Swofford Pond

Day 165: If you've been following along for any time, you will have heard me talk about Swofford Pond and the South Swofford trail. The pond is actually a small reservoir on the south side of Riffe Lake, kept in place by a little concrete dam, and no more than 15' deep at any point. What service it provides under the definition of "reservoir" is unclear, since it empties immediately into Riffe without any sign of a flume or pumping station. Along the north shore, there are a dozen or so single-car pullouts for fishermen, seldom fully occupied although the lake is stocked with hatchery trout. Combustion motors are not allowed on the pond, so boats are also a rare sight, except for yours truly who enjoys kayaking from one end to the other. The nature trail runs along the south shore, backed by hills and for the most part, deeply shaded. Sulphur Creek tumbles down a narrow canyon, its beautiful waterfall inaccessible to any but the most determined cross-country hiker. Farms dot the north side, and on any given day, it is possible to hear dogs barking, cows mooing, discussion between fishermen carrying across the water. It is a tranquil place, for all of being man-made, and the forested slopes along the nature trail never fail to provide me with some curiosity of nature, whether it is a snail, a fungus, a lichen or other naturalist's delight. I spent many hours on the banks with a dear friend now long gone, engaged not in the activity of catching fish, but of fishing. There is a distinct difference between the two, and you cannot call yourself a fisherman if you do not understand it.

But No Luck

Day 329: It has been many, many years since I did any fly-fishing. When my fishing buddy's health began to decline and it was no longer possible for him to hike into the alpine lakes or navigate streambanks while I waded among the slippery rocks, we shifted gears without really noticing, either sitting in a public area or dropping our lines from a locally popular bridge. My fly rods gravitated to the back of the closet and my vest collected spiders in its folds even though we still fished together once a week year-'round. Eventually, even that became too much for him and our piscatorial times together dwindled. I'm sure the fish were glad for the reprieve. And then after he passed away, it didn't feel right for me to fish alone despite that having been my preference before I met him. In fact, he'd been gone at least five years before I ever dropped a line in the water, and even then, it had a lure attached to it rather than a fly. I discovered I could troll from the kayak quite successfully, the time between my paddle strokes allowing a lure to drop and raise with a natural action. However, I prefer to catch and release. I'm not a big fan of fish, especially those which taste like they've been raised in a hatchery, so fishing was never really the sole purpose of a kayaking trip. Nor was it today, but something inspired me to put my good rod in the 'yak. I didn't catch any fish, but I was glad to see that my technique hasn't gotten too rusty, although it could use a lavish dose of polish.

Cladonia Macilenta, Lipstick Powderhorn

Day 154: It's not often that you find a Cladonia you can identify in the field based on macroscopic characteristics and range alone, but given squamule size and shape, habitat (exposed to sunlight for the better part of the day), substrate and a few other details, I am going to venture out near the end of the limb to suggest an identification of Cladonia macilenta, commonly called "Lipstick Powderhorn." There are several other species in western Washington which also have red apothecia, but most have some other morphological feature which takes them out of the running. Several Douglas-firs along the exposed southern shoreline of Lake Scanewa bore a thick growth of tall, red-headed "push-pins," rather too dry and brittle for this early in the season. Lest you think that they might have only been recently exposed to the sun by storm removal of branches, I can assure you that these particular trees have stood in the open for twenty years or more, based on personal observation. I have many fond memories of Lake Scanewa, having sat with my fishing buddy along the shore with our lines in the water, waiting for one reluctant fish to take our bait. It was never a very productive spot, but the companionship was good, and the lack of other fishermen left Nature to speak undisturbed to us in the words of breeze and lapping water. She is never silent, Nature, and even as I muttered to myself as I examined lobes and podetia in minute detail, she was in my ear, reminding me softly of a friend now committed to memory. Good days, those.

The Flat Run

Day 20: The creek shall remain nameless in this essay because there's a 14" trout waiting for me behind that big rock, I'm positive. And I know what it will take to get it out.

My fishing buddy and I spent a lot of time on this creek, but even before I met him, I'd discovered the boons the Flat Run had to offer. Oh, it's flowing pretty good now because it's autumn and we've had a lot of rain, but in summer, it's slick and smooth. You can't see fish, but flip a beadhead water-boatman just to the left of that rock and let it drift. That ol' trout will take it in a heartbeat because he thinks he's safe down there. Nobody goes down the steep embankment to the Flat Run. Except me...and Sande, in his day.

When we first met, Sande was spry and sure-footed, but as the years went by, he no longer felt safe wading over the slippery rocks in the creek. I'd station him at the Flat Run and then go half a mile upstream. "I'll scare 'em down to you," I'd tell him...and sure enough, by the time I'd worked my way down to my partner, he'd have his dinner on the stringer. The Flat Run seldom let us down. But age is more than an inconvenience, and eventually, he was forced to find easier places to fish and I...well, I didn't feel right going without him.

Sande is gone now. He passed away this last spring. Looking down at the Flat Run, my thoughts were back with him on those sunny, summery days. There's a lunker down there with his name on it, and by golly, I'm going to catch it for him next year, just for old times' sake.

The Finished Shawl

Day 53: No sage philosophy today, folks. Friends in several different venues have been after me to post a photo on completion of the shawl I've been knitting for my fishing buddy. You're probably going to ask, "For a man?" Yes, because he's always cold these days, and with shaky hands and arms he can't always control, it's hard to stay covered up in a blanket. This drops over the head and can't come loose because the center section is made of "fingers" woven together. The remainder of the shawl is knit in basket-weave, carrying the theme.

For many years, I fished alone. Then one chilly day in March when I was working the waters of Alder Lake to no avail near the mouth of the Nisqually River, I spotted someone coming along the bank, fishing pole in hand. I watched him carefully, ready to bawl somebody out for fishing in the river out of season (the lake was open, but not the river), but he seemed to be coming steadily on toward my spot. When he got within speaking distance, we exchanged the typical civilities of fishermen and he settled in to fish beside me.

Neither of us were having any luck, and I was just starting to think that I might go home and warm up when I got a bite. I could tell it was a good-sized fish, so I was playing it carefully. My erstwhile companion sidled over a little closer...closer...and I was seized with a sudden fear that he was going to try to be "helpful" by grabbing my line, not realizing what I was doing. My attention shifted to him and off the fish, and as luck would have it, just as I got it near the shore, it got stuck between two rocks. My reaction was to jerk (bad move!), and I heard a sickening "ping" as my line parted. I looked down, and saw the fish, somewhat dazed, only inches away from my feet. I made my second bad move of the day, and thirty seconds later, rose out of the water with nothing dry but one spot on the back of my head. A slick rock had been my undoing, and I'd gone face-first into the cold, clear waters of the lake.

Now frozen to the bone and wet besides, I announced that I was going home for a change of clothes. At that moment, Sande hooked a fish. The Bite was on! I do not believe there is a fisherman alive who could have walked away at that moment, nor did I. I cast my line and reeled in a nice silver. We kept fishing, the two of us, until we'd limited. Halfway through when he noticed I was visibly shivering, Sande gave me his jacket like a true gentleman.

As we walked back to our respective cars, the man I'd just met asked me a question: "Would you like to go fishing with me again some time?" And that was how our relationship began.

Sande is 94 now, suffering with Parkinson's and living in an elder-care facility. I see him often, and when he's able, we talk about the good old days and all the fish we caught. Once upon a time, he wrapped me in his jacket. Now I will wrap him in this shawl, our friendship coming full-circle.

Spiny-Ray Day

Day 308: Today, ladies and gentlemen, my goal was to find out if the south end of Lake Kapowsin was as fishy as I've always suspected it would be. The fact that I had to get there by kayak made it even better, although Kapowsin is known for its multitudinous "mines," stumps which hide under mere inches of dark water, making the lake difficult to navigate even under paddle power. I got stuck once, briefly, and grazed several others. That said, fortune favours the bold, and when I reached the weedy shallows and lily pads, a few trial casts brought this nice-sized bluegill to the hook. It turned out to be the biggest of nine "sunfish" (that's what we called them when I was a kid). As a bonus, the lake served up an additional two perch, four smallmouth bass and one largemouth. It was a Spiny-Ray Day for sure, with a seven-mile paddle thrown in. Now that's the kind of day you can say getting out of bed was worth it!

From Calm To Tempest In 30 Seconds Flat

Day 306: There I was, casting among the lily pads, gleefully pulling trout out of Lake St. Clair when something tapped me on the head. And then it did it again. And again, which made me discard the theory that it was a confused dragonfly. That was when I noticed the pocking occurring on the surface of the lake, just a pip here and there. As quickly as I chuckled "Pitter-patter!" in acknowledgement of Mother Nature's sense of whimsy, the patter turned to clatter, soaking my shoulders and legs with a warm downpour. I looked up to see one lone grey-bottomed cloud directly overhead, one crabby weather-wether fussing among an otherwise contented flock of white sheep pasturing in a field of blue. Ten minutes later, the squall was over, and I was drying in the sun, another fish on the line.

Fishing Chambers Lake

Day 282: For years now, I have been bemoaning the fact that with Fish and Wildlife catering to the trout crowd, there were no good lakes left if you wanted to pursue the spiny-ray fishes: bass, bluegill, perch, crappie. Well, not only is Chambers Lake (Thurston County) home to all those species, it's a kayaker's delight. The shoreline is heavily infested with lily pads, perfect habitat for wily bass. By hugging the lily line at the risk of getting hung up, trolling a Blue Fox spinner at a slow paddling speed seemed to be the ticket. A white Roostertail also worked. My score for the day was five bass (largest, 13"), four perch (all small) and two bluegills (one of which would have made a pair of nice filets if I'd kept it). This smallie was hooked a little too deeply to shake off easily, so I brought it inside the boat where I was less likely to do any major damage while removing the hook. It headed back for the lily pads when I returned it to the water.

Ethics Of Fishing

Day 225: One of my readers has asked me to address the ethics of fishing, i.e., to justify inflicting pain on a fish I do not intend to kill and eat. This is a very complex issue, and since I caught and released six trout at Rapjohn Lake today, this is a good time to address it.

First let me say that you will find me in the forefront when it comes to acknowledging both sentience and self-awareness in many species of animals and birds. However, very few members of the scientific community will credit fish with either. A fish is a sleek, scaly packet of instinctive and conditioned responses, nothing more.

Here we must explore the difference between cognition and conditioning. Cognition is an active thought process, whether verbal or nonverbal: "I chased and chomped down on a green thing which was swimming in a straight line and something pointed pierced my mouth and I couldn't get loose" versus "> > > > > - *!* - !!!" (for lack of a better way to express it). The cognitive being makes direct associations through perception (action and result) whereas a conditioned response simply results in avoidance in the same scenario.

So does a fish feel pain? Yes, but the way its brain processes the pain stimulus is less sophisticated than the way a dog's or dolphin's brain processes it, and therefore it is "felt" as an element of conditioning, rather than a cognitive response. I know, that's a hard distinction to make, but it's crucial to this explanation.

The waters I've been fishing lately have all been "put-and-take" fisheries, which is to say that the Washington Dept. of Fish and Wildlife rears trout in hatcheries and uses them to stock lakes and rivers for the pleasure of anglers (and for the dollars they spend on fishing licenses). These fish lack any of the native fish's wariness with respect to predators of any sort, and are therefore doomed from the get-go. They've been fed hatchery food until they're fat and sassy, and then after they've had their food withheld until they've gotten good and hungry, they're turned loose in the lakes where fishermen are already lined up waiting for the truck to drop them off. They don't stand a chance against the hundreds of hooks baited with PowerBait, and many will be dead within a week. A month past Opening Day, most of the lakes will be "fished out," which is to say the only fish remaining will be the few which were able to avoid being taken, perhaps because they were conditioned by a few narrow escapes...like being hooked by a catch-and-release fisherman who let them go smarter, if with a sore mouth.

Special Friends

Day 223: The Sundews are back! Their floating island/raft is still in place at the location where it came to rest after a storm last fall, and although it's shaded for most of the day, the colony seems to be doing quite well.

I have so much to learn about this fascinating plant! When I checked on the island exactly a month ago (April 13), there was no sign of Drosera growth on the logs. I did not know what to expect after the relocation, but I figured whatever happened, the Sundews had undoubtedly survived similar episodes and alterations in exposure and it was now up to me to document any changes that might occur. Interesting to note is the fact that there are none on the log where I first discovered them, the log still in place at the north end of Sundew Arm.

This, of course, was my main reason for going out on Lake St. Clair today: checking on my babies. I also found another paddle cache and did some fishing, which is to say that I caught and released an amazing twenty-eight trout in the 11-14" range!

Island Landing

Day 218: Yesterday's kayaking adventure took me to yet another "new" lake where, in addition to catching five trout in the 11-12" range, I also discovered an island approximately twenty feet across the longest dimension. It held three or four large trees (living and dead), a number of small shrubs (mostly willow), and showed repeated use by Canada Geese as a nesting site. I found two eggs, one of which had been rolled out of a nest by some varmint, the other still nearly entirely concealed by mounded dry grass and down. In the process of exploring this small but fascinating microcontinent, I also learned that Canada Geese are useful in controlling the invasive snails which populate most of western Washington's lakes.

The only birdlife I observed on the island (other than evidence of geese) were Red-Winged Blackbirds, common also along the reedy shore. However, as shown in yesterday's post, Spotted Sandpipers were present at the north end of the lake. A pair of Bald Eagles were seen in and around a tall snag on the west side of the lake. That said, the island was a naturalist's delight, for all of its diminuitive size.

Pattison Lake Paddle

Day 209: Although I've pretty much given up geocaching after wrestling with the ethics of the sport, I do occasionally go out after a hide or two, particularly if I can earn five stars for terrain. Paddle caches are an easy way of doing that. In pursuit of two such caches today in beautiful weather, I not only discovered a new lake to kayak, I found both hides, paddled nine miles, and caught (and released) four 12-14" trout. Y'know, you can't argue with a day like that!

Pattison Lake is just a little west of Lake St. Clair of Sundew fame, although in a different drainage. It is divided into two lobes of approximately equal size by a narrow neck of water. An active railroad line spans the center of the "hourglass." I patrolled every bay of both sections, investigated every floating or partially submerged log with hopes of finding another suitable mini-ecology, but found no evidence that Pattison might also support Droseras. I suppose you can't have everything!

Out And About In A Boat

Day 190: Yesterday just wasn't a good day to go out in the kayak again. The forecast of "mostly sunny" didn't become an actuality until rather late in the day, and it never did really warm up. Today seemed to be starting out in the same manner, but once the sun got a toehold in the cloud cover, it successfully pushed the door open. I'd had a feeling that was going to be the case, so I'd put the kayak on the car and was just biding my time in anticipation of going out on the Tanager's first serious fishing expedition. Oh, I'd dabbled a bit last fall with no particular expectation of success, but today I meant business. I intended to catch at least one trout for dinner.

Like many fishermen, I harbour the belief that you'll find the best fish in spots no one else cares to explore. With that in mind, I headed to the north end of the lake where I'd crossed swords with a goose earlier in the week. Goose was patrolling and had widened his boundaries, but I got past him without incident thanks to a pair of ducks who diverted his attention long enough to let me pass. Throwing out a blue Roostertail, I got a strike immediately from a scrawny six-inch fingerling. Another twenty minutes of casting failed to draw a single bite, so I trolled a Wedding Ring as I paddled back to the boat launch at the south end, but unsuccessfully. In this desperate time, I was compelled to resort to a desperate measure. I pulled a couple of jars of PowerBait out of the trunk of the car.

At this point, let me say that I don't like to fish with bait. I am first and foremost a fly-fisherman, but over the years of fishing with my buddy, I've used lures when possible, but in the course of events, when we were together, bait seemed to be the standard. That said, PowerBait wasn't working either. I was on the verge of calling it a "good paddle day" and going home, but I decided to tie on a black Roostertail for the trip back to the launch. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when I had a hard strike.

Hatchery fish aren't much fun. They lack the spunk of native fish who have had to scrabble for their existence. This one came fairly easily to the net. On any other day, I might have let it go, but in wanting to be "one with the beautiful spirit of the trout" a la Greg Brown's song "Fishing With Bill," my mouth was set for beer-battered trout filets. The batter is maturing even as we speak.

Fishing Buddies

Day 327: Day before yesterday, my fishing buddy was ensconced as a permanent resident in a nursing care facility about 45 minutes from my home. His daughters had told me that there was a fishing pond on site, and expressed the hopes that I could visit and take him fishing. Today, I wheeled him down to the pond where, using a borrowed pole and off-brand imitation PowerBait, he proved that he hasn't lost his touch. As a guest, I am only allowed to assist him, so I cast out his line and placed the pole in his hands. About fifteen minutes later, the tip of the rod was jerked sharply downward and the game was on. With a flunky drag on the reel, it took him five minutes to bring the fish out from under the dock and into range of the waiting net. Unfortunately, fish (a gorgeous rainbow) had swallowed the hook deeply and couldn't be released. That said, the pond is well stocked with trout of similar size and larger, and only the threat of showers and dropping temperatures urged my old pal from the dock. I suspect we'll be spending many hours here.