Sometimes, when you have been fishing for long enough, you know when a little magic is about to happen. Tonight, I had already found a bottle with intact messages inside. That certainly doesn't happen every day. The Stink Hole isn't the most glamorous steelhead run on the Clearwater, but it is popular. Only tonight, with thunderstorms rolling through the valley, I had the river all to myself. With the hissing of cars on a rain soaked highway behind me, and the constant drone of the machinery of the paper mill in front of me, this part of the river does have a certain charm, but it certainly isn't the same as some wilderness reach of the John Day, Salmon, or Deschutes. Tonight though, flashes of lightning streaked from cloud to cloud off in the distance and the sunset glowed something near the color of peach flesh beneath a dark wall of storm clouds. A constant drip of big, warm summer rain drops eventually drove me to pull up my hood. This was a fishy night.
The previous passage might lead you to believe that I was about to have an epic evening. Forty five minutes of grab after grab after grip after grin. Well, not exactly, but about half the way down the run, and about half way through the wide swing of my fly, I felt the line stop and get tight. Then it started again, and then it stopped once more and started to throb. Fish on; big smile on my face. Haha! All those dudes with fancy plastic clothes didn't want to get their new truck muddy (more likely, they thought better of testing the ability of a 13 foot graphite rod to conduct static electricity). The most popular early -season hole on the whole river all to myself, and a fish on. I had given my little boy a good night hug only 20 minutes before. Bliss.
It wasn't meant to last. After a brief minute of battle, the fish gave me one great thrash on the river's surface in the middle of the current to let me know I really was connected with a steelhead, then he made one good run and threw the hook. Pop Pop would have definitely said "better to have hooked and lost than to have never have hooked at all." That sentiment couldn't be truer for steelhead. All those casts, all those steps, mends, and all that time... and what is the thing you fantasize about the most? That moment you feel that grab, the second your line stops, the instant spey casting for steelhead goes from the most meditative and relaxing sport on the planet, to one of the most exciting. That said, nobody likes to lose a fish. I cursed and slapped my line back down on the water in front of me, but I was smiling the whole time. I certainly don't want losing fish to become a habit, but you never can be angry when a steelhead gives you a taste of their addictive tug drug.
So I finished out the run. No second chances, only more rain and darkness so complete it was getting harder and harder to know the anchor for my cast was in the right place. Best call it then so as to not put a #6 salmon hook in my eye.
My finish line was a green bottle, neck decorated in gold foil, glass full of notes and trinkets. I reeled in, stowed the fly, and grabbed the bottle before I slogged back to my pickup truck.
I didn't open the bottle until I was in dry clothes and sitting at my kitchen table. The first note that fell out said the following:
"Dear Char, I wish we could have seen you before you left. I'm happy that your not in pain anymore. I can't wait to reunite when I come to Heaven. I bet it will be lots brighter with you there! Thanks for lighting up this world with your cheerfulness, Char. Rest in peace. I love you. ~Lacey~"
More beautiful words have rarely been said about the loss of a friend. The rest of the notes I could extract had the same tone of fond memories and a catharsis of grieving. Each had their own poetry and came from all of Char's family, including the very youngest members of the pack. I've no idea the full
symbolism of the trinkets in the bottle - a length of parachute cord, a handful of bone shaped candies, a stick of cinnamon gum, a little lock of golden hair - but weren't meant for me, they were keepsakes for Char.
It occurs to me that maybe I hadn't hooked a steelhead tonight. Maybe it was Char's spirit trying to tell me the gifts in the bottle weren't meant for me. Maybe Char was reminding me the best things in life, including love (and the tug of a big fish), aren't to be taken for granted, because they don't last forever (except, perhaps, in a heaven made brighter by the presence of our friends).
So out of respect for the river spirit that got away from me tonight, I am going to kiss my sleeping baby on the head, then take that green glass bottle, messages and trinkets stowed safely back inside, and return it to the river. Before I do, I am going to make one small addition to the bottle's contents: One size 6 Spawning Purple steelhead fly, which on this very night may or may not have briefly ensnared a Char and not a steelhead.
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