Douglas Havens
One early fall, I was hankering to go steelhead fishing. This was a common malady for me. It seemed to hit every time the sun came up. I don't recall how/why Malcolm Asplund ended up going with me (this must have been when they had moved to Salmon-probably mid 1990s).
I made it clear that it was really too early for this, but was willing. (I suppose it must have been about the 20th of September-- a good 20 days before it was time to be serious about steelhead fishing). My memory from a time that long ago is a bit shady, so I am not certain if I persuaded Malcolm to go, or Malcolm persuaded me, or we worked each other into a frenzied lather of lust over spending the day fishing. If it was the second case, it was the easiest seduction in the world, and consisted of "Doug, get your rod".
We spent the beautiful fall day in the second deepest river canyon in North America, admiring the crystal blue skies, the River of No Return, the changing foliage, the pine trees and the wildlife. We also cast dozens of times each, in 10 or 15 likely steelhead holding spots. Nothing.
On our way back up the canyon, we stopped at one last likely hole-partly for the laughs.
The Shoup Mine had a mule named Daisy. Daisy was quite the stubborn jackass. When she heard a car coming, she would clomp out into the center of the road, lower her head, and play chicken with oncoming vehicles. While this might seem a touch insane, there was a sophistry in her mulish madness. EVERY car would stop--if they tried to maneuver around her, she would sashay to the side and keep her head solidly between the head lights. Interestingly enough, she was completely immune to the horn. She would gently head-butt the front bumper or grill (depending on if it was a 4X4 or not) until the driver and/or passenger fed her. She had a strong preference for potato chips, especially french onion Sun Chips. Malcolm and I dutifully, and delightedly paid the toll, so that we might pull off to the side and fish where Daisy lurked, waiting to troll the next unwitting traveler.
I pointed out to Malcolm how the water flowed through the hole, and where to cast, and where not to cast to see if we could seduce a steelhead into striking. I put Malcolm at the top of the hole, and went to work on the lower end.
Pretty soon, Malcolm had a fish on! The fish was angry, and I would see streaks of silver as it raced up and down the riffle, trying to shake the hook. The water was a bit faster than was usual for a steelhead, so it gave Malcolm a terrible tussle.
He played the fish, it made a couple of nice runs. Eventually, it seemed to tire. I told him to start reeling it up and see if I could nab it in the net. As he did, it gave a mighty leap. It danced on its' tail on the top of the water! It gave a second jump, complete with a cartwheel, and spit the hook right at Malcolm. Luckily, this missed him.
missed him.
On the very instant this happened, Malcolm and I heard the most interesting, non-outdoors sound, I have ever heard while down the river.
A multi-voiced men's chorus, singing a descending cadence of "Oooooohhh". We turned in amazement, and a touch of unease, and discovered that Daisy had accosted a school bus filled with sun tanned river guides, who, after paying their toll to the mule, had stayed on to watch Malcolm tangle with his trophy.
Immediately after their acapella performance echoed back from the canyon wall, skimmed across the river and reverberated in our ears a second time, one guide poked a beer out the window. Before we could decide if that was a tribute, condolences, or if he had a yellow-jacket hornet in that can, the driver fired up the bus and they bounced on down the river, beer foaming out over the can and his hand, dust billowing up, and windows and fenders rattling like drums in a Sousa march.