Every Lone Angler Needs a Tanto

by Jim Lampros

I pulled the clinch knot tight, clipped the tag and let the new rig fall to my feet. Looking down, I could barely distinguish the laces on my wading boots through the waters emerald haze. The air was cold and sharp. An angry gust swept through the valley and I felt its bite through the layers of Gore-tex and fleece covering my upper half. The trees, having shed their leaves months ago and now sporting a fresh coat of white powder, rocked and swayed in the wind. Their creaking and moaning played accompaniment to the percussive sound of water beating against rock. I stood amidst a classic winter steelhead scene. Oh, and the run in front of me was loaded with chromers.

Yes, it was one of those days for which only clichés will suffice. I caught fish until my arms hurt. Then I moved downstream and caught fish until I was bored. I’m not talking about a big mess of skippers, either. Silver slab after silver slab greeted me with full aerial displays, drag-screaming runs, the whole bit. Sure, a couple of the really big ones managed to elude the camera, but what kind of story would it be without the one that got away? I caught fish on streamers, I caught fish on eggs, I caught fish on nymphs. If I had brought a box of dry flies with me, I may have tried those too.

It was a truly cosmic experience. At times it seemed that fish would magically emerge from the cuts, revealing themselves with sudden flashes and furious headshakes. The surface would erupt and the dance would begin. I’d hoot and holler for no one to hear, pull the hook, snap a picture and send ‘em off. Then I’d flick another roll cast out and conduct an encore performance. It quickly became glorious monotony. It was as if, for a day, the river and all her subjects were at my whim. It was great. You should’ve been there.

But you weren’t. And neither was anyone else. The spoils of the river were left to me, myself and I on this afternoon. Now, normally I would count this a good thing. After all, there’s nothing we fisherfolk hate more than arriving to the river at dark-thirty only to find a dozen cars in the parking lot and our favorite hole lined with zealous anglers on either side. But lately I’ve begun to think these solo adventures aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be. This is a revelation that came to me, like revelations often do, after spending quite a bit of time out on the river and in the woods. I believe this particular bulb brightened up when I found myself holding two cold Christmas ales and no bottle opener. The thirst will make you see things.

On a more serious note, I feel there’s something to be said about companionship on the river. The perils of moving water aside, our experiences just seem a little shallower without others to share them with. Having a steelhead rise to a waking bomber wouldn’t achieve the same affect without being able to say to your buddy, “DID YOU SEE THAT!?” Whether you caught 30 or got skunked, without a witness you’re just telling stories anyways, right?

The proverbial Fishing Buddy is a heralded title in many circles, dating back hundreds of years. It’s bond that can be as thick as blood or as fickle as spring creek trout. The Walter Matthau / Jack Lemon “Grumpy Old Men” duo demonstrated the volatile nature these relationships can take on. There’s also the Michael Corleone “strictly business, nothing personal” fishing buddy. In this relationship all matters of fair are limited to topics directly associated with current fishing conditions and or plans for future outings. Whatever the nature of the thing, having someone around to share and appreciate moments on the water is invaluable.

With the increased pressure on our local rivers, I think we’re all better off adopting the attitude that even strangers can play the role of interim fishing buddy. Meeting a friendly face on the river, sharing some knowledge and maybe a few hot patterns always lifts my spirit on even the most barren of winter days. Had it not been for a friendly fellow angler a few years back I would’ve been forced to keep the excitement of my first fly-caught steelhead to myself. I still have the picture he happily took for me on my wall along with pictures of other friends with whom I’ve been able to share moments on the water. They serve as reminders that a buddy and a cold beverage can make even a lousy day of fishing one to remember.

-Jim Lampros

January 28, 2008

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