Crusty
09-15-2000, 11:47 AM
OK Jennie,
Heres the story of my first steelhead:
In 1956 I was a jr. in high school and was bitten by the steelhead bug. No one in my family fished so I was on my own. I heard at the barber shop of Picnic Point,a plunking hole on the Snohomish River.
Every weekend, school holiday, and the occasional unauthorized absence, I would pilot my 47 Ford to the parking lot, walk the 1/4 mile through the fields, shove my sand spike into the bank, cast my line and 12 ounce pyramid sinker from a Penn #49, stick my bamboo boat trolling rod into it's holder and attach the bell to its tip.
I didn't have the best place on the beach. On my first trip there it was made clear to me by the group of retired and active Monroe state prison guards who fished there that the place for a "kid" was up stream by the snags. So while they sat by their fire and passed the bottle I was sitting in the rain hunkered down so that my rain jacket covered as much of my knees as possible.
Time passes.
In 1957 I was a senior in high school sitting, hunkered down, up stream from the action still waiting.
One day an especially large run came through and the pole bells sounded like the Anvil Chorus. After 7 or 8 fish were landed below me, I reeled in to check my bait (a wing bobber and egg setup big enough to choke a horse). I sensed, rather than saw, a presence behind me. It was HIM. The head guy. The leader of the pack. He who (on that beach) must be obeyed. The guy who, in no uncertain terms, ran my scrawny butt up stream when I tried to set up on the bar where he was saving space for the regulars.
He looked at my setup, spit, and said "Kid, you've got too f*****g much leader." He then turned and left. I'll never forget it. The first kind words said to me in a year and a half!
Full of pride I strutted (actually I snuck) down the beach and peered over the shoulder of a guy checking his bait. Low and behold his leader was only about 18 inches long.
I quickly returned to my spot, cut about four feet of leader off of my setup and recast. Within minutes I was into my first steelhead. Play it? Hell no! With the tackle I had I skated that SOB across the surface of the water.
Once again I felt "The Presence". Shouldering me aside HE reached down with his hook, gaffed the fish, dumped it at my feet, turned around and left. In retrospect I suppose that thinking he should have said something too was pushy on my part.
In a flash that fish was in my bag and on the way to the barber shop. I wore that thing out. Harold Burt's barber shop, Walt's Market, my girlfriend's, the neighbors, if you knew me then...you saw it.
There is a second chapter. The next day I hit the beach and started to go to my assigned spot. HE said, "Kid, there's room here." Heaven!
Crusty
Heres the story of my first steelhead:
In 1956 I was a jr. in high school and was bitten by the steelhead bug. No one in my family fished so I was on my own. I heard at the barber shop of Picnic Point,a plunking hole on the Snohomish River.
Every weekend, school holiday, and the occasional unauthorized absence, I would pilot my 47 Ford to the parking lot, walk the 1/4 mile through the fields, shove my sand spike into the bank, cast my line and 12 ounce pyramid sinker from a Penn #49, stick my bamboo boat trolling rod into it's holder and attach the bell to its tip.
I didn't have the best place on the beach. On my first trip there it was made clear to me by the group of retired and active Monroe state prison guards who fished there that the place for a "kid" was up stream by the snags. So while they sat by their fire and passed the bottle I was sitting in the rain hunkered down so that my rain jacket covered as much of my knees as possible.
Time passes.
In 1957 I was a senior in high school sitting, hunkered down, up stream from the action still waiting.
One day an especially large run came through and the pole bells sounded like the Anvil Chorus. After 7 or 8 fish were landed below me, I reeled in to check my bait (a wing bobber and egg setup big enough to choke a horse). I sensed, rather than saw, a presence behind me. It was HIM. The head guy. The leader of the pack. He who (on that beach) must be obeyed. The guy who, in no uncertain terms, ran my scrawny butt up stream when I tried to set up on the bar where he was saving space for the regulars.
He looked at my setup, spit, and said "Kid, you've got too f*****g much leader." He then turned and left. I'll never forget it. The first kind words said to me in a year and a half!
Full of pride I strutted (actually I snuck) down the beach and peered over the shoulder of a guy checking his bait. Low and behold his leader was only about 18 inches long.
I quickly returned to my spot, cut about four feet of leader off of my setup and recast. Within minutes I was into my first steelhead. Play it? Hell no! With the tackle I had I skated that SOB across the surface of the water.
Once again I felt "The Presence". Shouldering me aside HE reached down with his hook, gaffed the fish, dumped it at my feet, turned around and left. In retrospect I suppose that thinking he should have said something too was pushy on my part.
In a flash that fish was in my bag and on the way to the barber shop. I wore that thing out. Harold Burt's barber shop, Walt's Market, my girlfriend's, the neighbors, if you knew me then...you saw it.
There is a second chapter. The next day I hit the beach and started to go to my assigned spot. HE said, "Kid, there's room here." Heaven!
Crusty