THE HOLIDAYS ARE over. Only the mess remains. That, and the grim realization that after only a week into the new year, my extensive list of New Year’s resolutions unraveled like one of my fish stories.
It’s not a big deal. These were not the sort of resolutions that would have improved the human condition, preserved the environment or unlocked the secrets of the universe. I gave up on that the year I resolved to catch a 100-pound salmon and failed.
No, these were more humble resolutions, designed to cope with our modern world of the future that seems to be spinning more wildly out of control with each passing day.
This was the year I was going to patch my extensive collection of leaky boots. It is a vital skill for life on the water. I don’t know why it is that water never seems to leak out of a boot once it leaks in.
Life is funny that way. I hope someone is studying the problem.
When it comes to failing your resolutions, it’s best not to get bogged down with the details. Instead, you need to prioritize, adapt and move on.
Sometimes I think New Year’s resolutions are just too much work with the massive pile of leftover chores from last fall staring me in the face, but who was I kidding? The weather has been too wet and cold to even think about working outside.
Fortunately, we can still go fishing in weather that is too miserable to work in. That’s why we call it steelhead weather.
If you don’t know what a steelhead is, you’re probably not from around here. They are a sea-run rainbow trout that is one of the primary reasons for living on the Olympic Peninsula.
They represent the only New Year’s resolution I have left, to catch a 40-pound steelhead. I know it, like the 100-pound salmon, is out there somewhere.
The hunt began with the new year.
We launched in the river in the wake of the flood and floated through the vapors. There were skid marks in the trees 10 feet over our heads from the wall of water, rocks and trees that roared down out of the mountains in the high water.
The river is clean after a flood. The rocks seem polished, as if they’re freshly minted. Rivers need to flood every now and again to fluff up and loosen the gravel on the spawning beds.
After the flood, there is a whole new crop of log jams in the river. Some of them are big enough to start a sawmill.
It is advisable to scout the route. You don’t want to float around a blind corner and find a log jam blocking the river. That could be a fatal surprise.
It’s a risk we take to fish for the largest steelhead that swim, the dinosaur trout, a fish that’s survived the humans into the industrial age.
Fishing for steelhead is a form of time travel. Sometimes when the light is right and the fog is thick on the river, you can feel as if you are the last person on earth.
You can forget what time or day or year it is, because, once you are on the water, none of that matters.
It might as well be a 100 years ago, because the same fish are still swimming our rivers.
These are the fish our ancestors fished for. We feel the presence of those who fished before.
Steelhead fishing may not be a matter of life and death.
It could be much more important than that.
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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.
