The clear, waist-deep creek was full of salmon finning nose to tail as I eased up over a low rise. The sun was bright in a fresh new blue bowl overhead, and the mild July day it felt like fall.
We’d been told mosquitoes were the state bird of Alaska, so I smelled like a walking DEET factory. The scent of clothes and skin soaked in insect repellent me of camping when I was a kid. The Old Man was a firm believer in spraying us down until we virtually dripped.
We hadn’t seen a mosquito on the whole nine-day salmon trip, so the stuff must have worked great!
Unfamiliar birds flitted through the spruce trees that made me think of Christmas. Willows and alders lined Montana Creek, making casting difficult. There were other bushes I couldn’t identify, but I gave each of them unmentionable names when my leader tangled up so bad I had to break off the limber branches to free the fly.
That extra issue was irritating, because that day we were casting 9-weight rods with big fat salmon flies that apparently were a favorite treat for those bushes.
The fish ignored my offerings.
Frustrated, I dug in one of the many pockets on my fishing vest to find a box of flies I hadn’t yet tried. It was filled with pink, blue sparkles, yellow, black, and chartreuse morsels all crowded together in the foam holders.
It reminded me of five-year-old girls’ birthday party with dresses and favors.
Clipping off the unmolested fly, I chose a black streamer designed to resemble a leach. It’s kind of a Catch-22. The salmon aren’t hungry, but we throw flies that look tasty.
Strip line, cast, back cast, forward, one more back cast to stretch the line out and lay it in the water. The fly sinks, bumps along the gravel and sand bottom and slides down the back of a big King who is patiently waiting for the one immediately in front to get off her phone and go.
Five casts later, the fish still weren’t interested.
Clamping the rod under my arm, I slipped off the fly and rummaged through another pocket to locate a different box. The other pockets were so packed with equipment I looked as if I were wearing an inflated lifejacket.
Two young men appeared in shorts, ancient hiking boots, and nothing else. Mutt and Jeff looked to be about eighteen. I looked down at my chest waders and wading boots, fully conscious of my vented shirt, polarized glasses, and hat.
The kids had nothing else but lots of hair and salmon rods.
Both broke out in wide grins. The tallest I’d named Jeff chinned toward the creek. “You catching anything?”
“Can’t buy a bite. How about y’all?”
“Caught half a dozen. We threw them back.”
“Figures.” I sighed. “What are you throwing?”
The shorter one I’d named Mutt held out a 7-weight rod and unhooked his lure to show me. It looked like a piece of yarn from his grandmother’s knitting bag.
I adjusted my glasses. “What is that?”
A piece of yarn from my grandmother’s knitting bag.”
“What makes it appealing?”
Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a fish, but it works.”
Mutt nodded. “It’s how you twist it on your hook.”
“Give me a bare hook.” Jeff held out his hand.
“The only bare ones I have are trout hooks.”
Mutt looked puzzled. “What do you catch trout for?”
I’d heard most Alaskans considered trout a trash fish. “I like to eat them.”
“Are you as good on trout as you are salmon?”
“Funny.”
Mutt took the streamer on the end of my leader and studied it for a moment before taking out his knife and stripping everything off except for the head. Then he plucked a wad of blue yarn from his wet pocket, untangled a piece, and somehow wove it onto the hook.
He held it out. “There. Did you see how I did that?”
I thought about the diopters in my fly vest, and how I wished I’d attached them to my trifocals to better see what he was doing. “Sure.”
He handed me two more pieces. “Keep these. I have plenty.”
Jeff pointed. “Mind if we play through?”
I shrugged. “Have at it.”
He flipped out a little line, made a cast, and we watched it drift. The line tightened, his rod bowed, and he had a fish on.
I sighed. “All right. Good luck.”
Engrossed in the fight, neither looked up and I made my way upstream to spend the rest of the day without a strike, but the twist of yarn worked the next day telling me I was onto something.
Now, I know this isn’t an outdoor blog, but as I told my girls when they wanted to know if reality and family are included, “Read between the lines.”
Today’s little suggestion relates to the way we write. Some would-be authors complain about how their submissions keep coming back, and I wonder, are they doing the same thing repeatedly without success?
Is their query letter a little off?
Is their elevator pitch wrong?
Is their entire story written from the wrong viewpoint? First person present tense?
Einstein supposedly defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. There’s no evidence he actually said it, however, the idea describes a lack of progress or a futile approach, which was the way I wrote thirty years ago without success.
Bestselling author Craig Johnson of the Longmire series and I were talking a few weeks ago in Amarillo and he mentioned the state of western writing. His series are contemporary westerns with a traditional feel. He suggested new authors abandon the idea of writing like Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour.
“That’s already been done, by Grey and L’Amour. And done very well. With that in mind, writers need to find a different approach.”
It reminded me of the first writing panel I ever attended. A gentleman behind a mounted video camera in the audience raised his hand during the Q&A portion of the presentation. “I’ve submitted a dozen books, over and over to different houses and agents, and not one has ever been accepted. What’s wrong with these people?”
An author leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “Maybe you aren’t any good.”
It was a harsh thing to say, but maybe true. He’d been trying the same thing over and over again. It was time to adapt.
Which is what I had to do that morning on Montana Creek in Alaska. The next day I brought a 43-pound King salmon to hand, using that bit of twisted yarn. I’d changed my approach.
Think about it.