Strike Indicator on Strike

When I drive through my small town I live in, I find myself looking at the little creek that at this time of year swells heavy with spillage from a small dam upstream. I have heard of a lot of folks fishing the creek when steelhead and salmon are making their way up nearby larger tributaries to the Columbia. Seems these fish will scurry upstream here for some reason only known to them. It is hard to imagine they realize where they are. This creek runs shallow even at high water, but the spawning ground is plenty, and the creek's only real enemy is of course human trash, which I found plenty of today. I am amazed at the filth we create, and what's worse, our deliberate and audacious refusal to clean up after ourselves.

I slid down the incline to get to the water's edge. Blackberries covered the hillside as did some ankle twisters and flood debris from a few weeks ago. The near vertical wall made for a sloppy ride down, with some thorny reminders left behind for me to remove later. I reached the bank and noticed the current moving at a slick pace with a nice foam line drifting the far seam, about 40 feet away. The tree cover makes casting difficult. After a few attempts, I realized I might try another approach. I walked as far upstream as I could, dog in tow, just prior to where the creek splits into multiple channels that I was not willing to risk a jump over. This is when I realized I should have put the waders on back at the truck. Regardless, I reached a fairly open space where I could cast and roll cast further into the stream. I made my first cast and watched my indicator (a bobber folks, a bobber) drift along with a nymph below. My strategy, since there were few places to cast adequately, was to cast, roll cast, roll cast again until I was sufficiently on the outside seam and walked out the entire drift, mending along the way. The drift was about 200 yards long and on the first run I watched the indicator bury itself. With a quick, easy tug I attempted to set the hook. I felt a familiar tremor at the end of the line but it was short lived and away my prey went. Rinse, and repeat.

Back at the truck I met guy going for a bike ride. This has no particular meaning in this entry.

I drove over to a popular run on the Washougal. I had never fished this stretch before, rather I tend to migrate away from crowds. Tucking the fly rod under the back seat, I got the 10' spinning rod out, dressed it out in dropper jig and bead, and proceeded to what I had always heard was a good spot for metal heads. The dog followed closely, stick in mouth, assuming I was there to play fetch. I threw the stick every once in a while just to keep him interested, but I really intended to fish the run without interruption. I paced the run out, drifting my float vertical through about 150 yards of water. I had passed a fly guy on the way down the river bed, exchanging a few pleasantries. He was unsuccessful. So was I.

I drove over to another tail out upstream a bit. A juicy little number where the fish flop when the river is stacked. (OK, I embellished a bit there, but it made for dramatic effect.) Watched my float (Strike Indicator) completely unaffected by anything below it. Get in the truck and drive upstream some more. I make it to the usual hole, a place where in summer I can literally see the few steelhead around swim along the ledge rock in 8 feet of water. Today was the exception. I did see all 8 feet of water though. Floated the jig through a few times before I retreated to my truck to consider moving upstream again.

I went home. The Super Bowl would be on in the neighborhood and the kids would probably like to have dad back at this point. We would finish homework and have a nice dinner my wife made prior to reading before bedtime. That's where I'm at now, wondering when I can go watch my bobber again...