Should the Tent Be Burning Like That? Page 2

  “Sounds like you’ve got the truck thing down,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I got a problem with boats.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t get rid of ’em. I’ve got six right now.” These included the 17-foot drift boat we were towing, a 9-foot Avon inflatable, a 14-foot Wahoo, a 16-foot Wellcraft (“in a marina in Alameda”), a 20-foot Mako, and the 44-foot salmon boat. This inconsistency—the way he could be brutally practical about trucks and completely sentimental about boats—was typical Mikey. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “But a boat, it becomes, I don’t know, who I am. And they’re not all great boats. But there are things about my own personality that I don’t like, okay? But I’m stuck with them. I can’t disown them. Does that make sense?” Of course it didn’t. But I understood it.

  Racing the Rain

  We found a motel in Crescent City, close to the river, and woke the next morning to light rain. By now, having discovered that my phone could get on the Internet, Mikey was borrowing it every hour. The reports he was looking at said the rain might stop. It didn’t. Soon it was raining hard. Mikey decided we should head up into Oregon and check the Chetco. “It’s on the other side of a ridge that sometimes splits weather systems,” he explained. This seemed like a fool’s errand. An unrelenting downpour like this one was anything but localized. But we went anyway. It was raining just as hard in Oregon.

  Mikey didn’t despair. The thing, it seemed, was to maintain momentum, keep chasing. He took me to the house of a guiding buddy in the area, Jim Burn. Jim knew the Smith as well as anybody. The two of them sat in front of Jim’s computer for the next several hours, poring over water levels and weather reports while I played with Jim’s dog.

  The guides were as different as two guys could be and still share the same passion for steelhead. Mikey’s boat, for example, while neater than his truck, was still pretty funky. Jim’s boat was spotless. He even had a “bra” to protect it from debris when towed.

  Eventually they concluded that there was no use even trying to fish the river until the next day. They adjourned to Jim’s garage and spent the next two hours in what seemed to be a long-standing ritual, in which each showed off his newest lures while energetically insulting the other’s. Each had hundreds of steelhead plugs, the most prized of which were “pre-Rapala” Storm Wiggle Warts, Magnum Warts, Wee Warts, and PeeWee Warts. After Rapala acquired Storm in the late 1990s, I was told, they destroyed the original Storm molds and moved production to China. The new ones had lost the distinctive “hunting” action of the best Storms. They had steel rattles rather than lead, which resulted in a harsher sound. The plastic was different. They were disasters. Now, they told me, old Storm lures in rare or desirable patterns went for as much as a hundred dollars on eBay. Mikey showed Jim one of his favorites, a pearl-colored PeeWee Wart that he’d recently bought for fifty dollars from a seller called Plugwhore. It was a tiny thing, but Mikey maintained that its action was fantastic. “Oh, yeah, I’ve bought from Plugwhore,” Jim said, then explained in detail why Mikey’s lures, both in general and individually, sucked. Mikey returned the favor.

  While the finer points escaped me, I did learn a bit of plug terminology. A light-colored lure with a red back was said to have a “rash.” Black glitter was a “Michael Jackson.” Black-and-white was a “cop.” Silver-and-black was an “Oakland Raider.” And chrome pink with a black bill was a “Dr. Death.”

  It wasn’t until the next day, the fourth of the trip, that we finally threw a line in the water. And that was bank fishing, throwing weighted clusters of salmon roe rolled in borax, the better to make the eggs adhere to one another, into the Smith. I think Mikey and Jim knew the river was too high, that the fish were hunkered down until the water cleared. But maybe fishing when you knew damn well it was pointless was an act of faith, a demonstration of your humility to the river gods.

  The Smith dropped a foot over the course of that day (we marked the changing levels with branches stuck into the bank), but in eight hours of fishing, not one of our three rods got so much as a bump. A few people stopped by to chat with Jim and ask about the river. By this time, Mikey had tired of telling people I was an outdoor writer. His new story was that, despite looking like a middle-aged bald guy, I was actually a Make-A-Wish kid with one of those premature aging diseases who wanted to catch a steelhead before what would be his eleventh and, tragically, final birthday. Mikey said that it was his mission to make that happen.

  We tried again for a few hours the next morning in a deep gorge of the river, the descent into which required holding my rod in my mouth so I could use all four limbs. The Smith is a gorgeous river, but parts of it were just plain scary. Fall off your rock where we were, for example, and you wouldn’t be coming up anytime soon. Back at the truck, Mikey decided our last, best shot was a small river 150 miles south, which he forbade me to name. I didn’t question his choice. Neither did Jim, who followed us.

  Steeling Secrets

  When we left the coastal highway, it was like finding another world inside another world, one even more remote and beautiful. We crossed a range of mountains, corkscrewing our way up over dirt roads through country where you’d go for miles without seeing a house. We rounded a bend and were looking at miles of undeveloped coastline, rocks the size of houses in the surf, which broke hundreds of yards offshore. “Wow, Mikey, this is incredible,” I said.

  “My happy place,” he said. “It’s known but not really known. I mean people know it’s here, but most of them think it’s just another steelhead river.” I didn’t. I thought we had landed in paradise.

  We got to the river itself an hour before sunset. Mikey wanted to back the boat in and throw plugs from it for a while, get reacquainted with the water, maybe catch a fish. Jim countered that Mikey, as usual, had everything ass-backward.

  “Look, we don’t know where we’re staying. We don’t know where we’re going to eat tonight. The way to do this is get squared away tonight and do it right first thing in the morning.”

  “C’mon, Jim,” Mikey coaxed. “For once in your life just relax and go with it. Fish for half an hour and then we’ll go figure all that out. There’s still time.”

  For the next half hour, they argued. Jim was by the book, linear, logical. Mikey was seat-of-the-pants, intuitive, eccentric. It was like listening to the two halves of my brain fight each other. By the time they finished, my head hurt and it was too late to fish.

  Since it was all coming down to the next day, Mikey wanted to see if he could get some local intel. About 9 p.m., he swung the truck into a mostly deserted campground. When he saw a drift boat by one of the occupied sites, he made a beeline for it. “We come in peace!” Mikey bellowed. The boat belonged to an elderly couple, who had evidently just finished dinner and were talking quietly by the light of a kerosene lantern, their dishes stacked before them. It was hard to tell what they made of the little dude with a full beard and a bush of hair tucked up into a wool hat. But they smiled as if nothing was out of place.

  They listened as Mikey told them the Make-A-Wish story. They knew he was full of it but didn’t seem to mind. At a certain moment, however, the woman looked at Mikey curiously, cocked her head, and said, “Why, don’t you know that you can’t plan to catch a steelhead? Goodness! Everybody knows that. All you can do is go someplace where the fish might be, wait until the water looks right, fish it hard, and hope you get lucky.”

  “Absolutely!” Mikey agreed.

  No one had bothered to tell me this, the first principle of steelhead fishing. Maybe, to guys like Mikey and Jim, it’s so obvious that it doesn’t bear mentioning. I’d slowly been making my way toward this fact on my own, but it was striking to hear it confirmed by a third party.

  The man said that he hadn’t even put the boat in today. Tomorrow would be a little better, but the river needed at least two rainless days to fish well. Back at the truck, Mikey announced that he’d figured it out. If we were to have any chance on the river, it was essential that I ride in the trailered boat, drink deeply of whiskey, and savor the soft night air rushing by. “You need to do this, dude,” Mikey declared. “Trust me. The river needs to know you’re here. Plus, it’s just awesome.”

  Mikey went on for a bit, making it sound like a carnival ride one moment, a solemn duty the next. It was, of course, an idiotic thing to do. But something had changed. We were chasing the chrome and I was in the grips of the chase. Mikey had sucked me into his world. What we were doing had become a pilgrimage, a quest. And although I still wanted terribly to catch a steelhead, I wanted even more to be true to the spirit of the trip, which meant giving it everything I had.

  Thirty seconds later, I was sitting in the boat’s front chair, a rope in one hand, a bottle of bourbon in the other, both feet braced against the front rail, the liquor burning in my throat as I howled at the moon. I rode the trailered boat over bumps and potholes, around curves and plunging down straightaways. It was, on the one hand, a moron’s steeplechase, requiring nothing more than a total lack of common sense. But it was also glorious, flying through the night air with only the stars above and the river somewhere close. I realized that whatever happened tomorrow, everything would turn out fine. I had, unbeknownst to myself, entered Mikey’s world, the eternal present. The future would bring whatever it brought. The important thing was now. And no matter how it turned out, I was now taking one hell of a ride.

  A few minutes of this turned out to be about all I really needed. I jarred my back pretty hard a few times. Through the back window, I could see Mikey and Jim, gesturing to each other. They had resumed their argument. It had become quite animated. They weren’t looking back and couldn’t hear no matter how loudly I shouted. There wasn’t anything in the boat I could throw onto the roof o
f the truck except my shoe, which I couldn’t really get to because I needed both feet to brace myself. It was another five miles before Mikey finally decided to check on me, at which point I told him to stop the damn truck.

  Back at the little cottage we’d rented for the night, Mikey and Jim continued arguing. It was like listening to an old married couple rehash the same feud endlessly. Then, just before lights-out, I heard Jim’s voice from the other room. It sounded different, almost plaintive. “Mikey, you think the river might drop eighteen inches overnight?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “And maybe it’ll even get another six inches of visibility?”

  “Yeah, could be,” Mikey said. He sounded like a parent reassuring a child that there was indeed a Santa Claus.

  “Okay. Good night.”

  The next day, we set out early. Mikey was at the oars, while Jim and I were plugging, in which you let out line fifteen, maybe twenty yards, engage your reel, and let the current impart action to your lure. Meanwhile, the guide rows to counteract the current and put your plug in the spots that might hold fish. In essence, it’s the guide rowing the boat who does the fishing. “It’s not the most romantic way to fish,” Mikey said. “But in this kind of water, it’s your best bet.”

  Just then, Jim’s rod arced. “Fish on!” he cried, letting the fish fully take the plug before setting the hook. He passed the rod to me. I suddenly felt like the Make-A-Wish kid Mikey had made me out to be. I’d done nothing to catch this fish. But I dutifully reeled it in anyway. It fought hard, but not remarkably so, and within a minute or two I’d landed what both guides deemed an 11-pound hen, her sides bright. Both guides were adamant about releasing the fish quickly, and did so.

  We were pumped at having hooked a fish so soon after launching. As time went by without another hookup, we began to despair of the quick-fish curse, that peculiar deal in which the omen of all-day success turns out to be false. We changed lures. Since we weren’t finding fish in the fishy spots, Mikey began fishing unconventional ones. That didn’t work, either.

  Jim hooked another fish late in the float and again handed me the rod. I’m still not sure what I did wrong. Maybe I pressed it too hard. Maybe Jim should have cut more of his line off after the first fish. I saw the fish leap once in fast water, then the lure was gone.

  It was over. It was late afternoon, and Mikey and I had 250 miles to cover to get back to the marina. My plane was leaving at seven the next morning.

  An Unstoppable Force

  As we drove south, I tried to sort through what I was feeling. There was some disappointment, but I was surprised at how insignificant it seemed. I would have liked to have caught more fish, but we had succeeded. We’d chased the chrome and landed one freshie. I was tired, but it was the pleasant fatigue of having done everything you could. I had no regrets.

  About 150 miles north of San Francisco, Mikey left the highway. Within minutes we were bombing down dirt roads on which we saw almost no other vehicles. “Mikey, what’s up?” I asked.

  “This is one of the forks of the Eel,” he said. “Got one last spot we gotta try. We’ll get back later, but you can sleep on the plane.”

  I smiled. How, I wondered, could you not love a guy like Mikey?

  We arrived at a small house, a little ranch, at the bottom of a deadend road. “I know these folks,” he said. “Good people.”

  It felt to me as if we’d just bailed out of the highway arbitrarily and driven down an anonymous dirt road. “What do you mean, you know these people?” I asked. “There must be hundreds of roads just like this one up and down the coast. What’d you do, drive down every one and ask if you could fish?”

  Mikey looked at me. “Pretty much,” he said, “if it bordered a steelhead river. Most of these people have let me park on their land and sleep in the truck at one time or another.” He parked, left me in the truck while he went to have a word with the owners, and returned to tell me everything was cool.

  There was maybe an hour of light left. We rigged up quickly, tying on sacks of red roe and slinky sinkers beneath slip bobbers on spinning rods, and headed for the water. The bushes were so thick that there were only a couple of places you could cast from. It had been a long shot from the start, but I cast to a pool on the far side and drifted my bait through it half a dozen times. Then I moved to another spot, which involved climbing a boulder, and threw again. And then it was dark. We’d fished the sun all the way down. We’d given it everything we had. I felt a tremendous exhilaration.

  As we drove back toward the highway, Mikey was already talking about how I’d have to come back next year, how we’d nail it. We stopped for gas. Mikey asked if he could borrow a few bucks. I said yes.

  Adventures of a Deer Bum

  A lone trek to a trophy buck factory reveals amazing local grace, shot-up phone books, and a hardscrabble land where wall-hangers skulk and prowl.

  At the moment I am parked outside a strip-mall laundromat at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday in Jackson, Ohio, a working-class town of ten thousand. Most of the locals are in bed by this hour. Not me. Four days into my hunt, I’m as hyper as Paris Hilton on an unescorted visit to a boys’ prep school. By the green glow of my Streamlight headlamp, I am shuffling through six adjoining topo quads spread out over the dashboard, scarfing down an eighteen-hour-old sausage biscuit and a twenty-ounce Pabst (discovered while Dumpster diving in my own backseat), and madly scanning the radio for a weather fix. Inside the establishment, my ScentLok is tumbling around in a dryer hot enough to cook pizza, and my other hunting duds are swishing through a final rinse of Sport-Wash. By forgoing a real dinner, I can do a total scent overhaul and still make it back to my motel for five hours of rack time. At 4:30 a.m., my nervous system will go off automatically, sending me afield again for a chance at an Ohio bighead.

  Meanwhile, I’m poring over the dog-eared topos, pressing them for the secrets only they can impart. After hours of agony, I have whittled the Miss Stand Site contestants down to two finalists for tomorrow morning: a shapely little ridge finger near Blue Hollow on the Pedro Quad and a perky bench along the stream in Pokepatch Hollow on the Gallia Quad. My whole world depends on the wind, and I’m endlessly scanning the radio for a weather report. But the night airwaves here have been seized by Bible study insurgents.

  I note a faint odor of decay in the car and wonder if an unfinished sandwich from the recent past is out for revenge. A Jackson Township police cruiser rolls past, the cop slowing to eyeball me. As always, any distraction from my quest fills me with indignation. Yes, I am sitting in a parked car at night wearing long underwear with a green light on my forehead. You got a problem with that? Evidently I look too whacked to be a real criminal, and the cruiser rolls on.

  Searching for the source of the stench, I am drawn to my feet. I take off my shoes and socks and resist the impulse to scream aloud. I have a case of athlete’s foot that would look at home in a leper colony. But there’s no time to deal with that now. My immediate task is to figure out where I can put an arrow into a giant whitetail tomorrow in the Wayne National Forest.

  Big Deer …

  I discovered the Wayne last year, when I was looking for a place to bowhunt trophy bucks without having to pay a guide, an outfitter, or a lease fee. A review process including examination of QDMA maps of record-book deer and deer densities, state website inventories of public lands and hunting pressure, and the brain of every hunting buddy I could find soon had me leaning here: huge acreage, low pressure, and challenging terrain.

  There be monsters here. Ohio is archery-only for most of November, so mature bucks enjoy high survival rates. On opening day of the 2005 season, a hunter named Mike Rex killed a deer in nearby Athens County with antlers so big that he thought at first that he was looking at two bucks standing right behind each other. For the number Nazis: Think 6-by-5 main frame and 13-inch brow tines.