Guides Eye View
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As a professional guide for the past 29 years, logging roughly 800-1100 miles annually floating the Trinity River, I have experienced a variety of outings that have ranged from a mountain lion and bear encounters, broken oars/taking on water, thirsty drifters barking at the stars and howling at the moon during a midnight float on the Trinity River, chasing fresh-run steelhead down river in a hot pursuit, to the occasional disgruntled newcomer who felt cash should have brought him success. Never a dull moment best describes my career as each and every outing has challenged my mental capacity, not to mention the physical aspects that have kept me on my toes. I started this "story column" years ago and it has been well received. Thank you for the positive feedback. I will continue to share my experiences with you until you all have had enough. - Herb
Fall winter
Caught in a Crossfire
A friendly father and son team had previously signed up for one of our Lewiston Lake fly fishing crash course. Both caught on quick and performed well, and eventually developed a strong passion for fly fishing and beautiful Trinity County. To further their fly fishing education, they reserved a November Trinity steelhead trip with high hopes of hooking into the west coast legendary ‘ghost of the coast.’
A small storm had settled in bringing just the right amount of rain to color the upper river. We all were stoked and after a couple hours of fishing with zero success, the father and son quickly learned steelhead fishing is not only a test to brave the elements, but also the mind as well. I attempted to maintain the positive aspects of steelheading, quoting: “most peoples smallest steelhead is their largest rainbow; they don’t come easy; put in your time because dividends are paid in pounds of heart throbbing chrome steel; it happens when you least expect it; don’t try too hard; maintain the faith with each cast, be set and hang on.”
Just after stepping in a new run and delivering only a couple casts, the fathers reel sounded off with a loud pitch echoing through the canyon. A bright hen revealed her chrome profile in a cart wheeling leap before shaking the hook. WOW! He exclaimed, “It was over at the blink of an eye”. Stunned, the father slowly waded back ashore so I could re-tie and inspect his gear. Shaky hands and unstable balance I could see he still suffered from the steelhead adrenaline rush. He needed a pep talk to reinforce his confidence. “Welcome to steelheading ---not just anyone can hook ‘em,” I commented. “Enjoy the moment, but shake it off or they will get the best of you. You know the grab, surging power and what can happen. Now go get ‘em.”
Unfortunately the rain had intensified and the runoff was beginning to swell the river. It was going to be tough – heads were down and fish were on the move. I hustled down to a personal favorite run, “the Bone-yard,” that is in the gut of the canyon and often produces transitioning fish. As we dropped through the above run I heard a few gun shots that quickly got my attention. The sound echoed from down river and I was sure my clients heard them as well. Nothing was said.
We approached the Bone-yard and noted the water reflected a misty green with plenty visibility. I lined them both in the top riffle with hopes of another solid hook up. We hadn’t been there for more than five minutes when another round of gun shots echoed; this time too close for comfort.
I yelled out at the top of my lungs “people are fishing close by!” My comment had no effect as more shots were fired off close by. By now the father and son had reeled in and quickly huddled along the shore line vegetation.
I grabbed the raft, shielding us, and advised we slowly wade downstream to a clearing to become visible and investigate. More shots fired! I continued to respond at the top of my lungs. We arrived at a brief clearing and out of the woods walked a shabby individual, strapped with a high powered riffle, holding a half bottle of liquor in one hand and banishing a pistol in the other. He slowly approached and blurted out, “I don’t see any ‘No hunting’ signs.” By now the father and son are wide eyed and scared to death. I had a strange feeling overcome my entire body, yet I made direct eye contact with our well-armed encounter, and as politely as possible indicated despite no signs, I simply wanted to alert him we were in the immediate vicinity. He tipped the bottle, slugged down a drink, waved his pistol and proceeded to stare me down with a hauntingly cold expression.
The father and son remained deadly quiet. I ever so slowly started wading them along the distant bank, never taking my eyes off his. He said nothing and continued to stare at us all. After a few minutes of dead silence, with the exception of the riffle and rain pattering upon us, out of the bushes another individual revealed himself. He too had a bottle of liquor in one hand, pistol in the other. “How’s fishing?” he yelled. Fortunately, he appeared to be a bit friendlier. I responded slowly indicating, “We’re heading in because of the wet and cold conditions.” We all slowly waded to the shore and the father and son were smart to remain silent. Our armed encounters said something we could not hear, and slowly proceeded to head back into the woods.
I was greatly relieved yet did not know what to say. I had never encountered a situation such as this. I informed all to get into the raft and began stroking down river, maintaining my thoughts and silence, yet kept a keen eye out. The father attempted to break the ice by asking, “Is it hunting season and is it legal to shoot along the river?” I answered as best as I could with hope of giving them faith and confidence all was OK. We floated over a mile and arrived at another promising run. I asked if they would like to step in. The father took charge and informed me they both were cold and ready to go in. I knew the truth and attempted to perk their spirits with conversations about the river while rowing to the take-out.
We arrived and I truly felt there was a great sigh of relief from the father and son as we beached. I backed up the truck and just as I started loading up, our comfort zone was quickly disrupted by a series of gun shots directly across from us. The shabby encounters obviously waited for us. Continuous rounds of shots were fired from a variety of guns whizzing directly overhead. I instructed the father and son to get in the truck and stay low. I literally threw our gear in the back, strapped the raft and drove off – fortunately alive. The shuttle ride was quiet. I dropped off the father and son and apologized. I raced home and called 911 to report the incident. The Sherriff Department investigated; unfortunately the report was too late and area was too remote. No one was apprehended or arrested.
Twenty nine years later and thousands of guided trips on the Trinity River, I have never encountered anything even remotely close to a strange incident of this nature. Were we in the wrong place at the wrong time? Impress, intimidate, whatever the intentions, the strange encounter and turn of events scared off the father and son. I have never herd form them again. Guns, alcohol, remote areas compounded with strange individuals and unpredictable personalities can easily lead to a very bad chemistry. I have been asked if I carry a gun. I do not and personally feel another gun is not the solution. I have often reflected back and wondered what if? Herb
Spring/Summer
Barefoot in the Fast Lane
I was in the beginning stage of my profession and excited to receive the business and teach new anglers how to fly fish. My clients booked a half day and since they were on a budget requested a campground close to the outing. The campsite, time and place were all confirmed! The morning of our scheduled trip I patiently waited for my new clients at the designated meeting place. After a half hour of a no-show, I began to wonder. I already received their deposit, so I was somewhat confident they weren’t going to stiff me. Forty-five minutes later I head up to the campground to investigate. To my surprise, the entire campground was vacant. Then I noticed a bright red Mustang parked in the last site, well in the back. I pulled up and noticed the fastback was wide open. 8-track blaring Led Zepplin, smoldering camp fire, over a case of empty beer cans littered the ground, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels highlighting the table centerpiece and two bodies snug in their sleeping bags…well into la-la land – must be them.
I awakened them with a loud, “rise and shine, fish are waiting.” The two red eyed souls emerged and quickly apologized explaining their tardiness as a result of the excitement and getting away for some fishing. I instructed them to hustle up and gave them a half hour to meet at the launch site. I knew I had little chance for an early morning grab as they finally arrived an hour later. Both were cold and strangely one individual was barefoot. I asked, “Where are your shoes?” Rich indicated he got them soaked last night when he went down to the river to relieve himself. Whether it was the beer, Jack or whatever else, he misjudged placing them by the campfire – they burned up. Unfortunately he had no backup. Scratching my head I thought to myself, “This could prove to be interesting.”
Before launching, I prepared the raft and instructed both to wader up and string rods. One angler showed off his shiny new rubber Converse waders. The barefoot angler wore a sad face and explained he had no waders. By now it was late and I simply wanted to get on the water with hopes of pulling this off. I indicated I would fish him in the raft while the other waded. Their fly gear was primitive; one Eagle Claw #8 wt. and a Fenwick #6 wt, but do-able especially at this point.
Whether it was the hype to go fishing or Trinity’s early morning beauty, or both, there was an eagerness to help. I instructed when launching the raft they were to watch out for the tie down hooks on the side of the trailer, and all on the count of three. One-two-three, the raft was launched with a loud, “Oh shit!” remark. The angler sporting his new waders ripped them all but in half. The rip measured from his waist all the way to his knees. “Wow, that’s difficult to do,” I muttered. I handed him a roll of Duct Tape and mentioned when we get done they’ll be as good as knew. Yeah right, I thought.
Finally, drifting down the river, I heard both anglers exclaiming, “Alright! Wow! Cool!” While they were busy gazing, I was counting my blessings; we were ten minutes into the trip and nothing had happened. I pulled into a beautiful run and demonstrated casting, presentation and techniques. I was surprised both could actually cast. Other than a few moans of how cold the water was, the wading angler covered the water well. The barefoot angler was over-aggressive and managed to frequently get his fly caught in the trees. Even after continuous instruction/advice, he was determined to do his own thing.
One tree too many – the barefoot angler got angry and leaned on the old Fenwick until it bent like a horseshoe. Pop! The glass rod shattered. A brief moment of silence was interrupted by laughter from his buddy as he yelled, “You asshole!” “That’s OK, I’ll take it back to K-Mart,” yelled the barefoot angler...”besides, I’m just enjoying the float.” He then turned and asked me, “Mind if I smoke?” As I laid the rod to rest I told him to knock yourself out. Working my way down river to check on the wading angler I smelled something other than tobacco. Looking back the barefoot angler was laid back in the seat, bare feet and legs propped up, sitting in a cloud of smoke with a joint the size of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. I asked myself, “Why did I get up this morning?”
Hung over, no shoes, socks, waders, broken rod, and stoned. This is not the schedule I had planned and my hopes for a productive day were fading fast. Just then the wading angler tightened up and yelled, “Ya-a-a-Hoo!” I looked up and thought there just may be an angle up there. I hustled down to the action and sure enough a beautiful brown trout had accepted his streamer. The brown fought well and I instructed how to land the fish. We worked back to the soft edge of the run and finally netted a well-earned 17” brown. His first to the fly! Fish dinner, they both yelled out. No way, I boldly replied. We’ll take photos of the release. “And just how do you eat a photo,” commented the pie-eyed, barefoot spectator. I pretended not to hear him and took photos. The wading angler gently let the brown swim from his hands. His eyes widened as the fish freely swam back to security. The scene was all but inspirational until the excited wading angler again yelled out, “Ya-a-a-Hoo!” and with arms straight up in the air, lost balance and fell in up to his neck.
The endless turn of events from that trip not only caught me off guard but ultimately tested my guide ambitions. I perservered although have yet to guide another barefoot angler. Months later, I followed through sending the brown trout photos. Sadly they were returned. Postmarked, “Return to sender, resident deceased.” Possibly too much fun in the fast lane? - Herb