Field Notes from Trout Opener

A brief report on what's out there.

I found Dave’s truck. Backed into the dirt lot of a wide empty field. A trail with the caterpillar tracks of heavy equipment skirts the perimeter and heads south. I no longer have service. My map will not load. I secure the compass to one of my belt loops so I will not misplace it and then orient it due east. I am pretty sure this trail is the one I am to follow. I slip on my pack (heavy), lock my car and say see you in a few days.

I bushwhacked across the open field, followed the rollicking log trail cutting through the edge of the woods. Cresting a hump, there on the leeward side in a small swale stood not 20 yards from me a young bull elk. His developing antlers still coated in velvet. He had no idea I was there. I watched him for a piece and then seeing my movement, he gave a stutter step and in 3-bounds was on the next hillock. I watched him go his way, then continued mine.

I was off course. Too far south. I check my compass and turned straight due east. Then stepped off the trail. The field grass had yet to spring up and was matted like bundles of ratan. The hills rolled and undulated. I trekked east and crested yet another hill and espied the log road cutting north-south. Here was my exit. Back on track.

I chopped through the river bottom, cursed and bashed my way through the alder choked ravine and spied some cedars. I prayed this was the river and my prayers were answered. I edged to a small clearing and shirked my pack, the sun at that moment filtering through the dense boughs and I felt not unlike Tom Sawyer on a boyhood lark, and I even thought isn’t this grand. I chastised my earlier frustrations. Everything would be all right. What’s more I had orienteered nearly exactly to the camp, proof that a bit of boyscouting still rattles around my head somewhere. Neal and Dave would be about somewhere. It was all going to turn up. The grouse drummed far off, and close by the creek flowed even and empty. A beautiful morning.

I dropped my pack at camp and trooped upstream in search of Dave and Neal. I made their boot tracks in the muck, headed south. I slash my way through the undergrowth, the choking tag alders and spiny Douglas firs. It feels as if I have traveled miles, leagues in this swath of unmarked overgrowth. The boot tracks lead on and I pause to assess my situation. I am on a long stretch with some overhangs and deep pools, cut banks and some sweeping log jams. The creek is not more than 20 yards across. I hear a crash and tilt my head.

I see Dave wending his way through the thicket, nearly upon me before he’s able to look up from the roots at his feet and see that I’m there. We shake hands and exchange hellos. We’re a unit now. He tells how they saw two large brown trout, bellies to the sand just fanning in the modest creek. The water is too clear, the banks too close, and the trout spooked. Still exciting to see what you’re after. I tell them about the elk and how he and I nearly shook hands. We turn north now, a trio and begin the walk back to camp, a long walk, longer than it seemed on the departure.

Neal and Dave make breakfast though it is nearly noon. They have been fishing all morning. Dehydrated backpacking meals. I snack on a jerky stick and an apple, saving the rest of my pizza for dinner. Neal makes beef jerk boiled into Ramen which he claims is good but we ask if everything is ok at home. After that is general loafing. Neal fetches more water and Dave sets up his hammock for a nap.

We are a bit bored now one could say, but Dave says it’s good to be bored and he is correct. He says it’s a relief to be in the woods with a dozen items you need and to spend a few days with those items in the woods—unreachable by cell service and other distractions. A great way to look at it. We retire to our tents and I borrow Dave’s copy of Sand County Almanac which is always a pleasant visit. All afternoon grouse drum their wings. They sound like a motorcycle turning over, humming through the river bottom.

Sunny today. The wind is up a bit but the river is empty save for the three of us that leapfrog one another as we work downstream picking holes. Tough sledding I say to Neal. The river is choked with logs and sticks washed down from the storms. Below the surface are tangles of limbs and logs. Perfect for hiding trout. Perfect for snagging hooks and flies. I’ve broken off several times already. Made my donation to the river. Neal goes on ahead and I lie down in the grass, propping my head on my arm. I watch the billowing clouds sail overhead. I take a swig of bourbon from the metal flask sequester in my waders chest pocket. It is good to feel the sun. We fish until the late afternoon working downstream where the current picks up and it shifts from sand bottom to gravel. I try all manner of weaponry in my arsenal. Nymphs, small streamers, wooly buggers. I snag only logs in the current and bushes on the backcast. I am tired. I have walked much today. The sun has shifted toward its evening gait, progressing toward the hillside. We meander back to camp, plunk a few holes on the way.

We make it back and retrieve the beer that has been submerged in the cool river. It is not freezing, but a touch below warm which is good enough. It feels good to sit down and share a beer, feels good to take the waders off and heavy boots. The fire is already ready, we piled it up and gathered wood before we left. Dave lights the fire and Neal and I light our camp stoves to boil water. Dehydrated backpacking meals are the cuisine of the eve. The fire flickers in the still darkness. We are enveloped in a cedar forest on the cusp of the river. We can hear it babbling in the dark and far off coyotes howl their mournful song.

We drink our beer by the fire, watch the sticks snap and pop with heat. We have burned through our entire stash of wood. Above through the branches it is clear. It will be cold tonight we can already see our breath. It is late. 11:30 already. We slink into our tents, don a knit hat and an extra layer of clothing before wriggling into the sleeping bag. Stay warm. Already I can hear Neal sawing logs next door. The coyotes continue their conversations in the dark. A barred owl interjects. I close my eyes and pull the sleeping bag to my nose. The night will be long and cold. See you in the morning.

Sun streams in and glows against the tent. It has been up for some time and we’ve slept in. I stiffly roll over, pull on a puffer jacket and then slip my feet into the cold boots outside my tent. I groan as I stoop over, unzip the rain fly, stand up. Camping has a certain amount of stooping that you forget about. Dave and Neal also slowly rouse themselves, emerge from their tents. A thin whisp of smoke rises from our past fire. Somewhere in the ash an ember remains. I start to boil some water and shuffle a bit to combat the morning chill. The trio of us find lanes of sunlight flitting through the trees and stand in its warmth like dogs on a living room rug. The water boils and I pilfer a bit of instant coffee from Neal. The hot beverage an ideal revival for a cold morning. There is ice in the line of the water filter. It was a cold one.

Time to pack. I begin the rout checklist, starting with sleeping bag and mat before collapsing my tent. Fortunately it was dry last night. Nothing worse than folding up a soggy tent. I use some leftover boiled water to pour into a pack of instant oatmeal, stirring the contents with a spoon and adding peanut butter. My go-to Sunday bug out meal since all you need to do is lick the spoon clean.

Dave has already pulled on his hip waders and trout vest. He and Neal will fish this afternoon perhaps stay one more night in the woods. This is where our paths diverge. Dave and I shake hands and I wish him good luck. This is our second year in a row camping out on the opener. I warn him it’s dangerously close to becoming tradition.

Neal lags behind gracious enough to see me off. My pack is reconfigured and despite two less beers, it does not feel any lighter. We shake hands and part ways, he upstream and me across it. I climb out of the river and shed my waders, roll them up and tuck them in my pack. I secure the wet heavy boots to the outside of my pack. I check my compass, rotate the dial to straight west. I find a game trail headed that direction and start pushing through the dense underbrush that chokes the river valley. It reminds me of upland hunting for woodcock. If the alders and switches are thick enough to keep your hat, you’re in the right place.

Uphill now. In the scrub pine that borders the river bottom. Dry dry dry. The branches snap underfoot and there is no direct path. Several detours around downed trees. Seeking out the path of least resistance.

Made it to the hilltop, at the edge of the field. I take a shortcut through the downed sedge grass. Mid morning and it is already hot. I retrace my steps, following the logging track that runs into the main access two track. Open country now. Wide open and empty. Barren. Perhaps in the late spring these are rolling hills of grasses, like certain parts of Northern Spain. The low foothills of the Pyrenees. But here it is only dry.

Coyote or fox burrows dot the access road, dug into the sandy banks of the track. I pause under the scant shade of a naked tree. Unseat my pack. My legs are sore. My hips hurt. I am well out of shape. I drink some water and saddle up. There’s a ways to go. The trail turns north now. I follow it as it skirts the hardwoods and have to divert often from the fallen trees. Still moving still moving.

How much longer? Surely not long now? I crest one more hill and I can tell by the amount of skylight that the forest opens. It is the field from where I ventured out just yesterday. I look across the empty field and see my car. Right where I left it. It is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever beheld. I make it to my car and shuck off my pack. Back to civilization now. Until next year’s trout camp.