Books by Steve Raymond
Fly Fishing—Nonfiction
Kamloops: An Angler’s Study of the Kamloops Trout
The Year of the Angler
The Year of the Trout
Backcasts: A History of the Washington Fly Fishing Club, 1939–1989
Steelhead Country
The Estuary Flyfisher
Rivers of the Heart: A Fly-Fishing Memoir
Blue Upright: The Flies of a Lifetime
Nervous Water: Variations on a Theme of Fly Fishing
A Fly Fisher’s Sixty Seasons: True Tales of Angling Adventures
Fly Fishing—Fiction
Trout Quintet: Five Stories of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Fly Fishing
Civil War History
In the Very Thickest of the Fight: The Civil War Service of the 78th Illinois Volunteer Infantry Regiment
Copyright © 2018 by Steve Raymond
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Tom Lau
Cover illustration and part illustrations by Al Hassall
Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3407-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3408-1
Printed in the United States of America
For Randy
May you have as many seasons
CONTENTS
First Cast
Part I: Early Season
Fly Lines and Bylines
Freezer Burn
The Wolcott Factor
Pain Management
Ask the Guide
The Lowdown on Lundbom
Weight Forward
Part II: Midseason
A Seasonal Passion
The Man from Campbell River
Calm, Cool, and Collected
The Forgotten Hatch
Lundbom Revisited
Better than Strawberries
The Sophisticated Angler’s Test (SAT)
Part III: Late Season
The Past is Prose
Chernobyl Tomato
“Get Them Back Alive!”
You Can’t Ever Have Too Many Fly Rods
Single Action
Invasive Species
On the Wild Side
Credits
FIRST CAST
THE TITLE of this book says it all. For sixty years I’ve been fly fishing and writing about it—ten books before this one—and I’d already been fishing a number of years before I started writing about it. After so many years and so many books, you’d think I’d have said everything I had to say, but it seems there’s always something more—some new experience or emergent thought important enough to get down in print while I still have the opportunity.
That’s mostly what we have here. That, plus a few old stories published years ago in magazines you probably didn’t read, and transcripts of several oral presentations that you probably didn’t hear. For good measure, there’s even a mostly just-for-fun quiz to gauge your level of fly-fishing sophistication.
The menu includes trout, steelhead, Atlantic salmon, bonefish and, yes, even carp. Also included are rivers, lakes, and salt water. There’s a lot about fly-fishing books and writers, fly rods, reels, favorite fishing methods, and guides—some good, others not so much. Just in case you wanted to know, you’ll also learn how I survived a thirty-year newspaper career that often interfered with the more important imperative of fly fishing—or vice versa.
A mixed bag, to be sure.
A lot can happen in sixty years, and a lot did. Most of these selections are roughly in chronological order. Some span years or even decades, others the events of only a single day. Some are intended to make you smile, but others are serious, and a few might even make you a little sad. Others, I hope, may inspire you.
That’s the menu. Read heartily.
—Steve Raymond
PART I:
EARLY SEASON
“No man is born an angler.”—Izaak Walton
“Oh, yeah?”—Steve Raymond
FLY LINES AND BYLINES
IT BEGINS with a fish. I think almost any fish would do, but in my case it was a little trout hooked on a little fly, and I don’t think the circumstances could have been any better. From that moment on I wanted nothing more than to spend every day for the rest of my life fly fishing for trout.
That’s not an unusual ambition for a boy or even for a grown man (though not usually for a woman at that time). Unfortunately, very few people are ever able to realize it, or even come close. That’s because too many things get in the way—the necessity for an education; perhaps a stint of military service, as in my case; the desire to marry and raise a family; the need to make a living; and so on. All those things kept me from fishing every day, or even very often. I managed to fish whenever I could all the way through high school, but then had to put away my tackle for four years of college and two years as a navy officer. The only fishing I had during that time was with my new wife, Joan, during our honeymoon at a remote fishing camp.
Yes, we really did fish.
Then I landed a job as a cub reporter at the Seattle Times. Landing a job wasn’t the same as landing a trout, but it did give me the wherewithal, and sometimes the opportunity, to resume fishing, which I usually managed to do at least a few days each month.
I also quickly discovered that nothing in my prior experience had quite prepared me for the reality of life at a big-city newspaper. I didn’t realize it then, but it was near the end of a colorful era in the history of journalism, a time when newsrooms were inhabited by crusty, hard-drinking, fast-living reporters who sometimes went out and created their own news if none could be found legitimately. The Times newsroom still had a few such characters, including reporters like Robert A. Barr, Barney Harvey, and Johnny Reddin.
On my very first day in the newsroom I was seated at a desk directly facing Barr, a feisty little man with a big nose and a rumpled bloodhound face who was already something of a legend in the Seattle newspaper community. I watched in awe as he tried to work a story over the phone. He was a very excitable man who chain-smoked cigarettes and swore about as often as he breathed, and the more excited he got the more he swore and the more he smoked. It wasn’t unusual for him to have several cigarettes going at once.
This particular morning, he was chasing a story about a mountain rescue and having trouble getting information. After each fruitless call, he’d slam down the phone, swear, and light another cigarette. I thought I’d heard some major-league profanity in the navy, but Barr was in a class by himself. If he’d been able to write as well as he could swear, he would have won a Pulitzer.
It wasn’t long before Barr had five cigarettes going, one in each hand, one stuck behind his ear, one balanced on the edge of his desk, and another in an ashtray. Finally he slammed down the phone again and flipped a cigarette over his shoulder. It landed i
n a wastebasket full of papers, and you can guess what happened next. Barr sniffed a couple of times, then leaped to his feet and turned to see flames shooting out of the wastebasket. He rushed over and tried to stamp them out, but got his shoe wedged in the wastebasket. So there he was, hopping around on one foot while the other was stuck in this flaming wastebasket and his pants were about to catch fire. About then I began to question my judgment in choosing the Seattle Times as a place of employment.
Not for the last time, either. I soon learned that the Times was a very conservative institution. The personnel department—what everyone now calls human resources—had only two employees, both former FBI agents, and the records they kept resembled the dossiers of Soviet spies more than employee files. Next door to the publisher’s suite was a small office inhabited by a mysterious figure whose job was as much a mystery as he was, although it was rumored he had “something to do with taxes.” He was seldom seen outside his office, but once a week he would emerge, stroll through the newsroom without saying a word to anyone, enter the adjoining composing room, and head for the alley, where printers were making up new movie advertisements. There he would closely inspect all the movie ads. If he found any which, in his judgment, contained female images that were not sufficiently clothed, he would take out a black felt-tipped pen and carefully draw additional clothing over their exposed parts, and that’s how the ads would appear in the newspaper. This actually happened.
One day he found a printer making up an ad for a movie titled The Last American Virgin. He made a beeline for the front office and soon the order came down to change the movie’s title in the advertisement. It was published as The Last American Nice Girl. Of course the change did not go unnoticed by the public, leaving the Times with a huge splotch of egg on its embarrassed face.
Corporate conservatism also pervaded the newsroom. The timber industry, Boeing, and Alaska oil all were sacred cows about which discouraging words were never to appear. When the weather forecast said partly cloudy, it was changed to partly sunny. Individual initiative or enterprise on the part of reporters was tolerated only grudgingly, if at all, and old-timers warned the only way to survive was to “keep your head down in your foxhole, because if you stick it up it might get shot off.” That, of course, was not what I wanted to hear, and sometimes I stuck my head up anyway. I suffered a few flesh wounds, but nothing fatal.
Things got better later on—the general liberalization of society eventually forced the newspaper to follow suit—but those early days were very strange, to say the least.
When I got to know Bob Barr a little better, I was surprised to discover that despite his chronic lack of patience, he was a fly fisherman. In fact, he had been fishing near West Yellowstone, Montana, in August 1959 when a great 7.5-magnitude earthquake struck the area, causing widespread destruction and damming the Madison River to create Earthquake Lake. Obeying his newsman’s instincts, Barr set aside his fly rods and began phoning the Times with daily reports from the earthquake zone, although how he managed it without burning down several telephone booths remains a mystery.
It was no coincidence Barr was in West Yellowstone when the earthquake hit. Disaster followed him around like a faithful old dog. One Fourth of July he obtained a couple of “seal bombs”—explosive devices used by commercial fishermen to frighten seals away from their nets—and set one off on the sidewalk in front of his house. It blew a hole in the sidewalk and sent concrete shrapnel flying in all directions. Several pieces lodged in Barr’s legs, sending him to the hospital. While supposedly convalescing in the hospital, he fell out of bed and broke an arm. Things like that happened to Barr all the time.
Despite his propensity for disaster, Barr was popular with other reporters because he was so good at fetching “cabinets.” That’s what the editors called photographs—“cabinet” photos—of victims of tragedies like fatal car crashes, industrial accidents, or soldiers killed in Vietnam. Reporters were often dispatched to call on bereaved families and ask to borrow a “cabinet” photo for the newspaper to publish. Not surprisingly, most reporters hated these assignments, but Barr was so good at them that most went to him. He had genuine sympathy for the grieving relatives of victims and almost always came away with the desired photo, but that wasn’t the end of it. When he returned the image to the suffering family, it was often accompanied by a large floral arrangement, a bag of groceries, or, if Barr thought it was needed, some cash out of his pocket. Beneath his crusty exterior was a proverbial heart of gold, perhaps partly inspired by his own frequent experiences as a victim of misfortune.
Barr and I often talked about fishing together, and against my better judgment I finally accepted his invitation to go fly fishing with him for salmon in Puget Sound. Predictably, the trip ended in multiple disasters. There was a dog with food poisoning (his), the tip section of a brand-new fly rod lost overboard (his again), and a wild, life-threatening ride in a small boat with too little freeboard (also his) through the violent tidal rips and whirlpools of Deception Pass in northern Puget Sound. It didn’t bother me that we caught nothing; I felt lucky to escape with my life, and as much as I valued his friendship, I quietly vowed never to risk another fishing trip with Barr.
Which I didn’t. But he wasn’t the only fly fisher on the Times staff. Enos Bradner, who’d been the paper’s outdoor editor almost since I was born, had a national reputation as a fly fisher, and we became fast friends. Brad had an encyclopedic knowledge of the state’s outdoor history, and during the course of many trips together I acquired a vast fund of knowledge listening to his stories. He also taught me a great deal about the nuances and subtleties of fly fishing, especially for steelhead, and eventually became almost a surrogate father. When he finally got too old to wade rivers, I bought his little fishing cabin on the North Fork of the Stillaguamish River, and I have tried to preserve the cabin exactly as he left it as something of a shrine.
Alan Pratt, the Times’ zany chief editorial cartoonist, was another ardent fly fisher who became a great friend. His fly-pattern paintings graced my first book, and we made many trips together for steelhead, trout, sea-run cutthroat, and salmon. Al’s indefatigable sense of humor made him one of the finest fishing companions anyone could ever wish to have. A fishing trip with him was never dull—as if any fishing trip could ever be dull.
Another fly-fishing newspaperman who became a good friend was Lee Straight, outdoor editor of the Vancouver Sun. We fished together several times for steelhead and trout, and Lee’s dry sense of humor made him a great companion on the water. I deeply admired his writing, and though he published a number of fishing guides, I always hoped he would write a serious fishing book or two. He never did, but a collection of his newspaper columns is among my valued possessions.
During those early days of my newspaper career it seemed as if something crazy was always happening. One of my favorite stories from that time was told by a reporter who swore he witnessed it while working at the Tacoma News Tribune. At that time, long before weather satellites, computers, and Doppler radar, newspapers had to scramble for accurate, up-to-date weather information, and the News Tribune had an assistant night city editor whose responsibilities included preparing the daily weather report. He talked the newspaper’s management into installing a set of weather instruments on the roof—a rain gauge, temperature recorder, barometric pressure recorder, anemometer—the whole works. Every night he would climb the fire escape with a flashlight, check the instruments, then return downstairs to the newsroom and prepare the weather report.
One rainy night a copy editor got drunk, climbed the fire escape, and urinated in the rain gauge. A little later, when the assistant city editor climbed up to take his readings, it was dark and raining very hard. His flashlight revealed the rain gauge was full to the very brim and he rushed downstairs to write a story that ended up on page one next day. The headline was “Record Rainfall Hits Tacoma.”
As a very junior member of the Times staff, I had split days off—Thursda
ys and Sundays. That was fine with me because it was then possible to reach a great deal of fishable water within short driving distance of Seattle, and on Thursdays it was never crowded. There were many small lakes, several well-known steelhead rivers, and a few smaller streams that held trout, and I sampled as many as I could reach in a day’s drive, though it was often long after dark when I got home. Some of these waters became favorites, and I returned to them often.
After several months working in the Times newsroom, I was assigned to the police beat, where most young reporters were sent for seasoning in those days. I spent more than a year covering that beat, working out of police headquarters, but I also logged plenty of time in hospital emergency rooms, morgues, jails (just visiting), and courtrooms, and saw more dead bodies than I care to remember. I interviewed a woman who had just thrown her baby off a bridge and covered a ship fire on a December morning so cold the ink froze in my pen. I was threatened, shot at, offered (and refused) bribes, and I testified at a murder trial. I interviewed people from every level of society, from hookers and two-bit hoods to the most wealthy and powerful, and met people of every political persuasion, from the head of the American Communist Party to the head of the American Nazi Party.
My office at police headquarters, called the “press room,” was shared with a reporter from the Times’ cross-town rival, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. His name was George McDowell, a crusty old character who had covered the police beat so long he literally knew where all the bodies were buried. He also had carved out a second career as a freelance writer of true-crime articles for magazines, and encouraged me to try my hand at freelancing. I’d never thought of doing that, but it seemed a good idea, so I decided to give it a shot. Since fly fishing was my passion, I decided that should be my topic.
Right away I started collecting rejection slips from outdoor magazines, but then I stumbled onto a story I thought was a surefire winner. It was about opening day on what would be the state’s first catch-and-release trout water, a good-sized lake not far from the Canadian border. Sea-run cutthroat annually made their way up a stream that flowed from the lake to Puget Sound, and the lake had become populated with cutthroat. Joan and I got there early on opening day and had good fishing for cutthroat mostly in the sixteen- to seventeen-inch class.
A Fly Fisher's Sixty Seasons Page 1
