Writing short stories around my passions has been a hobby for decades, have had a handful published, here's one about one of the nicest guys I have ever met...
It was the summer of 2006, and being new to coastal Oregon I was familiarizing myself with the Nestucca River by driving its length while looking for promising runs. Pulling into a dirt parking lot alongside an fishing hole I had read about, which only had one other truck parked in it, I was tugging on my waders at my truck by the waters edge, thinking I would get some casting practice in and maybe get lucky with something that had fins on it when I noticed an older gent, wearing an old school diving wetsuit and mask and snorkel, emerging from the river with a small perforated bucket that was filled with large lures and tangled line..
Spying my fly rod propped up against my rig the gent came over and introduced himself as Jack Harrell, saying he was always glad to meet a fellow fly fisherman, and after introductions I asked him about the bucket collection. Jack said each summer at low river flows he dove several of the salmon holes popular with the gear crew, cleaning out as much gear as he could find, his way of giving back to the river.
I didn't encounter Jack again until mid September, when posted above the bank of the Nestucca at the Bridge Hole in tidewater, smack dab in the middle of Pacific City, I watched the small crew of shoulder to shoulder bait fishermen standing in knee deep water, performing synchronized bobber fishing. As one they would cast their bobbers downstream and then stare at them intently as the small, colorful flotilla bobbed slowly upstream on the incoming tide push, retrieve and do it again And though there was the occasional surface roll of a big King shoulder, I had yet to see a bobber go down, and each time one did roll there was a collective groan and a few curses from the crew.
I was considering getting my waders on and setting up well downstream from the gear crew when I noticed a faded yellow drift boat being rowed towards us, and soon an older gent I recognized as Jack from our chance meeting months earlier was dropping anchor from his 80’s Clackacraft on the downstream edge of the hole, accompanied by some good natured heckling from the gear crew that included shouts of "Hey, Flyman, show us how it's done”.
Once securely anchored fore and aft, broadside to the current, Jack picked up a spey rod, fed out some line with a couple of easy OH casts of the shooting head, laid the line down, watched it swing, paused a bit, and then began methodically retrieving the fly with small strips. At the end of the swing on his third cast he suddenly reared the rod back, that long rod bowed deeply, a large King boiled on the surface and then went on a sizzling run across the pool. Rod now stuck between his legs, Jack retrieved the bow anchor, threw a float tied to the stern anchor rope over the side, and proceeded to row his boat towards the opposite bank, the spey rod bouncing and flexing between his knees.
Once clear of the hole, Jack dropped his bow anchor and then spent the next 15 minutes fighting the fish until he had it alongside the boat, at which point he leaned over and released it, rowed back to his former position, anchored the boat, and began casting once again.
At that point, I ambled down the bank, re-introduced myself and we began chatting about his technique and gear, easy to do as his boat was only anchored about 20' off the bank. A conversation soon interrupted as Jack hooked another King. And after that one yet another.
With each release, the crescendo of verbal barbs coming from the crew increased, becoming more strident, and after his last last fish a voice loudly accused Jack of flossing the fish. Which is when Jack reeled up, pulled in his anchors and rowed ashore, stepping onto the bank with flybox in hand, walked up to the crew and told them to put up or shut up, challenging them to try one of his flies.
A half dozen of the crew accepted the challenge, snipping off the large hooks holding roe or sand shrimp and tying on the Orange/ Black #2 Comets that Jack had handed out, slipping me several as well. Once the flies were handed out, Jack returned to his boat and just sat in it, parked on the bank, and watched the crew who had accepted the flies begin drifting them down the slot.
And over the next 15 minutes four of the six using his flies hooked up, including two at one time, and by the time the last fish was brought to hand the crew that had formerly been ribbing Jack were asking for more flies.
At which point Jack, whose retirement job was driving a school bus for the local grade school mornings and afternoons, said he had to get going to make the afternoon run, promised he'd be back tomorrow at the same time with more flies for whoever wanted them, slid his boat off the bank and began rowing downstream.
And an hour later, thigh deep in my waders and just inside of where Jack had previously been anchored, as the fly reached the end of it's arc on yet another cast I felt the slightest tug, lifted back hard and deep, and my very first King ever on a fly erupted onto the surface and began the dance.
It was the summer of 2006, and being new to coastal Oregon I was familiarizing myself with the Nestucca River by driving its length while looking for promising runs. Pulling into a dirt parking lot alongside an fishing hole I had read about, which only had one other truck parked in it, I was tugging on my waders at my truck by the waters edge, thinking I would get some casting practice in and maybe get lucky with something that had fins on it when I noticed an older gent, wearing an old school diving wetsuit and mask and snorkel, emerging from the river with a small perforated bucket that was filled with large lures and tangled line..
Spying my fly rod propped up against my rig the gent came over and introduced himself as Jack Harrell, saying he was always glad to meet a fellow fly fisherman, and after introductions I asked him about the bucket collection. Jack said each summer at low river flows he dove several of the salmon holes popular with the gear crew, cleaning out as much gear as he could find, his way of giving back to the river.
I didn't encounter Jack again until mid September, when posted above the bank of the Nestucca at the Bridge Hole in tidewater, smack dab in the middle of Pacific City, I watched the small crew of shoulder to shoulder bait fishermen standing in knee deep water, performing synchronized bobber fishing. As one they would cast their bobbers downstream and then stare at them intently as the small, colorful flotilla bobbed slowly upstream on the incoming tide push, retrieve and do it again And though there was the occasional surface roll of a big King shoulder, I had yet to see a bobber go down, and each time one did roll there was a collective groan and a few curses from the crew.
I was considering getting my waders on and setting up well downstream from the gear crew when I noticed a faded yellow drift boat being rowed towards us, and soon an older gent I recognized as Jack from our chance meeting months earlier was dropping anchor from his 80’s Clackacraft on the downstream edge of the hole, accompanied by some good natured heckling from the gear crew that included shouts of "Hey, Flyman, show us how it's done”.
Once securely anchored fore and aft, broadside to the current, Jack picked up a spey rod, fed out some line with a couple of easy OH casts of the shooting head, laid the line down, watched it swing, paused a bit, and then began methodically retrieving the fly with small strips. At the end of the swing on his third cast he suddenly reared the rod back, that long rod bowed deeply, a large King boiled on the surface and then went on a sizzling run across the pool. Rod now stuck between his legs, Jack retrieved the bow anchor, threw a float tied to the stern anchor rope over the side, and proceeded to row his boat towards the opposite bank, the spey rod bouncing and flexing between his knees.
Once clear of the hole, Jack dropped his bow anchor and then spent the next 15 minutes fighting the fish until he had it alongside the boat, at which point he leaned over and released it, rowed back to his former position, anchored the boat, and began casting once again.
At that point, I ambled down the bank, re-introduced myself and we began chatting about his technique and gear, easy to do as his boat was only anchored about 20' off the bank. A conversation soon interrupted as Jack hooked another King. And after that one yet another.
With each release, the crescendo of verbal barbs coming from the crew increased, becoming more strident, and after his last last fish a voice loudly accused Jack of flossing the fish. Which is when Jack reeled up, pulled in his anchors and rowed ashore, stepping onto the bank with flybox in hand, walked up to the crew and told them to put up or shut up, challenging them to try one of his flies.
A half dozen of the crew accepted the challenge, snipping off the large hooks holding roe or sand shrimp and tying on the Orange/ Black #2 Comets that Jack had handed out, slipping me several as well. Once the flies were handed out, Jack returned to his boat and just sat in it, parked on the bank, and watched the crew who had accepted the flies begin drifting them down the slot.
And over the next 15 minutes four of the six using his flies hooked up, including two at one time, and by the time the last fish was brought to hand the crew that had formerly been ribbing Jack were asking for more flies.
At which point Jack, whose retirement job was driving a school bus for the local grade school mornings and afternoons, said he had to get going to make the afternoon run, promised he'd be back tomorrow at the same time with more flies for whoever wanted them, slid his boat off the bank and began rowing downstream.
And an hour later, thigh deep in my waders and just inside of where Jack had previously been anchored, as the fly reached the end of it's arc on yet another cast I felt the slightest tug, lifted back hard and deep, and my very first King ever on a fly erupted onto the surface and began the dance.
Last edited:
