Fuck it's hard to find fishing buddies.
They have the boat but they fish bait. They oversleep. They would be, they could be, but they in real life they are hens teeth. They are wild October steelhead. They are the Squatch.
@Matt B sent me a dm a month ago, looking for access points on the south skagit highway. Im a cheap date needing little prodding, so I sent my favored pins and some unintentionally faulty directions. Sorry about the bushwhacking, Matt.
Matt got to do some splorin and a bit of catching and fulfilled his end of the deal with pics and deets. Broad plans were made to fish together, possibly even float together.
My mind bristled with the possibilites. Since achieving the ability to safely move downstream on top of the water last October (shoutout @adamcu280 ) I've floated precisely twice on the Skagit and a couple times on Birch Bay. That shuffle buddy's a real bitch to find.
Last weekend Matt hits me up about Monday, and I cant swing it but mention the following Saturday. That night I get a picture of a fish I consider 1 in 2-5 million. My jaw dragged for a good 2 days and I'm still not over it. I spend the night in deep contemplation. How does that fish exist? How has my life lead me to this point, where I was working like an idiot, and not tailing that unisquatch (unicorn of a samsquatch) for Matt? How many consecutive mortgage overpayment are enough til the bank sucks one up? Thoughts swirled like smoke in my brain.
Tuesday theres a text. Projected flows on the mill float. A pretty little window betwixt atmospheric rivers. We could launch in darrington, the text read. I have a broken oar, I replied.
I have spares, he said.
No no, I'll fix it. Let me get after it tomorrow, I insisted.
The next day lo and behold I could fix it. Its sturdy and strong and the stoke monkey has found a whole pile of bananas. Talkin 6 foot 7 foot 8 foot FISH!
I text matt. 630 Saturday morning at the takeout, lord willing and the creek dont rise.
I tie. I pack. Been a year since a river float, and the middle sauks gonna be a level up from rockport to baker.
Safety gear, firestarter and spare clothes in the dry bag. Load it. Buy a new pump, top off the toons and strap it in. Tie more zuddlers. Ignore job. Birch bay corroded the straps. Jerry rig, order new straps. They arrive. Its friday night, the forecast has held. Undo Jerry rig 9pm Friday night, restrap. Cajole wife to help load raft. Srap raft in. Check waders, boots, set out clothes, choose flies, set out food, set alarm for 330 am, checklist complete at 1045pm.
Alarm goes off, wakeup. Fill travel mug, get dressed. Send "I'm awake" text. Receive confirmation promptly. Stoke monkey +3 nanners. Hit the road, stop for breakfast sandwich and drive into the hills. Arrive 15 minutes early, pack on the layers, activate and strategically place warmers.
Meet matt and matt is rad. Load his uninflated boat into my truck bed, gather his stuff and we head upstream. Matt's a great kind of nerd and seems to know at least a bit about a lot of stuff. Love that shit. Drive for 15ish, matt guides us to the launch and the sun is about 20 minutes from clearing the mountains behind us. Nobody is there, we get first crack at Saturday water in greater Pugetropolis. No disrespect meant to darrington with that statement.
We park and pop out. I loosen the ratchet strap and grab Matt's perfectly oar shaped oars in all their oar-esque
oar-ness when I am overwhelmed with a memory. A memory of my own oars, laying in my backyard yesterday. A memory that says those very oars may well be laying in that very yard, even now. Even after all those hours since I set them there.
All things converge into one, and the oars are still in birch bay.
Voice trembling with the reality of the moment, I let Matt know that I have screwed the ultimate pooch. I want to throw up. I've got a 9 and a 5 year old. I've learned Matt's go 9 and 7. We both drove two hours to be here, and that cost an amount for the both of us.
Homeboy could not have been cooler in that moment. We looked into our options. Did obtainable oars exist? What's that timeline? 3 hours minimum? Fuck. That's too expensive when were charging November for daylight.
Decide to beat banks. Matt is unreasonably gracious, because I felt like launching myself off a bridge and he was cool as hell. Head to a run matt was hoping would afford a reasonable crossing of the river. We look at it, and decide heading upstream on our current bank is a better call.
We drop down a small clay-bottomed cliff to get down to the bar. You know the one, you've done it 100 times. Matt goes first and does a crisp 3 step hop-skip number to finish without slipping on the clay.
I pick my way down, reaching the step matt reached before his sporting dismount. I decide I'll slowly pick down it instead, on account of poor decision making. Make the first step gently. The second, a bit more firmly. Feeling good, thinking "that wasnt as slick as I thought."
Somewhere between 2 and 3 I ended up flat on my back. Not even sure I put the 3rd step down.
I pick myself up, Mariners blue backpack sporting a shit brown hue and off we go. The run is beautiful, deep and slow and bouldery. We decide to keep pushing upstream, crossing several log jams along the way.
Its here I learned something about matt. He moves like fucking sasquatch. I'm a decent bit taller than him with long strides, but holy shit. I was losing 6" every step, and the logs were comical. Boop boop boop and off he went. I ended up opening some new holes in my waders, huffing and puffing and 100 ft behind him. I'm not slow, goddamnit.
We decide that one of us (my sweaty ass) should fish upstream and the other (fucking squatch) should head. Back down. I fish the run, it has a decent swing but nothing to hold a fish. Having lost sight of Matt I reel up and pick a wiser path back to where hes at.
I find matt giddy. Hes landed a couple, including this snakey double footer.
But hes mostly stoked that there are fish rising all over this run. I jump in the head as he works his way down. I bring the skunk though, and no fish are harmed for the next 45.
Matt walks back up and says he scoped the tail out and we can cross it. I'm skeptical but hes expressed an amount of things to live for, or at least doesnt seem imminently suicidal so off we go. We grab sticks and make the crossing, matt tracing the V of the tail out and me 50ft upstream. Its strenuous but uneventful.
We cast at a long run on our freshly accessed bar and find it swings delightfully, unimpeded even by fish. We decide to return to where he caught his piggy and head back. I forget where I discarded my wading stick but figure I barely used it crossing over.
We head back over, closer together and following my upstream line. We are plugging along and talking. I'm singing the praises of Korkers studded felts, as I feel glued to every rock. Matt says "this crossing isnt so bad, it would just suck to go down right here."
I look upstream to agree and find matt a out 6" closer than I thought he was. I readjust my heading and immediately lose my footing. I'm slow motion falling, scooby doo-ing as I slowly lean further backwards. My feet are grabbing the rocks (seriously, shoutout to Korkers studded felt) but my angle has shifted so that I'm pushing them out from under me. I think I yelled help, and I tried to reach for Matt. He grabbed me by the jacket and did not get pulled in by my enormous scrambling mass.
I steadied and we walked out. My heart was pounding, I've gone beyond being the asshole who forgot the oars to being actually rescued. I dont actually know what to say in that moment to a person I just met but in case I didnt get it out...
Thank you Matt. That was the hairiest particular situation I've ever been in and I am terrified to think about how that would have gone if you were in any other position or did anything other than what you did. I got to show my girls our pictures from today and that wasnt a certainty then. Thank you.
I catch my breath. We fish. Matt puts on a skater, because thugs do thug shit. We dont catch anything and decide to move on, ending up at our original takeout. We head downstream.
We split for a bit, Matt moving bulls in a side channel while I swing the main run across a gravel bar. Squatch beats me to the bottom by a mile and by the time I get there is walking upstream to tell me about a cool fish encounter . Where the main run meets the side channel is a dropoff, and I'm getting my first swing on the deep side of the dropoff as he walks up to me.
Tap tap tiiiighhhttt bounce fish!!!
Nighty finally gets a bull. Matt graciously helps land and gets a nice pic to boot.
He starts to tell his story and it's a banger. While swinging his patented bitey whitey, and 5" cannibalistic whitey attacked and attached. Suddenly a silvery slash showed behind it, so he did what we all hope we would do and dropped his rod tip, allowing an attacking bull to try over and over again until it finally clamped down over the double whitey sandwich. Hes also realized we can walk downstream to the next run, and says hes going to do so.
As hes telling this, I throw out again. And again, immediately when the fly goes to the dropoff the rod buries. Bigger bull this time, in the 20ish range. Matt walks off, I land it and show it off. 2 casts later, I'm on again. This ones more like 22. My phone is dead, no pics. 2 more casts, 2 hits but no stick. Grab the fly, sharpen real quick. Land 3 more bulls on the next 3 casts. Shout "6!! FUCKING 6!!" at matt before he disappears. Start working downstream and pick up 3 more. 9 bulls, 30 minutes in 100 feet of river. Suddenly having the best bull trout numbers day of my life.
Head downstream and find matt. Also find a log to sit on because I am dead and everything hurts. Tell him about 9 bulls and we decide to head back up. Wade 400 yards upstream and die again. Send matt to honey hole and he doesnt connect. He says "show me how its done " and I get after it. Hits on my first two swings, then nothing for 50. Time to pack it up.
Get back to the rig and somehow matt is talking about how I still owe him a float. I'm standing there thinking I'm pretty sure I owe him my life and the best day of bull trouting hes ever had. An actual float strikes me as one hell of a bargain.
TLDR: if @Matt B asks you to go fishing, do it. Hes fishy as hell, has much in the clutch and is chill as hell while he does it. If Pink Nighty agrees to go fishing with you, be prepared to deal with compounding catastrophes until he picks the absolute shit out of your pocket. Thems the breaks.
They have the boat but they fish bait. They oversleep. They would be, they could be, but they in real life they are hens teeth. They are wild October steelhead. They are the Squatch.
@Matt B sent me a dm a month ago, looking for access points on the south skagit highway. Im a cheap date needing little prodding, so I sent my favored pins and some unintentionally faulty directions. Sorry about the bushwhacking, Matt.
Matt got to do some splorin and a bit of catching and fulfilled his end of the deal with pics and deets. Broad plans were made to fish together, possibly even float together.
My mind bristled with the possibilites. Since achieving the ability to safely move downstream on top of the water last October (shoutout @adamcu280 ) I've floated precisely twice on the Skagit and a couple times on Birch Bay. That shuffle buddy's a real bitch to find.
Last weekend Matt hits me up about Monday, and I cant swing it but mention the following Saturday. That night I get a picture of a fish I consider 1 in 2-5 million. My jaw dragged for a good 2 days and I'm still not over it. I spend the night in deep contemplation. How does that fish exist? How has my life lead me to this point, where I was working like an idiot, and not tailing that unisquatch (unicorn of a samsquatch) for Matt? How many consecutive mortgage overpayment are enough til the bank sucks one up? Thoughts swirled like smoke in my brain.
Tuesday theres a text. Projected flows on the mill float. A pretty little window betwixt atmospheric rivers. We could launch in darrington, the text read. I have a broken oar, I replied.
I have spares, he said.
No no, I'll fix it. Let me get after it tomorrow, I insisted.
The next day lo and behold I could fix it. Its sturdy and strong and the stoke monkey has found a whole pile of bananas. Talkin 6 foot 7 foot 8 foot FISH!
I text matt. 630 Saturday morning at the takeout, lord willing and the creek dont rise.
I tie. I pack. Been a year since a river float, and the middle sauks gonna be a level up from rockport to baker.
Safety gear, firestarter and spare clothes in the dry bag. Load it. Buy a new pump, top off the toons and strap it in. Tie more zuddlers. Ignore job. Birch bay corroded the straps. Jerry rig, order new straps. They arrive. Its friday night, the forecast has held. Undo Jerry rig 9pm Friday night, restrap. Cajole wife to help load raft. Srap raft in. Check waders, boots, set out clothes, choose flies, set out food, set alarm for 330 am, checklist complete at 1045pm.
Alarm goes off, wakeup. Fill travel mug, get dressed. Send "I'm awake" text. Receive confirmation promptly. Stoke monkey +3 nanners. Hit the road, stop for breakfast sandwich and drive into the hills. Arrive 15 minutes early, pack on the layers, activate and strategically place warmers.
Meet matt and matt is rad. Load his uninflated boat into my truck bed, gather his stuff and we head upstream. Matt's a great kind of nerd and seems to know at least a bit about a lot of stuff. Love that shit. Drive for 15ish, matt guides us to the launch and the sun is about 20 minutes from clearing the mountains behind us. Nobody is there, we get first crack at Saturday water in greater Pugetropolis. No disrespect meant to darrington with that statement.
We park and pop out. I loosen the ratchet strap and grab Matt's perfectly oar shaped oars in all their oar-esque
oar-ness when I am overwhelmed with a memory. A memory of my own oars, laying in my backyard yesterday. A memory that says those very oars may well be laying in that very yard, even now. Even after all those hours since I set them there.
All things converge into one, and the oars are still in birch bay.
Voice trembling with the reality of the moment, I let Matt know that I have screwed the ultimate pooch. I want to throw up. I've got a 9 and a 5 year old. I've learned Matt's go 9 and 7. We both drove two hours to be here, and that cost an amount for the both of us.
Homeboy could not have been cooler in that moment. We looked into our options. Did obtainable oars exist? What's that timeline? 3 hours minimum? Fuck. That's too expensive when were charging November for daylight.
Decide to beat banks. Matt is unreasonably gracious, because I felt like launching myself off a bridge and he was cool as hell. Head to a run matt was hoping would afford a reasonable crossing of the river. We look at it, and decide heading upstream on our current bank is a better call.
We drop down a small clay-bottomed cliff to get down to the bar. You know the one, you've done it 100 times. Matt goes first and does a crisp 3 step hop-skip number to finish without slipping on the clay.
I pick my way down, reaching the step matt reached before his sporting dismount. I decide I'll slowly pick down it instead, on account of poor decision making. Make the first step gently. The second, a bit more firmly. Feeling good, thinking "that wasnt as slick as I thought."
Somewhere between 2 and 3 I ended up flat on my back. Not even sure I put the 3rd step down.
I pick myself up, Mariners blue backpack sporting a shit brown hue and off we go. The run is beautiful, deep and slow and bouldery. We decide to keep pushing upstream, crossing several log jams along the way.
Its here I learned something about matt. He moves like fucking sasquatch. I'm a decent bit taller than him with long strides, but holy shit. I was losing 6" every step, and the logs were comical. Boop boop boop and off he went. I ended up opening some new holes in my waders, huffing and puffing and 100 ft behind him. I'm not slow, goddamnit.
We decide that one of us (my sweaty ass) should fish upstream and the other (fucking squatch) should head. Back down. I fish the run, it has a decent swing but nothing to hold a fish. Having lost sight of Matt I reel up and pick a wiser path back to where hes at.
I find matt giddy. Hes landed a couple, including this snakey double footer.
But hes mostly stoked that there are fish rising all over this run. I jump in the head as he works his way down. I bring the skunk though, and no fish are harmed for the next 45.
Matt walks back up and says he scoped the tail out and we can cross it. I'm skeptical but hes expressed an amount of things to live for, or at least doesnt seem imminently suicidal so off we go. We grab sticks and make the crossing, matt tracing the V of the tail out and me 50ft upstream. Its strenuous but uneventful.
We cast at a long run on our freshly accessed bar and find it swings delightfully, unimpeded even by fish. We decide to return to where he caught his piggy and head back. I forget where I discarded my wading stick but figure I barely used it crossing over.
We head back over, closer together and following my upstream line. We are plugging along and talking. I'm singing the praises of Korkers studded felts, as I feel glued to every rock. Matt says "this crossing isnt so bad, it would just suck to go down right here."
I look upstream to agree and find matt a out 6" closer than I thought he was. I readjust my heading and immediately lose my footing. I'm slow motion falling, scooby doo-ing as I slowly lean further backwards. My feet are grabbing the rocks (seriously, shoutout to Korkers studded felt) but my angle has shifted so that I'm pushing them out from under me. I think I yelled help, and I tried to reach for Matt. He grabbed me by the jacket and did not get pulled in by my enormous scrambling mass.
I steadied and we walked out. My heart was pounding, I've gone beyond being the asshole who forgot the oars to being actually rescued. I dont actually know what to say in that moment to a person I just met but in case I didnt get it out...
Thank you Matt. That was the hairiest particular situation I've ever been in and I am terrified to think about how that would have gone if you were in any other position or did anything other than what you did. I got to show my girls our pictures from today and that wasnt a certainty then. Thank you.
I catch my breath. We fish. Matt puts on a skater, because thugs do thug shit. We dont catch anything and decide to move on, ending up at our original takeout. We head downstream.
We split for a bit, Matt moving bulls in a side channel while I swing the main run across a gravel bar. Squatch beats me to the bottom by a mile and by the time I get there is walking upstream to tell me about a cool fish encounter . Where the main run meets the side channel is a dropoff, and I'm getting my first swing on the deep side of the dropoff as he walks up to me.
Tap tap tiiiighhhttt bounce fish!!!
Nighty finally gets a bull. Matt graciously helps land and gets a nice pic to boot.
He starts to tell his story and it's a banger. While swinging his patented bitey whitey, and 5" cannibalistic whitey attacked and attached. Suddenly a silvery slash showed behind it, so he did what we all hope we would do and dropped his rod tip, allowing an attacking bull to try over and over again until it finally clamped down over the double whitey sandwich. Hes also realized we can walk downstream to the next run, and says hes going to do so.
As hes telling this, I throw out again. And again, immediately when the fly goes to the dropoff the rod buries. Bigger bull this time, in the 20ish range. Matt walks off, I land it and show it off. 2 casts later, I'm on again. This ones more like 22. My phone is dead, no pics. 2 more casts, 2 hits but no stick. Grab the fly, sharpen real quick. Land 3 more bulls on the next 3 casts. Shout "6!! FUCKING 6!!" at matt before he disappears. Start working downstream and pick up 3 more. 9 bulls, 30 minutes in 100 feet of river. Suddenly having the best bull trout numbers day of my life.
Head downstream and find matt. Also find a log to sit on because I am dead and everything hurts. Tell him about 9 bulls and we decide to head back up. Wade 400 yards upstream and die again. Send matt to honey hole and he doesnt connect. He says "show me how its done " and I get after it. Hits on my first two swings, then nothing for 50. Time to pack it up.
Get back to the rig and somehow matt is talking about how I still owe him a float. I'm standing there thinking I'm pretty sure I owe him my life and the best day of bull trouting hes ever had. An actual float strikes me as one hell of a bargain.
TLDR: if @Matt B asks you to go fishing, do it. Hes fishy as hell, has much in the clutch and is chill as hell while he does it. If Pink Nighty agrees to go fishing with you, be prepared to deal with compounding catastrophes until he picks the absolute shit out of your pocket. Thems the breaks.
