Four Lakes and Fickle Fish

Some Temporal Reflections

In recent years, the Three Amigos have started mulling over whether we will all be in good enough shape for the next year's Annual Road Trip.  I mean, we are not exactly Spring chickens (roosters) any more. Without being too explicit, we are all on the pathway (doorstep?) to becoming octogenarians.  Age really doesn't worry us but it does call for a realistic assessment of our capabilities right now and what they may be in one year's time. 

Since we started these Annual Road Trips in 2008, we have survived raging rapids, deadly squalls on distant lakes, jumping off bridges, falling out of boats, falling off horses (me), driving up and down perilous mountain roads at ludicrous speed (Wayne), plowing through snow drifts (we have photos to prove it), and wandering through bear territory without any bear spray or assault rifles.

My reflections on age and doubts about our capabilities started with Wayne suddenly asking me if I would still be alright climbing up the ladder to the loft in our cabin. What?  Had he detected that my super powers were waning or otherwise defective?  It had never occurred to me that I would not still be climbing up that rickety ladder on our 30th Annual Road Trip. In fact, I think the ladder will give out before me! 

  

I was further shocked when Commodore Schatz produced three very swanky looking inflatable life jackets (two above) after fifteen years of resistance to the very idea of wearing a life jacket.  Did he think we couldn't swim a few miles to shore any more?  I mean, there are no sharks in this part of the world.

When the horses were saddled up I noticed that a small stepping stool was now being discreetly used to mount those great steeds. Yet another portent of frailty.  What the hell was going on here?

And it was the unfolding saga of one of the Three Amigos temporarily doubting his own fishing prowess when he experienced a prolonged fish-free interval. The issue of "capability" was definitely on our minds whether we were conscious of it or not.

This year's fishing expeditions featured action on four different lakes but with some quite contrary results.  I have to admit that there were some elements of Greek tragedy on the fishing front but, as always, the Three Amigos came out on top, fish quotas were met, honor was vouchsafed, and next year's trip has already been mapped out. Those overly large fish of Twin Lakes (more on that later) have been warned that  "We shall return," just like the legendary General MacArthur. There will be a reckoning.

Bussard Lake

Let's start with Bussard Lake, the home base for all of our Annual Road Trips.  This is where we do our fly fishing, normally catching and releasing a lot of large-mouth bass. Bass nest in the Spring in the plentiful reeds around Bussard Lake and its little offshoot which we call the B lake.  So, I preface this sad tale with just one salient fact--the snows and cold weather in the Bussard Lake area were unusually long this year, persisting into May.  This obviously did not go down well with the fish.  That's not an excuse, merely an observation.  We fishermen have to compete with the elements, adverse currents, green algae, yellow pollen, fish eagles and other jealous predators, broken lines, lousy worms, unreliable engines and batteries and other set backs which don't happen on dry land. And there's one other factor that is rarely talked about or taken into account, the fish are usually smarter than us!

As soon as we arrived at Bussard Lake on June 1, Wayne gets up early and goes straight down to the dock and starts casting his fly and popper.  Usually, as soon as the yellow "popper" plops onto the water, some crazed mother bass rises up from the reeds to take this intruder out.  Boom boom. She goes for the "fly" and gets the hook.  Reel her in, take out the hook and put her back in the water for further adventures.  A virtuous cycle. And, without fail, Wayne lets out his "Schatzooo" war cry as he catches multiple bass so we all know when has got a fish.  He needs the attention. 

On this first morning, after twenty minutes or so, there is total silence out there on the lake.  What gives, I wondered. After a further twenty minutes of unaccustomed silence, Wayne nonchalantly wanders back up to the cabin and stands at the door looking a bit disenchanted.  "NOTHING!" he says with some vehemence. "Well, we can try again later," I say, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. "NOTHING!" he repeats, trying to get a rise out of us. But we don't want to encourage a tirade. Rich and I remain silent.

Later in the week Wayne asks me if I will come with him in the row boat to circumnavigate Bussard Lake and the B lake.  Sure.  We are both casting our flies in all the right places, just in front of the reeds.  Nothing.  We proceed through the small channel to the B lake and go all the way around. Nothing.  Then we try the other side of Bussard Lake and there is not a single bite or any other indication of fish life in general.  This is unprecedented.  We come ashore and Wayne is not a happy camper.  Strike One.

Jump-off Joe Lake

Wayne and I have never fished on nearby Jump-off Joe Lake. But Rich and his fishing guru, Uncle Wayne, Linda's late hubby, had had some success there over the years.  Maybe Rich felt that something new and, hopefully, exciting, would cheer Wayne up a bit.  We fished there for over two hours but precious little happened.  Jump-off Joe was sure not jumping that day.

Wayne, who had been somewhat dubious setting out, was now looking positively down-trodden.  He takes his fishing seriously--but coming home with nothing is not an option.  In fact, he sort of takes it personally--as if the cantankerous fish gods were out to get him.  Strike Two.

Waitts Lake

Little did we know that things were just going to get worse for Wayne.  Waitts Lake is our go-to local lake.  It has never let us down.  If you don't catch anything here, you are not really trying.  I once fished on Waitts with Rich some years ago and didn't catch a single fish while Rich steadily pulled them in until we had our limit (10).  I was not feeling exactly elated  but neither was I suicidal.  Fickle Fate, fickle fish, it is all random. As we motored back to shore I cast out my line in one last futile attempt.  Suddenly, my rod is bending like crazy and I have a fish.  And it is the biggest of the day.  That's fishing!  You can't explain how or why it happens.  It is like the stock market.  Lots of explanations at the end of the trading day but no great prognostications by all the "experts" before the stock market opens. 

So, with all three of us on the boat, we set out towards the middle of the lake.  I think Rich caught the first fish that day.  He probably caught the second and third.  Then I started catching fish and Rich and I were more or less alternating our catches.  Wayne is looking really, really glum.  Nothing for Wayne.  We try to cheer him up by telling him that he is the Netman and the one who actually gets all our fish into the boat.  Over the years he has literally landed hundreds of fish. That didn't cheer him up at all. As we got into the 12th and 13th fish catch Wayne was positively muttering under his breath: "Goddam, I think I've lost it.  I don't know what's going on, what I'm doing wrong."  He had Homer's Odyssey written all over his face.

Then I made a terrible blunder.  I offered my rod to him, thinking maybe there was something amiss with the line or reel or whatever, I don't know, but I should have known better. I later learned that this was like telling a lifeguard that you are there to swim him ashore.  Wayne's dark mood descended into utter blackness. Now what?

My next faux pas was to dangle my line in the water with no worm.  Just a bare hook.  Fish are not stupid and will normally not snap at a bare hook.  I was trying to show Wayne that I had given up for the day.  Go ahead man, catch your fish.  My bare hook hadn't been in the water more than about four minutes when I caught another fish.  "Goddamit, he's catching them without even a worm," Wayne plaintively wails.  Rich and I are trying to suppress laughter because this is really getting absurd.  Rich catches, and Wayne nets, the 15th fish.  We have reached our Washington State limit of 5 fish each for the day.  We try to tell Wayne that this is a team effort with him netting all 15 fish.  But Wayne is not taking the bait.  He is inconsolable. Nothing.  What can we say?  Nothing.  Strike Three.

The Weekend

Thank God the weekend and the weather saved a further decline in Wayne's mental health.  For starters, Rich and Yvette are having a big BBQ this weekend.  In attendance will be Motoe (a dear ADB friend), her daughter, hubby and grand-daughter from California, Rich's son Chris, plus some of the neighbors from around Bussard Lake.  We absolutely can't go fishing because it is going to rain, thunderstorm and generally do end-of-the-world type stuff.  And just to get us all in the mood, we had a savage hail storm right before the BBQ which covered the deck with what looked like ice and snow. No wonder the fish were doing a disappearing act.  

So, we have a most enjoyable weekend with the big BBQ on Saturday, much food, beer, wine, and reminiscences about the good old days in Hawaii and the ADB.  The neighbors have endless stories  of their own and Wayne is busily making his famous Manhattans for everyone. He is not thinking about fish but hamburgers. A very happy Saturday is followed by a hazy, lazy Sunday. Among other activities, Motoo's granddaughter was able to ride Harriet the Horse with Chris, our resident horse whisperer, and Rich leading the way. Dear Harriet was being very calm and careful with such a precious cargo on board.  A golden day.

Twin Lakes

For the longest time, Rich has been talking about taking us to the Colville Indian Reservation where the fishing is supposed to be really good.  It is about 40 miles north of Bussard Lake.  Certainly not an 800 mile round trip up to British Columbia or 5 hours into the mountains of Montana which we have done in the past.  The Colville Indian Reservation is controlled and managed by the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation.

The Confederated Tribes are made up of twelve different tribes who have lived for generations in the general area of what is now Washington State, British Columbia, Montana and Idaho.  There is a beautiful sign at the entrance to the Reservation which lists those twelve tribes.  I was too slow the get a photograph (my only job on these trips) but the tribes listed on the sign are: Arrow Lakes (BC), Chelan, Colville, Entiat, Nespelem, Okanagan, Methow, Sikiuse-Columbia, Nez Perce, Palus, San Poil and Wenatchi.  Just the names conjure up images of these magnificent people who absolutely fascinated me as a kid and now as an adult.  But that's for another blog one day.

We drove into the Reservation which is huge--almost 4,410 square miles of pristine forest, mountains and  lakes.  We were headed for the township of Twin Lakes.  It took some time to get our fishing license in the local store but I loved the fact that the young girl who filled in all the information described me on the form as having "blue eyes and silver hair."  Usually it is blurry eyes and no hair!  We fished on the North Lake (I think!) which is much bigger than any of our local lakes.  The wind was up, it was quite choppy out there and a lot was riding on this fishing expedition.  If we caught no fish here we were afraid that Wayne might just pack his bags and go home.

Nothing much happened for quite some time and there was an unusual silence in the boat. An ominous silence?  Once again, Rich caught the first fish.  Unlike the fish we had been catching in Waitts Lake, this guy/gal was several inches bigger and very fat.  Our spirits lifted.  The Native Americans on the reservation had their own fish management techniques and, as we discovered, the fish were all a lot larger and had a lot more fight in them.  I think I was the next to pull in a big one and Rich and I went back and forth in catching while Wayne, quiet and pensive, netted and hauled them on board for us. Netman was in great form, as always, but he obviously was wanting to be Fishman as well.  

This fishing went on for several hours, slowly building up to our 15 fish limit.  Wayne wasn't saying much but his silence said it all.  I couldn't understand what was going on either.  I am the amateur on these trips. Rich and Wayne have been fishing since they were kids while I took up fishing in my sixties.  Wayne has patiently netted, unhooked, untangled and repaired my lines and reels for all these fifteen years.  He has been my mentor, guide and guru, so this absence of fish was nothing to do with his fishing skills.  It was inexplicable.

I was stopped from further musing on these piscine mysteries when Wayne's rod suddenly undergoes a violent tug and then bends until it actually touches the water.  Wayne is electrified and grabs the rod from its holder and starts reeling in like a man possessed.  Whatever is on the end of his line must be enormous. Rich is bringing the boat around to get it in position for netting.  I am never trusted with the net except in extreme circumstances so Rich gets hold of the net and extends it outwards.  

There is definitely tension on board. We can't let this fish escape.  Rich is steering and net-ready.  I am reeling in fast so that I don't get tangled in Wayne's incoming line.  Wayne is now reeling in slowly in classic style, letting the fish have a little slack and then reeling in again. Slowly but surely.  Gently gently. Wayne's rod continues to bend into the water.  Holy Mackerel (or maybe I should say Holy Trout?), if anything goes wrong with this maneuver there will be hell to pay.  In all the excitement I completely forgot to get my camera ready so I have no record of this pivotal moment.  Damn, I have to borrow one from dreamstime.com!  Sorry, Wayne.

The look on Wayne's face reminded me of Gregory Peck in that Moby Dick movie.  Tense, taut, eyes fanatical, hands white-knuckled, every fibre of his body engaged in mortal combat with this denizen of the deep.  The fish surfaced, jumped and turned around in mid air and dived back into the water.  Good grief, please don't let it get off the hook, a problem which Rich and I had encountered all of that week. What was wrong with these fish?  Why would they not just come into the boat without a lot of fuss?  

Finally, the fish is by the boat. Rich is trying to get the net underneath it but the damn thing is thrashing around, trying to dive back down and generally being uncooperative.  Rich finally gets the net under the fish. He lifts it up into the air with water cascading over us in a silver shower which is then whipped away by the wind.  With a crash, the monster fish is in the bottom of the boat, foaming, jumping, contorting and smacking the deck with its tail and not at all going gently into the night.  This guy is going to fight to the death.

Wayne is grinning fiendishly.  He takes the hook out and then thrusts his prize fish into the fish box with all the rest of the fish.  The lid is shut tight but the fish box is moving around by itself because Moby Dick continues to thrash around inside.  Wayne's arms are up in the air pumping away and Rich and I are also shouting and carrying on like maniacs.  Luckily, we are all alone out on the lake otherwise someone might have called the tribal police for a breach of the peace.  Our Wayne is back with a vengeance.  He has overcome his fisherman's block, which is like writers block but on steroids. "SCHATZOOOOOOOOO!" Wayne's war cry carries across the lake on the wind.  I am sure the fish of Twin Lakes were shivering in their boots and that the ancestors above were rejoicing at a scene that has played out for thousands and thousands of years on this lake.

Our overall catch at Twin Lakes was so impressive in terms of weight, size and the fighting qualities of the  the trout we caught that we immediately agreed to come back to Twin Lakes next year and stay for two or three nights in one of the many cabins which are available on the Reservation.  

All Wayne's misplaced doubts were gone.  He had triumphed as we always knew he would.  Not catching fish was nothing to do with his fishing prowess.  As I said before, it is all random.  There's no rhyme nor reason in the fishing world although I am sure the "experts" would disagree with my amateur's take on things. That's fishing.  Fish are fickle, fate is fickle and the fish gods are fickle. They are always jealous of us mortals but we can overcome them if we are patient, persistent and, occasionally, bat shit crazy! 

Until next year......