The Kaufmann’s elk hair caddis. The CEO’s weapon of choice yesterday.
The CEO made it home safe and sound from his journey to the wilds of the North Santiam. I made it out unscathed (save for a pretty wicked scratch on one of my knuckles — good thing there are no piranha in the Santiam) and caught more fish than I have in the last three years combined. Those trout will tell their grandkids about the day back in October of 2007 when they met the Beast.
“I saw the Beast himself! He stood on what looked like two pasty white marshmellowy stumps in the shallows over there. I was minding my own business, about to have a caddis flavored snack, when I hear a roar of Gotcha, fishie! come from the Beast. I was pulled inexorably toward it; there was nothing I could do. I could see that the Beast wore boots and ratty old tan shorts and even from underwater it smelled of beef jerky and malted barley. Then I was next to it, and it reached down and touched me! Honest to God, it touched me! The horror! Suddenly I found I could move again and I raced away for the deep. Many cutthroat and brookies knew what it was to be captured from the depths of the Santiam that day, I can tell you!”
The fishing was good, and the day was nice. Their was one moment of mild panic when I slipped off a rock and went in up to my armpits. I wasn’t afraid of getting wet or drowning or anything, but I had the keys to the Suby in an only semi-waterproof zipper pocket in my vest. If the electronic keys go underwater it’s pretty doubtful the CEO can unlock his car, and I would have then been near the headwaters of a different stream, one called Shit Creek. A smarter person would have his keys in a wholly-waterproof pocket, but then again I wasn’t planning on going in the river much past my knees. On my trip to the bottom of the river I was able to blow my ballast tank and readjust my dive planes just in time and thereby keep those keys dry, but I now I know: when fishing put my keys in a zip lock, just in case I go into the drink. No reason to get stuck out there past dark — that is when the CHUDS (aka Scio residents) come out to feed. I was safely in my car headed up I-5 before that particular risk ever had to be addressed.
