “Just following Tommy’s directions.”
“You told me the cabin was on the river. I distinctly remember that. On the river, your exact words.”
“It’s possible I misspoke.”
That was the first sign that things might go hideously wrong. We climbed through a lovely evergreen forest I’d have appreciated more if cold fear hadn’t gripped my innards. I had of course imagined the cabin as a twoor threeor maybe four-bed place with an expansive deck fitted with a high-end Weber and a fire pit to ward off the evening chill. I pictured high ceilings, knotty pine walls, and a wine rack to which Tommy had stuck a Post-It that read, “Guests please help yourselves!”
That fantasy was not to be. At last we came to a rutted dirt road marked by a mailbox. It led to a small cabin almost buried beneath half a ton or so of pine needles. Above the door Tommy had hung a sign, now weather-beaten, identifying the cabin as “Our Sweet Mountain Home.” Either he had a great sense of humor or he’d lost his marbles. While I gaped at the disarray, Deeds began lifting rocks, one after another. It dawned on me that he must be searching for a key.
“It’s supposed to be right here,” he griped. “Beneath the gray rock.”
I looked around. Gray rocks lay about in abundance. I took the initiative and tried the front door. It opened right up, as creaky as Tommy’s bad hip. Several mice scattered. They’d obviously had the run of the cabin, judging by their droppings. It appeared they’d lived there for months, never bothering to step outside to relieve themselves.
“Only one bed,” I observed dryly. I dared not contemplate the bumps, ridges, and stains of the mattress hidden under a single rumpled sheet.
“You’ve got to admit it beats camping out,” said Deeds, trying for a positive spin. “Besides, you’ve got a sleeping bag.”
“I’ve got a sleeping bag?” “OK, we’ll flip for it.”
The anticipated evening chill set in, but there wasn’t a fire pit or a fireplace, only a wall heater. I turned it on. Nothing. Tommy hadn’t paid his bill, or some critter had chewed through the power lines. We passed the next three nights by candlelight and lantern. It was not romantic.
After a rough night on the floor, I woke to a bright sky and hoped for the best — the best being a relative concept. What I really hoped was that the trip wouldn’t get any worse, and it didn’t. In Lewiston, we learned that the river was full of summer-run fish. That was good news, the first in a while, so we spent the morning searching out spots that afforded us relatively easy wading.
The water was low and clear, and the air smelled wonderfully of pine. I envied the anglers in drift boats, able to cover much more of the Trinity than we could on foot. Still, there wasn’t a crowd to fight, and I began casting and swinging the streamers I’d been advised to buy — Assassins, Silver Hiltons, and Brindle Bugs in sizes 6 and 8. Deeds, ever his own man, chose to try dries, first a Stimulator and next an Elk Hair Caddis. He caught the first steelie, of course, a fresh buck of a little over three pounds. It was a hatchery fish, its adipose fin clipped.
In all, we took four or five steelies between us, including a half-pounder I caught — beautiful and bright, about 15 inches long and lacking the rainbow coloration of most adults. That made for a terrific day in my book, almost satisfying enough to dispel the dread I felt about returning to Our Sweet Mountain Home.
We arrived back after dark. As the designated cook, I lit a candle and scrounged in the kitchen drawers, unearthing a single dented pot and a rusty cast-iron skillet. That limited our options. There’d be no culinary expertise tonight. I scorched a hunk of sirloin and opened a can of beans, scarcely a hardship for Deeds, who ate with gusto, even remarking, “Great meal!”
I wanted to read a little before I turned in, but the only book I could find was a fossil-like copy of Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club from the Sylvan Oaks library in Citrus Heights, which was due back on July 12, 2009. Instead, I went to bed — sleeping on top of that rumpled sheet.
Our second day on the stream was just as satisfying, although Deeds kept complaining about his sore back. Again we had good luck and hooked a couple of smaller steelies downstream from Lewiston Dam. I stuck with my streamers, but Deeds worked a deep pool by dead-drifting a Pheasant Tail under an indicator. He tied into a superb fish and fought it for half and hour or so before resting it in the shallows for a photo, then releasing it. The steelhead must’ve weighed seven pounds.
On the third day, our luck ran out. We woke to rain. That was highly unusual in the Trinity Alps in September, where it stays mostly dry into October.
The rain began with a crackling thunderstorm that turned into a steady drizzle and made it uncomfortable to be on the stream, particularly since the steelhead weren’t biting, so we quit in the late afternoon and spent a very long evening twiddling our thumbs at the cabin.
In the morning, eager to hit the road, we got an early start. On the drive home, I strived to look at the bright side. The cabin was a disaster, but we enjoyed two days of first-rate fishing. I caught three steelies and a half-pounder, and I hooked and lost at least that many more. That improved my spirit, but Deeds still looked moody. He wore his freeway grimace, obviously deep in thought. We both acted a bit awkward when he dropped me in Santa Rosa. I knew better than to expect an apology or an excuse, but he surprised me by saying, “I think I ought to give Tommy a call.”
ONE WADES
Tall young men, each with beards, the tattoos
traditional for the young, I stand with my grandsons
in the river, dusk to dark, until the sun’s pinched
to a red dot in the west and moonlight glitters the riffles.
One wades with a newly broken heart, one with
a confession to make when he gets home, the river
turned black, hiding its stones, so that we all wade
with our boots feeling for holds against the current.
In the dark, time unfolds like a ribbon secreting
secrets. Bats flicker as blacker pieces of the sky,
puzzle pieces quit on fitting. In my mind, I see
the boys as babies, toddlers, teenagers, now men.
I know what this means for me, older, pushed ahead
of their growing, not yet frail though that too soon
will come. The river sighs louder at night. Colder air
breeds fog out the water. Both have caught their first
big trout. Finally, when we can’t see to cast, we wade
out, the boys uncertain of the path, but strong, unafraid.
I lead. Later, I’ll follow. I can see the grace of that.
We’re wet with beginning, wordless to the car.
— Keith Shein
