Oh shit! Icy daggers of water pouring in the tops of my waders. Feet scrambling to feel the rocky bottom. My mind racing; don't let go of that Sage fly rod; keep your feet facing down river; kick towards the promise of shallower water just downstream. Arms and legs growing tighter and heavier. Breathing, gasping, like steam engine puffs. Then, I feel it, first on my left heel, then the right. Digging both into the gravel substrate I let the current push me into a somewhat upright position. I plod into the ever shallower water like an over inflated Michelin Man and role onto the bank. My heart is pounding like a bass drum but more importantly, my Sage fly rod is still firmly gripped in my left hand. So the adventure began, with a single small step.
The day started out like most other fine summer days along the Delta Clearwater river. Its crystal waters rippling over the rocky bottom casting ever undulating shadows. Standing at the state campground boat landing I ponder if I should go upstream to the large bend across from the Delta Clearwater lodge where I know the Grayling often congregate, or should I head downstream to less explored waters. Knowing that I still had a few more days to tease the fish, I decide to explore some new water and head downstream.
The first few hundred yards is an easy riverside stroll along well establish trails on the edge of the boreal forest. Flames of fireweed blooms sway in the breeze as lush green ferns combine with scraggly wild rose scratch along the legs of my waders. As the trail narrows and dodges spruce tree trunks bowing towards the steep river edge occasional sloping openings allow me to drop down to the river and scout for Grayling sipping mayflies from the surface. There's not much activity now though I suspect it will pick-up as the sun rises higher into the sky and entice the insects to emerge on the waters surface. I press on further downstream.
The trail dwindles to a moose path and begins to drop in elevation. I emerge onto a marshy flat draining into the river over silt and cattails. I make my way to the river's edge and examine the water for fishing opportunities. The flats allow ample room for even my rather limited casting perfection. The opposite side seems to hide a deeper channel partially undercutting its alder and birch studded bank. A bit further downstream the river snakes back to the left leaving a rocky shallow shoal. Upstream a small birch tree waves in the water waiting to snag any unwary canoe sliding along the far bank. Its disturbance creates a shadowy and fishy looking back-eddy.
I rig up my fly line with an extended body, olive mayfly imitation and trudge out to where the silt flat slopes into the main current. My line unfurls like a green snake glistening in the sunshine behind me as I begin my forward cast. The fly streaks across the currents and lands with a soft plop about mid-steam. Unfortunately it falls far short of the birch tree's back-eddy just as the golden body of a Grayling slashes into the sunlight just behind the tree. I take a couple the steps into the deeper currents and prepare for another cast. This cast also falls short so I repeat the process until the rushing waters are gabbing at the chest of my waders. I analyze the situation. The bottom has changed from cobblestone to loose shifting gravel under my feet, causing me to periodically adjust my footing. Just ahead, just a small step, the gin clear water reveals the possibility of a better foothold, but how much deeper is it? The Grayling slashes another mayfly from the surface just behind the birch tree calling me forward like the melody sung by the Greek Sirens of old. My feet begin to roll on the rock marbles beneath. I lung forward hoping for better footing but my feet find nothing but emptiness. So the adventure begins and hopefully does not end!
I lie on the far bank and let some of the terror drain from my heaving lungs and pounding heart. I laugh at my stupidity for worrying so much about keeping my fly rod so firmly in my grasp while floundering about in the icy waters, but am relieved that I had done so. Standing upright my numb, shaking fingers struggle to unsnap the buckles of my flooded waders with the intention draining out their sloshing contents. Shaking fingers accomplish their purpose and soon I peel off their cold, sucking material, spilling their icy gallons of liquid onto the mossy shore. Next off are my pants and shirt which I wring out and hang on a nearby shrub to dry in the sun. I'm lucky. It's a beautiful summer day, probably about sixty-five degrees and the sunshine warms my clammy skin.
What to do now? My unplanned swim has taken me to the north bank of the river, the wrong side. My camp and all road access lies across the icy channel that I just traversed in such life threatening style. Warming in the sunshine I consider my options while slapping mosquitoes from my no longer numb exposed skin. First order of business, apply bug-dope before I become a swollen, itchy blob of raw meat. Digging into the chest pocket of my waders the horrifying realization that my bottle of bug-dope has become dislodged during my swim and is probably miles down stream. Reluctantly I wiggle back into my still wet but no longer dripping pants and shirt.
I decide to wait. Occasional power boats ply these waters and surely if one comes by it will take pity on this half drown waif and ferry me up to the boat launch. Swat! Good, I got that damn bitch mosquito trying to withdraw her allotment of blood from the end of my nose. An hour passes and still no buzz from an outboard motor, only the buzz of determined mosquitoes. Maybe I should pass the time by attempting a few casts to that fucking Grayling that lured me into this predicament in the first place. I struggle back into my corpse skin waders and pick up my fly rod. This side of the river offers a better casting angle to reach the birch's back-eddy but a few casts prove that the Grayling had been sufficiently entertained by my previous flopping about in its watery world to move on to a more peaceful place. Looking at the deep channel separating me from the camp side of the river I contemplate just going for it and taking another icy plunge of fate but what little sense resides in my brain convinces me otherwise. "Hmm. The boat launch can't be much more than a mile up the river and just a few bends beyond would put me directly across from the Clearwater Lodge where I know I can cross without swimming. " I should just start hiking."
Sweat drips into my eyes stinging them with the smashed mosquito parts plastered to my forehead. I stop to rest on yet another spruce dead-fall that blocks my way. Wild rose bush thorns snag my hands and alder cones ensnare my fly line. The thick moss under my feet make each step like walking in sand. I take the time to clip off my fly and reel the line onto the reel's spool. Up ahead the brush gives way to a more flat area pocked with crotch high tussocks crowned with cat-tails and red tinged hemlock. The way forward looks easier but anyone who has walked through tussocks knows the such a landscape hides true misery. Soon I'm dragging my testicles over the tussocks like a toddler with a loaded diaper. Each step up is like climbing a three foot stair only to be followed with a step down into slippery mud. My ears prickle like cactus as the incessant mosquitoes probe their every fold. "Midges. That is what they are. Trout food, as any good fly fisherman will tell you." That thought provides me no solace.
Relief! The ankle twisting, crotch biting tussocks suddenly give way to smooth water. Then the realization that I've been walking not along the a contiguous side of the river, but rather, along an island in the stream, hits home. The shoreline that is across from the lodge, the shoreline which I hoped to give access to safe passage, is on the far side of this water. The water ahead is perhaps a couple of hundred yards wide with little current. It appears shallow and certainly crossable. I plunge in and immediately sink to me knees into the duck shit muck that hides beneath its surface. Pausing for a moment to reconsider the options, my foot sinks deeper into the morass. The only option is forward. Pulling with all my might I extract one foot and throw it forward for another step. This forces my back foot to sink even deeper. I pull it up. My wading boot slides a notch down my ankle in its preference to remain in its muddy grave but I manage to keep it on. Every step is the same. I pull one foot forward only to drive the other deeper. 'How deep does this muck go? Who knows?" With eons of ducks crapping it might extend for yards. The everglades are known for quicksand but up here we have quick-duckshit. Visions of sinking forever into a stinking abyss drive me forward. My waders seem to be filling with sweat as my lungs heave with every yard gained. In desperation I sprawl forward into the few inches of water covering the muck in sort of a combination dog paddle otter hop. Watery soup pours over the tops of my waders and despite its rancid smell its coldness soothes my heaving lungs. Can one die of hyper and hypo-thermia at the same time? A bump! Something solid has bumped into my toe. I explore it with my half-off boot and discover a tree trunk buried about foot down into the sucking mud. Getting one foot on top of it I try to pull my other up as well. The reluctant boot slides halfway off my foot but I manage to extract it and climb onto the tree.
Standing on my precarious perch I survey my situation. A hundred yards of flats lies ahead and an equal distance lies behind. Good sense would dictate to retrace the steps I have already made rather the risk the unknown that lies ahead, but my head is not known for its good sense. I could just wait here and hope for a passing boat, but what boat would feel compelled to rescue this mud encrusted statue posed in what looks like shin deep water? Never the less I wait and use the time to perform an uncomfortable and never practiced yoga move to retie my sagging wading boot. " That hum, could it be an approaching motor? No, its just the damn mosquitoes chewing through my cheek bone." I sprawl off my tree trunk and resume my belly crawl towards the distant shore.
Although the distance seemed to grow longer with every paddle I eventually haul myself out onto the spongy moss of shore. I see the boat landing on the opposite shore a short distance ahead and after shaking some of the clinging duck poo mud from myself continue my trek into the boreal undergrowth. After another half mile I find myself standing across from the lodge. An older lady sits upon a lawn bench near the riverside enjoying the the day and her book. She sees me and gives a friendly wave while a few revelers on the lodge's deck swill their afternoon beer. No one has a clue as to my day's adventure. I make my way to the spot I have forded the river numerous times and begin my practiced but somewhat tricky crossing of the rivers's currents. With more caution than usual I drag my aching body to the other side and walk, stinking of duck mud and sweat to my camp.
Stripping off my clothes I hose off with fresh water and pull on clean, warm clothes. I brew a hot cup of Costa Rican coffee and add a generous splash of whiskey. I build a blazing fire in the fire ring and settle next to it in a camp chair. Soon a man in the latest Simms waders comes by carrying a top-of-the-line fly rod. "Saw you out on the river. Anything biting?"
"Nothing but mosquitoes." I reply.
"OH well. As they say, the worst day of fishing is better than the best day of working." He strolls off as I contemplate the fact that he has NO idea!
