Trout Quintet

by Steve Raymond

  An adjoining room had a long counter with cupboards above and below. A pair of binocular microscopes sat on the counter along with another computer terminal, racks of glass tubes—some filled with insect specimens in preservative, others empty—and an array of other laboratory equipment, much of it unfamiliar to me. Shelves of books held works on fisheries biology, entomology, trout parasites and diseases, water chemistry, and similar subjects.

  A tall, fortyish woman with dark red hair and startling green eyes was working at the counter. Seifer introduced her as Dr. Erin Northby, “our resident biologist,” who had just joined the lodge staff. “I think I’ve found my dream job,” she said. “I can do everything here, maybe even DNA analysis.”

  Just then we were joined by a young Native American woman wearing a dark blue shirt with the white TW logo, loose-fitting dark slacks and a spotless white apron. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Seifer,” she said, “but Chef Doucette asked me to tell you that he is preparing to serve dinner.”

  “Is it that late already?” Seifer asked, looking at his watch. “Thank you, Ennis. We’ll be there directly. By the way, say hello to Jake Stone, our first guest.”

  Ennis held out a small, soft hand and squeezed mine briefly. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” she said, without making eye contact. We followed her back through the great room and into the dining room.

  The dining room had four long tables, each with seating for ten people. Only two had tablecloths. Two places had been set at one and four at the other. Of the four places, one already was occupied by a round-faced, balding man who looked about ten years older than Seifer. He wore a shirt with the TW logo and stood as we approached.

  “This is Grant Sharp, my executive assistant,” Seifer said, and we shook hands. I had met so many people I was beginning to forget names, but I remembered Sharp as the one who had answered my email. “He hangs out in the office behind the store,” Seifer said, “and looks after the operation—not the lodge, but the headquarters in Silicon Valley.”

  Sharp smiled and resumed his seat. Seifer seated himself at the head of the table and I waited while Erin Northby—I remembered her name—took one of the other places, then sat down next to her. As soon as we were seated, Ennis began bringing food-laden plates to the table.

  The dinner was fabulous. There was an appetizer of roasted caramelized garlic served with goat cheese wrapped in grape leaves and accompanied by sliced crostini; a salad of mixed greens—only some of which I recognized—with a wonderful piquant dressing, and a main course of grilled rack of lamb marinated in olive oil, garlic, rosemary, thyme, and pepper, served with crisp roast potatoes and asparagus in a light lemon-cheese sauce. The lamb also came with a sauce made from wild mint Ennis had harvested that morning from the banks of one of the spring creeks. We washed it all down with two splendid bottles of Eyrie Reserve Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley. Dessert followed, a big dish of homemade caramel-macadamia nut ice cream, to die for.

  The dinner conversation was informative. I learned that Erin Northby had received a PhD in fisheries science from the University of British Columbia and worked briefly for the Oregon Department of Fish & Wildlife before joining the Troutwaters staff, where she was expected to look after the health of both the trout and the streams they occupied. I learned that Grant Sharp did not care in the least for fishing of any kind, which made it easy for him to spend his days in the office, staying in touch by Internet with Seifer’s headquarters in Silicon Valley. When I heard laughter in the kitchen, I found out Dave Dalton and Andy Vanzetti were having dinner out there, and when I asked why they hadn’t joined us, Seifer just gave me a meaningful look. Then I remembered it was the custom at many fishing lodges that after the day’s fishing, guides were kept at arm’s length from their clients, especially at dinner. That was because clients often wanted to buy drinks for their guides, and alcoholism was an occupational hazard among fishing guides. Apparently Vanzetti, the storekeeper, was considered in the same category as a guide.

  While we ate, Anders and Hiapo came in and took the two places at the other table. Seifer explained that he and Sharp often ate together, talking over the day’s business developments, and didn’t want to be overheard or interrupted, so the bodyguards ate by themselves. They did so in silence, but Anders kept glancing over our way. I was beginning to think he was a bit creepy.

  Seifer asked what I thought of what I’d seen of Troutwaters Lodge so far. I was lavish in my praise. “How did you ever find all those fabulous rods, reels and flies?” I asked. “Those things are priceless.”

  “You can find almost anything if you have enough money,” he replied. “Fortunately, I do. I deal with several antiquarians who have lists of things I’m looking for. They do all the work. Makes it a lot easier.”

  I saw an opportunity to ask some other questions. “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I began, “but what does it cost to stay here?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Erin said.

  Seifer and Grant exchanged glances. “That depends,” Seifer said. “With the resources I have available, or Grant has available, we can find out almost instantly everything there is to know about a guest’s financial status. If he’s the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, I’d probably charge him $3,000 a night to stay here. Maybe more. But if he’s a garbage collector from Dubuque, barely making ends meet, I might charge him only $5 a night. You see, I don’t have to make a profit on this place; it’s actually a tax write-off. But I want everyone to be able to come here, not just rich guys. And just to make sure, besides charging some people only $5 a night, every month I’m going to donate a couple of week-long fishing packages to fly-fishing clubs, conservation groups, and the like so they can raffle them off for fund-raising purposes. Some of the winners will be people who would probably never dream of coming here otherwise, and this will give them the opportunity.

  “I plan to invite biologists and entomologists as guests along with fishermen. I think they can all learn a lot from each other. My hope is this place will eventually become the world center of fly fishing, with writers, researchers, scientists, and anglers all mingling to come up with new ideas to protect, promote, and preserve the sport. I want Troutwaters to lead fly fishing into the future.”

  We all sat silently for a moment digesting that. It was Erin who finally spoke first. “Wow,” she said softly.

  “That’s a mighty ambitious concept,” was all I could think to say. Then I seized the opportunity to ask what was really on my mind: “But I’m curious. Why did you choose me as your first guest?”

  “Several reasons,” Seifer said. “First, I wanted you to see all this. As a leading journalist in fly fishing, your opinion is respected, and I’m hoping you’ll give the place a good review. There are also some things I want to talk over with you. But that can wait. Let’s adjourn to the fireplace.”

  Grant Sharp and Erin Northby excused themselves at that point, so it was only Seifer and me who went into the great room and settled into a pair of easy chairs in front of the fireplace, where Anders had preceded us and was stoking the fire. When finished, he went over to a long, well-stocked bar in the corner and, without being asked, poured two snifters of cognac. He brought them over and placed them on a small table between our chairs, returned to the bar and came back carrying a wooden humidor with a leaping trout carved on top. He opened the humidor and held it for Seifer to remove a cigar.

  “Cubans,” Seifer said. “Best in the world. Don’t know if you partake, but if so, please help yourself.” I wasn’t in the habit of smoking cigars, but I did enjoy one occasionally and I’d rarely had a chance to smoke a genuine Cuban, so I took one. Anders produced a gas lighter and lit both cigars, then returned to the bar.

  “Confusion to our enemies,” Seifer said, raising his snifter in a toast, and we both took a sip of cognac. It was the smoothest I’ve ever tasted, and combined with the rich, toasty taste of the cigar—well, it was simply more than I can describe.
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br />   Seifer began talking about the fishing. Tomorrow, he said, we would fish Cave Creek, so named because it issued from a limestone cave. It held brown trout. The following day we would fish Bright Creek, the other spring creek, which held rainbow. The third day we would try Laughing Creek, the freestone stream inhabited by cutthroat.

  “We don’t need to start early,” he said. “All three creeks are on bankers’ hours. The first hatches don’t come on until about 10 a.m., so we can have a nice, leisurely breakfast.

  “Cave Creek is probably the toughest of the three. The trout are extremely wary and difficult to approach. The least noise or vibration and they’re gone. You have to sneak up on them and you usually get only one cast. If they don’t take your fly the first time, they probably won’t take it at all. It’s pretty fine, far-off fishing.

  “The PMDs”—he was referring to the mayfly called Pale Morning Dun—“are hatching now and if you have a favorite pattern you should try it. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got some I’m sure will.

  “Most of the fishing is from shore, so you don’t absolutely need waders, but I usually wear them because there are times when you might want to cross from one side of the stream to the other. Another reason for wearing them is they protect you from ticks and ants. There are plenty of both in the tall grass out there.” I made a mental note to wear my waders.

  We sipped cognac slowly, trying to synchronize our consumption with the decreasing lengths of our cigars. After a while the conversation turned from Troutwaters to other angling venues, and we began trading fishing stories. Seifer, it developed, had fished almost everywhere, on every continent, in both fresh water and salt. He had seventy-four fly-caught species on his life list, many more than I had.

  “But trout are my favorite,” he said. “In my opinion, trout are the only complete fish. No other fish rises to a dry fly like a trout. No other fish can be as maddeningly selective as a trout. No other fish is so perfectly formed, so gracefully shaped, or so beautifully colored. No other fish lives in such spectacular places. And trout can do almost everything any other fish can do—they run and jump and have a nasty way of finding the nearest snag to break you off. They may not be the biggest fish in the world, but they’re just as big as they need to be. And I think they’re the best.”

  “Well said,” I ventured.

  We continued the conversation—or rather, he spoke and I mostly listened—long after that. At some point I remember stubbing out what was left of my cigar in an ashtray, but I don’t remember if it was before or after Anders came with the bottle and refilled our snifters. Seifer’s voice had become a monotone, and that, plus the warm fire, the effects of the dinner wine and two snifters of cognac, all combined to make me feel as if I’d been hypnotized. Finally, inevitably, I dozed off and was awakened sharply when my chin dropped to my chest. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “No, that’s my fault,” Seifer said. “I don’t blame you for falling asleep. When I get wound up, I don’t know when to stop. It’s late, and we should get to bed anyway.” He got to his feet and I wobbled to mine.

  “Thanks for a wonderful dinner and a great evening,” I mumbled.

  “My pleasure. Think you can find your way back to your room?”

  “I think so. Thanks again.”

  He was still standing next to the fireplace when I reached the elevator. I noticed Anders leaning over the balcony railing, looking down at us. But he was gone when I got out of the elevator and walked to my room.

  After a glorious breakfast, two cups of strong coffee, and a tall glass of orange juice, I was rid of a dull headache and no longer felt groggy. I met Seifer in the tackle room and we got into our waders, picked up our gear, and stepped outside where Dalton was waiting in the black Suburban. Anders was already sitting in the front passenger seat.

  Seifer and I climbed into the rear and Dalton took the wheel. Soon we were driving along a dirt road on a hillside above Cave Creek, which flowed smoothly through a grassy meadow. Shelters had been built nearly every half mile along the stream, each with a rest room, refrigerator, propane stove, barbecue grill, and covered picnic table—perfect spots to take refuge from the weather or relax with a streamside lunch.

  We stopped at a place where, from my vantage point, the stream looked no different from any other stretch we’d passed, but Seifer said it was one of his favorite spots. We got out and walked downhill until we were about fifty yards from the stream. There, Seifer stopped. “You want to go first?” he asked.

  Actually, I didn’t. This was unfamiliar territory and I wanted to see his approach before attempting one of my own, and told him so.

  “OK,” he said, and resumed walking downhill. I started to follow, but Dalton put his hand on my arm. “Stay here,” he said, and sat down in the grass. I sat beside him, looking around carefully for ticks and ants. The antisocial Anders moved several yards away and sat by himself.

  Seifer moved carefully and quietly. When still nearly a hundred feet from the stream, he got down on hands and knees and began advancing even more stealthily. He was still a good fifty feet short of the water when he went flat on his stomach and began slithering like a sniper through the deep grass. I noticed he took care to detour around occasional wildflowers. At last he reached the edge of the stream and stopped, still on his belly. Then he waited.

  Several minutes passed. Seifer remained motionless. Dalton said nothing. Then, about thirty feet upstream from Seifer’s position and two-thirds of the way across the stream, a heavy trout rose with an audible plop.

  Still Seifer waited. The trout rose again. “Watch this,” Dalton whispered.

  Seifer suddenly was on his knees. Keeping his rod as low as possible, he made a strong backcast, then punched the line forward. It shot straight as a laser beam across the creek and dropped his fly softly about four feet above the spot where the trout had risen. Still on his knees, Seifer gently lifted the rod to keep as much line off the water as he could to prevent the fly from dragging in the current.

  The trout rose leisurely and engulfed the fly. Seifer was instantly on his feet, tightening the connection, and we saw a big commotion on the surface as the trout reacted angrily. It started down, but Seifer quickly pressured it back toward the surface. In similar fashion he used his rod to counter nearly every move the trout made, keeping it away from big clots of subsurface weed that seemed to be everywhere. It was almost like watching a ballet.

  Dalton moved to the streamside with a large, long-handled, soft-mesh net. When the trout was played out, Seifer led it to the bank where Dalton netted it cleanly and lifted it clear of the water. “Four pounds, nine ounces,” he announced, checking a scale in the net’s handle.

  “He’s gained an ounce since I caught him last week,” Seifer said, chuckling. Reaching into the net, he removed a small, barbless fly from the trout’s jaw and Dalton carefully lowered the fish back into the river. I had only a quick look, but I could see the trout was thick and bright, creamy yellow in color and nicely freckled with black and red spots; a classic brown.

  Seifer reeled in and came up the bank. “Nicely done,” I told him. “That was an amazing exhibition.”

  “Thanks. Now it’s your turn. I’m going to head downstream, but Dave will stay here and take care of you.” He started up the slope. Anders got up and followed.

  “Let’s move up,” Dalton said. “There’s a nice piece of water just ahead.”

  When we reached the spot he meant, I could see the streambanks pinched inward slightly, narrowing and speeding up the otherwise remarkably even flow. “There’s usually a good trout or two holding where the fast water eases up and spreads out again,” he said, pointing. As if to confirm his remarks, a trout rose just where he said it should be and took a fly from the surface. The Pale Morning Duns were hatching nicely now.

  I got down on my hands and knees and tried to emulate Seifer’s cautious crawl toward the stream. I came to a wildflower and carefully detoured around it, as Seifer had, and watched fo
r ticks.

  The trout rose again. I got closer, maybe twenty-five feet from the water, then lowered myself to the ground and started crawling on my belly. The trout didn’t rise again. I stopped and waited. And waited. Nothing happened.

  “I’m afraid you put him down,” Dalton called. “May as well come on back.”

  I hadn’t been aware of making any noise or causing any vibrations. But something had obviously put the trout off its feed. Seifer hadn’t been kidding; these trout were wary.

  That was the beginning of one of the most frustrating fishing days of my life. We moved farther upstream and twice more I managed to put down rising trout even though I moved with excruciating caution. Eventually I did get within casting range of one rising fish without putting it down, but my first cast landed clumsily on the water and the trout disappeared. That was as close as I had come to any trout when we met Seifer for lunch at one of the streamside shelters. When he inquired about my results, I merely shrugged and said, “These fish are tough.” Then I asked how he had done.

  “Four to the bank,” he said. “One over five pounds, I think. Lost another in the weeds. Not a bad morning.” I guess he noticed the glum look on my face, because he added: “Of course, I have the home-field advantage.” It was an attempt to ease my frustration, but it didn’t help.

  Afternoon was scarcely any better. I put down a couple more fish, then at last got within range of another riser and didn’t blow the cast. The trout took the fly and I landed it, a handsome brown, but only fourteen inches long. It was the smallest fish I’d seen. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little proud and a lot relieved.

  A couple of hours later, almost at quitting time, I succeeded in hooking another. This one was big, and I jumped up as quickly as I could to try to hold its head up and keep it out of the weeds. Too late; the trout burrowed into a great tangled patch of trailing weed and the line suddenly went dead. I tried slacking off in hopes that would encourage the trout to start moving again and it would come free, a tactic I’d used with success on other occasions. This time it didn’t work. At last I tightened up on the line again and tested it to see if there was any give; it felt like I was hooked to Montana. Giving up, I pointed the rod tip toward the spot where my line disappeared into the weed, pulled as hard as I could, and the line suddenly came free. I found the leader broken halfway up the second segment above the tippet. The fly, of course, was gone.