Old Men and Steelhead
Words by Calvin Fuller
WHEN OLD-TIMERS TELL STORIES ABOUT STEELHEAD, THEIR WORDS REACH DEEP INTO OUR SOULS.
My father is one of those men; during my youth he talked about catching steelhead all over the Pacific Northwest and reminisced, like so many others, about the old days, before I was born, when those fish were abundant and Washington state held the best collection of steelhead rivers in the world. These stories would play repeatedly in my head while I stood in moving water searching for a steelhead of my own. It’s safe to say, dad’s words started my unbroken obsession with these magical sea-run rainbows.
My first steelhead encounter happened when I was six years old. My father had a white and red Crestliner boat with an old Mercury two-stroke outboard. Even though he was a diehard fly fisherman, he would take my brother and me out on that boat to back-troll with Wiggle Warts. I have vague memories of sweltering days spent on the Columbia River with two-stroke smoke filling the air, and dad’s yellow Eagle Claw rods pulling those plugs. I also remember when I hooked my first steelhead. Even dad couldn’t believe it. The rod was almost ripped from my hands as I kept peaking over the gunwale to see what was pulling so hard. Dad finally took the rod and landed the fish. I saw the smile on his face and remembered the high-fives after he let that steelhead go. That was my first memory of an old man and a steelhead.
Years later dad and I would spend our afternoons and evenings swinging flies the banks of the Columbia River. During my high-school years, I immersed myself in Trey Combs writings, and Deke Meyer’s book titled, Advanced Fly Fishing for Steelhead. These books rode around in my green Toyota pickup, wedged between the seats amongst stale french fries and bottle caps. At that time Frank Amato was publishing a series of books called River Journal, and they covered the Thompson, Dean, Hoh, and other legendary PNW steelhead rivers. I read those religiously and that really got my steelhead bug going. I had to be careful, though; those books were strictly prohibited from leaving my father’s coffee table. I was obsessed with those writings and photography. In those pages I was learning tactics the “old men” who would later become my heroes. I read those books, cover to cover, many times, absorbing something new with each turn of a page.
Legendary.
Legend.
Before long I was proficient with a single-hander and knew how to cover water well enough. Fact is, during middle school and high school I managed to land quite a few steelhead on the Columbia. When high school ended and college came, I chose Western Washington University, in Bellingham. I chose Western because the summer quarters, which I didn’t care to attend, synched with my Alaska guide season in Bristol Bay. Once I got to college, I quickly explored the area and discovered the Nooksack and Skagit rivers, along with other gems up and down the I-5 corridor. Being an obsessed steelheader during your freshman year in college can be a lonely time. I spent days on end in the rain casting for steelhead and spent equal nights in a cheap sleeping bag in the back of my truck. I’d do it day after day.
During my sophomore year, I noticed a fly-fishing club had started and the first meeting was held on the banks of the Nooksack, sponsored, of course, by Western Washington. That’s when I met Barrett. Barrett and I were the only ones in the club that year and were forced to be friends. Who else were we going to talk to? And we had a common goal; we wanted to catch steelhead on the fly. I mention Barrett because I joined him on the Skagit one overcast day in late March. Barrett was landing his second steelhead of the day when an old teal Jeep Cherokee drove down to us. The jeep bounced and squeaked its way across boulders, until it was 50 yards from us. Through the windshield I saw an old man with permanent smile lines on his face, and an old, weathered hat on his dash. He was grinning as he stepped out. Evidently, he’d watched us for some time and saw Barrett land those fish. He walked over to me and said, “How’s it going?” I said, “Pretty good. My friend, Barrett, just landed his second fish.” “I know,” he said. “That’s why I came down here. Would you mind if I follow you guys through?” I said, “No problem, have at it.”
The old man pulled a rod sock out of his car that was longer than normal rod socks. Inside was a two-handed Sage rod with an old reel attached to it. I knew about two-handed rods after my first season in Alaska, and had read a little about them, too, but I hadn’t figured out how to cast one.
The old man started shallow and high in the run. I sat and watched him slowly set up his cast and launch out an impressive amount of line. He reeled up halfway through the run and walked over to me. He stopped and just looked at the run for a bit. Then he turned to me and said, “I like the way you handle a fly rod,” and added, “We are having a friendly casting competition at the Howard Miller Steelhead Park the last weekend in April. You should compete in the single-hander competition.” I smiled, shook my head with slight disbelief and said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
He nodded an approval and said, “My name is Marlow Bumpus, what’s yours?” “Calvin Fuller,” I squeaked out. Watching Marlow duck back into his Jeep and bounce away, I started thinking back to my old steelhead books. Who is Marlow, I wondered? I didn’t remember reading about him. Later that evening, I dug into those old books, which were still nestled between the seats of my truck. I looked for the name, Marlow Bumpus, but found nothing. No mention of Marlow, just names like Harry Lemire, Alec Jackson, and many others.
As the days ticked by to the casting competition, I practiced in an alley behind The Guides’ Fly Shop, where I was employed at the time. I spliced my Orvis Wonderline to 30-pound Maxima to reduce friction on the backing knot. My cast seemed okay, but not great. I could get most the line out, but couldn’t really do it consistently. Finally, Saturday, April 27, 2002 arrived, and I was ready to go.
I got to the competition early and helped set things up. Marlow was there, standing next to a picnic table, looking like he just rode a horse for 40 years. Bowed legs. Smile on his face. And a jar in his pocket. Of course, I wondered what was in the jar and hoped for the best. Marlow waved me over and introduced me to some old men who were sitting at a picnic table. One of them was Alec Jackson. I thought, Holy Shit, I am meeting a fishing legend. I sat down at the table and one of the men showed me how to tie grass leaders, a concept I hadn’t heard of. He explained that you need a leader about 8-10 feet long with blood knots every four-to to six inches with half-inch long tag ends on each knot. I asked why and, he said, “It’s for your anchor.”
Anchor? What the hell is an anchor? Without asking any more stupid questions, I sat there contently tying grass leaders. Alec asked me many questions and was enthralled with my Alaska guide stories, and even some of my stories about the Skagit. Being young and excited, I was talking too much. I finally calmed down and started listening to his stories. Those old men laughed so hard they had tears in their eyes, brought on by stories about fishing, friends, and the gossip surrounding other fishermen.
As more people arrived Marlow took me under his wing and introduced me to most of them. It turns out most of these old men were part of a club called The Washington Steelhead Fly Fishers. I met Mike Kinney right away and immediately learned what was in the jar. Mike took a sip, passed me the jar, and nodded. As I coughed out the word, “Whiskey,” Marlow walked off with his clipboard and wrote down the names of the contestants, in the order they would cast. The two-hander competition was up first and grass leaders were strung onto the ends of the lines. For hours I watched these old guys cast. Al Buhr, Ed Ward, Mike Kinney, Marlow Bumpus, Don Viera, and many more, all taking turns to see who could throw farthest. Tight loops and slow set-ups were the name of the game on the grass. Go too fast and you’d blow your anchor (I now realized its meaning). I remember watching Ed Ward and he reminded me of a man practicing Tai Chi. Slow, methodical set up followed by a powerful forward stroke. It was truly fun to watch these guys in their friendly competition.
Finally, it was time for the single-hand competition. I was so nervous I couldn’t even feel the rod in my hand. I stripped out the entire fly line, some of the 30-pound Maxima, and began casting. Marlow was at the other end of the tape. I was allowed three casts and the longest cast counted. The first was garbage. Maybe 94 feet. The second wasn’t much better. The third felt very good, but the Maxima wrapped around the butt of the rod. Still, on that final cast I watched the line sail over Marlow’s head. He looked at me and smiled. “One hundred twenty-one feet and eight inches,” he yelled. The old men at the picnic table turned and stared. Marlow bow-leggedly strolled over to me, smiling, and said, “Now that was a good one.” I told him how my backing wrapped around my fighting butt. He said, “That’s why you got such good turn over.”
Next up was another single-hand caster. He pulled lines off large, skinny wooden spools. I hadn’t seen anything like that before. Marlow leaned into me and said, “This is why I brought you here. To beat him.” Evidently, Marlow didn’t particularly like this other guy and told me he was a one-upper on everything. After he was done casting, two other old men walked up to Marlow and me. Marlow told them about my cast and shared that I won the single-hand competition. The only thing Marlow was really excited about was that I beat his nemesis . . . who’s name escapes me. The old guys laughed and were excited to talk about fishing. Marlow introduced me to Stacy Lamoreux, who I recognized from his visits to The Guides Fly Shop’. The other man? Harry Lemire! More legends.
Marlow and the other old men started a fire in a pit along the river, and stories started rolling, thick as the current flowing by just a few feet away. Marlow’s jar was almost empty, and a fresh bottle of Makers appeared. A truck with a driftboat pulled up, and out stepped someone I recognized but couldn’t put a name to. Ed Ward got out of his chair and started talking with the new guy. During their quiet conversation about steelhead, the guy pulled a brand-new Callaway Big Bertha from the driftboat. Marlow walked over and introduced me to the guy, who turned out to be another old legend, Dec Hogan. Dec flashed that big club and said, “Look what I got for a tip!” Dec and Ed started testing out the driver on a bag of balls that Dec pulled from the back of his truck. I watched as the two old men tried to sail those golf balls over the breadth of the Skagit.
Later that evening I was invited to a potluck dinner at Steelhead Park. I sat and drank beers with many of the legends I’d met that day, all of whom had great stories and embraced the “new guy.” As things wound down Marlow pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to attend some of their meetings. My stomach lurched and I told him as calmly as possible that I would love to. I thanked Marlow for everything he’d done that day and then turned my truck towards Bellingham.
For the next few years I attended every meeting I could. I would meet Marlow or Stacy at a gas station, and they would drive me down to the restaurant where the meetings occurred. Steelhead and steelhead politics made up 90-percent of those conversations. The future of wild fish was the most important topic and I was impressed with the men’s dedication and drive to catch and protect those fish. But equal time was given to lament; they all wanted to figure out how they could get back to the “good ol’ days” on Western Washington’s rivers.
After my first year of meetings, Marlow told me I needed to go fish with some of the guys before I became a member. Stacy told me he and Harry would take me out for a day, and I felt extremely excited at the chance to do so. I knew Harry didn’t like fishing the Skagit with two-handed rods after I heard him say, “They are just too damn big.” I went home and immediately got my single-hand gear together.
The following week I met Stacy and Harry at a grocery store in Concrete. Stacy said they liked to go in light and fast to their spots, so nobody could see them. I quickly consolidated my gear and headed to the water with two legends. The morning conversation revolved around a guy who caught a steelhead the day prior, on a black string leech, in bright light around high noon. Harry just shook his head and said, “Just when you think you have these steelhead figured out, they go and do something stupid like that.”
Living in Steelhead Time.
Later, Harry drove Stacy and I to a run where we quickly jumped out of the rig. Arriving at the river, I told Stacy he should go through first. With no argument, he walked down to the water and into the run. He worked a short line, eventually extending it out to where he wanted to fish. As he moved through the run, I stepped in behind and tied on a black string leech when he wasn’t watching. About six casts into the run, my line went tight and a steelhead ripped several feet of line off my reel. Unfortunately, the fish came off on a jump. Stacy reeled up and asked the dreaded question: “What are you using?” I paused and sheepishly said, “A black string leech.” He shook his head, said nothing, and stepped back into the run below me. At the end of the day, Harry and Stacy handed me some papers to sign, and noted when my club dues needed to be paid. Written at the top of one paper was a main objective:
“To provide a social forum for the preservation of information, ideas, and feelings for the sport of fly fishing for steelhead through free exchange among members. To use exclusively and encourage the use of artificial flies for steelhead angling.”
The Washington Steelhead Fly Fishers were focused and passionate about preserving steelhead fly fishing tradition. This club was not like other fly-fishing clubs. These legendary steelhead anglers had spent, collectively, hundreds of years on the water chasing steelhead with traditional fly-fishing gear. They were open with their information and shared as much as you could ever want, up to a point. They were particularly devoted to the Puget Sound steelhead fisheries, although they discussed other Washington rivers, too. Often they worked side-by-side with Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, promoting and contributing to restoration efforts. And they played a role in setting fishing regulations (especially methods of take). A brood-stock program was brought up at one meeting and the discussion got heated. I didn’t know much about stocking programs and wild fish versus hatchery fish, and really didn’t understand why some of these old steelheaders were arguing with each other. I did know that all of them lived and breathed steelhead and had watched the wild fish decline over the past 50 years. And they weren’t happy about it.
During one of my last meetings, before I moved away, Harry Lemire addressed the club. He stood up and said he’d just had his best year of steelheading on the Skagit. The room went silent. He’d caught a lot of great fish that year and added this: on back-to-back days he’d landed two giants, a 41-inch hen one day and a 44-inch long buck the next. All his fish were caught on a singler-hander with a light sink-tip and an un-weighted fly. He ended by saying he was extremely happy to see things starting to come back.
I had many more fun days fishing with Stacy and Harry. And I got to fish with Mike, Ed, and other members of the club. My one regret is never fishing with Marlow. Marlow is one of my favorite persons in the world and I would regularly ask if he wanted to go fishing. He would always shrug it off. Finally, one day years later, Marlow must have felt bad and asked if I wanted to go the following week. When the day came, I received a phone call from Marlow. He started the conversation by just laughing. “You’ll never believe what I did,” he said. “I forgot to put my truck in park at the ramp across from Faber’s, and it’s now in the river.” We didn’t go fishing that day.
I stayed in touch with Marlow and would make my way over to the Skagit every spring to cast and hang out with guys from the club. Over time I understood that Marlow was the man who brought everyone together. He was a rod designer. He was the backbone of Skagit line design. He showed us how he would cut 12-weight lines, splice them, and create short heads to turn over large profile flies. He was into it and shared freely with us.
The last time I got to hang out with Marlow was at the Howard Miller Steelhead Park. He walked over bowlegged, handed me a jar from his pocket, and smiled.
Because, yes, we agree, it's too good to only see once... a young, impressionable Calvin Fuller with his first hatchery steelhead.