Time: 4:00 AM
Approach: Float Fishing
Location: Skykomish River
Line: 15# Test P-Line Hydrofloat, 10# Izorline Platinum Monofilament
Rod & Reel: Shimano Clarus 11'3", 6#-10# Test Rating, Shimano Stradic 2500


For the past few months, angling has taken a back seat in my heart. June first clambered in at Reiter like a stumbling drunkard, three sheets to the wind. There were bodies strewn messily about, wands waving violently in the air and confused Steelhead clamping onto the most bizarre of offerings. Though my body coerced me to the river at first light, after a few short casts and long-winded greetings to familiar faces of seasons past, I found myself back behind the wheel headed home. Not three hours into opening day, I lay back underneath the summer quilts, firing off casts in dreamland. Thus passed the infamous "opening day" on the famous Skykomish, a day always fondly forgotten in my book. Keep it classy, Gold Bar; though you sport your fair share of drug-laced transients that enjoy looting our vehicles, you do provide such a splendid fishery.

I call her the "Moving Couch." Seitz car that is, the reliable work horse who shines a brilliant bronze, in all her mom-esque splendor. She sports cushy cloth seats worn light tan through years of shuttling legions of sugar-high children, back and forth to soccer practice. Ode to the memories that live on vibrantly through the spots in the carpet, 68,702 miles later. Despite your homely chassis turning away the most beautiful women, you will forever remain in my heart, with your sexy gas economy and pillow-like suspension. Quite simply put, you "rock."

For most of the ride over, Third Eye Blind bellowed in the background, filling in the neatly packed spaces of silence during the early morning hours. Upon arrival to the slot "Boulder Gardens," we proceeded to compare our gear, hydrate and fine tune our presentation game plan, in anticipation of what the slot would hold. With the sun rusing with such haste these spring days, it turned into a game of splice, tie and sprint down to the river. So, after twisting a Double Uni knot and popping on a cork float, my gear was soaking up the snowmelt. Seitz sat back and observed, patiently biding time. Who knew he would swing a grand-slam on his third stroke? I watched as my antiquated float bobbed happily downstream, when all of the sudden the well known chirp of "fish" was reverberating through the canyon. And so it went, a low-water Summer Ghost was found in want, persistently tugging at the end of his fluorocarbon leader.

It was like clockwork: his elbow automatically raised to shoulder height and his Shimano rod was cocked parallel to the water, inhibiting a surface leap. I even remembered hearing the distinct "clicks," signaling a coolly lightened drag, in preparation for the famous warm water run-and-jump behavior Steelhead typically exhibit. Other than slipping on an algae covered stone, and haphazardly navigating the coarse terrain -no thanks to adrenaline- it was like gazing into a mirror. I thought silently "This kid is turning into a fine angler." The grey outline motored in with conviction, a common tactic the neophyte mistakes for an invitation to land. Many a Summer-Run have escaped the dance of death with such wit and will continue to do so through the span of their existence. Sending a few shocks down the wire, Seitz counter attacked. Shortly thereafter, out burst a 17 yards of line from his Shimano Stradic CI4, as the fish sprinted down and out towards the tail out, in attempt to escape the slow moving, oxygen deprived water. And then it happened: I saw a pink ribbon laying parallel to the river surface. Ladies and gentlemen, it's boy. He thrashed, dodged and slipped punches from oncoming obstacles, even managing to blast out a very tasteful submarine cartwheel -seriously, it was Olympic quality- in between sets of underwater sprints. Shortly after, it became evident that the sheets of fatigue were beginning to cloud the judgement of our finned friend. When the opportunity arose, Seitz carefully backed the now surface dwelling torpedo, to the inside seam, and to the soft water shortly after. No sooner than it raised it's tail in surrender, had my tailing hand found it's fingers firmly secured around the peduncle. Into the bank slid his personal best, and out went the lights of a magnificent creature.

We blazed river trail for another two and a half miles. After thirty additional "last casts" and growing weary of sweat-drenched wader material, the spring sun successfully dissuaded us from continuing course.

The gin-like water recedes with each sunrise, while the "finned rounds" of .223 stand early morning watch. Anglers of proficiency continue to procure their bag limit; I dare you to fill each slot on your catch card. Only the greatest things in life: take time to build and prove extremely difficult to obtain or accomplish. Success rests upon the bed of fearsome and prolonged failure; it's life's way of separating the wheat from the chaff. Personally, I view failure as a compliment, so bring it on and let's iron out the kinks in your approach to angling.

With the same glacial-fed blood coursing through my veins, I bid you the utmost success. May the sun shine upon your back and may Summer-Run Steelhead captivate your heart this season.

Rock to rock. Cast by cast. Reel Priorities, out.



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