Talk about pressure
OK, so, my dad was coming into town, right?
His first road trip West (although he flew out years ago to spend a couple of days fishing) and his first extended driving jag since my mom died in November.
He planned to stay a couple days in South Dakota, to watch a granddaughter get married. A couple days in Washington to visit grandkids in Sequim. And a full week’s visit to Redding.
“I want to do some fishing,” he said. “I promised some people back home I’d bring back some salmon.”
Talk about pressure. Show my old man a good time — and get him hooked up with some tasty salmon (when salmon season doesn’t begin on the Sacramento River until July 16 and I’m already up against a memory of us catching four chunky chinook to 28 pounds the last time out).
Plus, I had to break it to him that when he arrived last Sunday, he might as well mistake my adopted hometown for Hell (117 degrees — with uncharacteristic humidity — counts as Hell, right?).
I called his cell to check in June 23 — and to warn him about the heat and its affect on the fish bite. I could barely understand him.
“I’m crab fishing,” he said.
Yeah, he’s in Puget Sound, dropping crab pots for tasty Dungeness crab. While I’m mired in scorching temperatures, left to check out my favorite fishing haunts to gauge the bite (or lack thereof). The stomach juices were brewing up one dandy ulcer. The one saving grace is my dad found crab fishing, well, less than action-packed.
“It’s fun,” he said. “Kind of boring.”
Fill a crab pot with rotted chicken parts that are way south of sanitary and wait. Then haul the pots up and pick crabs. I’m feeling better about the heat. But really, who is insane enough to fish in temperatures past 110 degrees? With your dad, who is a healthy 77, but why take chances? We watched the weather and decided Wednesday and Thursday gave us the best opportunity to A) catch fish; and B) not succumb to heat stroke.
“You know, I really would like some salmon,” he said. “If it’s at all possible.” Yeah, yeah, yeah.
That left the Feather River — for a bite that has begun to wane — where the limit for chinook salmon is one per angler, per day.
Or “A salmonoid is a salmonoid,” right? I called the Big Gun of Lake Shasta and Whiskeytown Lake and asked Gary Miralles, guide and owner of Shasta Tackle and Sportfishing, to help out with my salmonoid quandary.
“Hey, the kokanee should be biting pretty well at Whiskeytown,” he said. “Although, this weather, the bite’s been up and down.”
“What’s a kokanee?” dad asked, skeptical.
“It’s a land-locked coho salmon,” Miralles said. “Best eating fish of all the salmon, I think.”
OK, dad’s on board, heck, we’re all on board Miralles’ new Duckworth boat, headed for the cold water curtain near the Clair A. Hill/Whiskeytown Dam at 6 a.m. Wednesday. The weather’s fantastic — 74 degrees (which matched the water temperature) and overcast. Not a puff of wind. And I hope the fish are fish — stupid, hungry and ready to snap at anything.
“We’ll be fishing about 45 to 60 feet deep,” Miralles said. “I’ve been having good luck there.”
Miralles readied the rods with his new, medium-sized Sling Blade Dodgers and Koke-A-Nut, Pee-Wee Johnson, Hum Dinger and Scorpion lures (all in pink, hint-hint). Two rods pop at once. Two more pop a few minutes later. Another goes, and in 40 minutes, we’ve got four kokanee to 16 inches and one rather large, but rather skinny, rainbow trout in the boat.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Miralles said. “We’ll be limited out in no time.”
Rods popped and we’re having a great time. By now, we’ve moved to the dam, where we picked up a planter chinook salmon, a brook trout that looked more like a Mackinaw than a brookie, another kokanee — and a rainbow with a Department of Fish and Game $10 reward tag secured to its fin. My first ever tagged fish.
“So what does that mean?” dad asked.
You fill out a form, send in the tag, and in four to six weeks, California’s accounting department sends you a check (and an informational brochure about the fish you caught).
“Great,” he said.
Meantime, 10 bucks is 10 bucks. And I’m a kid all over again, with the promise of a sawbuck burning a hole in my pocket.
“Let’s buy lottery tickets with it,” I said.
Dad laughed.
“Seriously, it’s my first DFG tag ever, and I’ve been fishing this state for nine years,” I said. “It’s a sign.”
And with that, the pressure faded.
Dad headed East on Interstate 80 today, back to Nebraska, with a cooler full of salmon and trout and a good tale to tell at his barbecue — and 10 chances in the California Lottery (it’s only fair to share).
“That was fun,” he said. “I don’t know much about fishing, but that was fun.”
Whew. I entertained, we caught fish, he’s at peace.
And if I’m not here this week, well, I’m fish-retired.
His first road trip West (although he flew out years ago to spend a couple of days fishing) and his first extended driving jag since my mom died in November.
He planned to stay a couple days in South Dakota, to watch a granddaughter get married. A couple days in Washington to visit grandkids in Sequim. And a full week’s visit to Redding.
“I want to do some fishing,” he said. “I promised some people back home I’d bring back some salmon.”
Talk about pressure. Show my old man a good time — and get him hooked up with some tasty salmon (when salmon season doesn’t begin on the Sacramento River until July 16 and I’m already up against a memory of us catching four chunky chinook to 28 pounds the last time out).
Plus, I had to break it to him that when he arrived last Sunday, he might as well mistake my adopted hometown for Hell (117 degrees — with uncharacteristic humidity — counts as Hell, right?).
I called his cell to check in June 23 — and to warn him about the heat and its affect on the fish bite. I could barely understand him.
“I’m crab fishing,” he said.
Yeah, he’s in Puget Sound, dropping crab pots for tasty Dungeness crab. While I’m mired in scorching temperatures, left to check out my favorite fishing haunts to gauge the bite (or lack thereof). The stomach juices were brewing up one dandy ulcer. The one saving grace is my dad found crab fishing, well, less than action-packed.
“It’s fun,” he said. “Kind of boring.”
Fill a crab pot with rotted chicken parts that are way south of sanitary and wait. Then haul the pots up and pick crabs. I’m feeling better about the heat. But really, who is insane enough to fish in temperatures past 110 degrees? With your dad, who is a healthy 77, but why take chances? We watched the weather and decided Wednesday and Thursday gave us the best opportunity to A) catch fish; and B) not succumb to heat stroke.
“You know, I really would like some salmon,” he said. “If it’s at all possible.” Yeah, yeah, yeah.
That left the Feather River — for a bite that has begun to wane — where the limit for chinook salmon is one per angler, per day.
Or “A salmonoid is a salmonoid,” right? I called the Big Gun of Lake Shasta and Whiskeytown Lake and asked Gary Miralles, guide and owner of Shasta Tackle and Sportfishing, to help out with my salmonoid quandary.
“Hey, the kokanee should be biting pretty well at Whiskeytown,” he said. “Although, this weather, the bite’s been up and down.”
“What’s a kokanee?” dad asked, skeptical.
“It’s a land-locked coho salmon,” Miralles said. “Best eating fish of all the salmon, I think.”
OK, dad’s on board, heck, we’re all on board Miralles’ new Duckworth boat, headed for the cold water curtain near the Clair A. Hill/Whiskeytown Dam at 6 a.m. Wednesday. The weather’s fantastic — 74 degrees (which matched the water temperature) and overcast. Not a puff of wind. And I hope the fish are fish — stupid, hungry and ready to snap at anything.
“We’ll be fishing about 45 to 60 feet deep,” Miralles said. “I’ve been having good luck there.”
Miralles readied the rods with his new, medium-sized Sling Blade Dodgers and Koke-A-Nut, Pee-Wee Johnson, Hum Dinger and Scorpion lures (all in pink, hint-hint). Two rods pop at once. Two more pop a few minutes later. Another goes, and in 40 minutes, we’ve got four kokanee to 16 inches and one rather large, but rather skinny, rainbow trout in the boat.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Miralles said. “We’ll be limited out in no time.”
Rods popped and we’re having a great time. By now, we’ve moved to the dam, where we picked up a planter chinook salmon, a brook trout that looked more like a Mackinaw than a brookie, another kokanee — and a rainbow with a Department of Fish and Game $10 reward tag secured to its fin. My first ever tagged fish.
“So what does that mean?” dad asked.
You fill out a form, send in the tag, and in four to six weeks, California’s accounting department sends you a check (and an informational brochure about the fish you caught).
“Great,” he said.
Meantime, 10 bucks is 10 bucks. And I’m a kid all over again, with the promise of a sawbuck burning a hole in my pocket.
“Let’s buy lottery tickets with it,” I said.
Dad laughed.
“Seriously, it’s my first DFG tag ever, and I’ve been fishing this state for nine years,” I said. “It’s a sign.”
And with that, the pressure faded.
Dad headed East on Interstate 80 today, back to Nebraska, with a cooler full of salmon and trout and a good tale to tell at his barbecue — and 10 chances in the California Lottery (it’s only fair to share).
“That was fun,” he said. “I don’t know much about fishing, but that was fun.”
Whew. I entertained, we caught fish, he’s at peace.
And if I’m not here this week, well, I’m fish-retired.
Comments