Messing Around With Worley

Idaho Steelheading: We’re All Bozos on This Bus

By Clarence Worley, Guest Writer, 3-01-10

The 2010 spring steelhead season is in full swing up on the Salmon River and East Idaho is experiencing the positive financial effects throughout the plain. Local sporting goods merchants are enjoying much needed sales revenue, the Idaho State Liquor Dispensary is approving its biggest restock order since the New Year’s Eve rush, Fish & Game is seeing an influx of funds from licenses and tags, and the emergency room in Salmon is looking forward to another season of drunken mishaps that make Johnny Knoxvilles’ Jackass antics pale by comparison. Anything short of a compound fractured femur is in the noise for Salmon ER professionals, they’ve seen it all.

Steelheading has been an East Idaho tradition since the first pioneer wife attempted to get her cabin-bound husband to start a winter improvement project and the first pioneer husband countered her request by pointing out that as the man it was his duty to provide food for the family. “Jedediah, shore would be nice if you could see your way clear to build me a chair so’s I don’t have to set on this here dirt floor”… “Laws no woman, I gotta catch me some fish to feed these young’uns”. And so the tradition is carried on today; on the home front, it doesn’t matter if the roof leaks or the pipes are frozen or the furnace is on the fritz. It’s February, the ice is off the river, and we’re all going fishing.

A true steelheader doesn’t need to pack a thing to be ready for the trek to Shoup, which is my favorite spot. The essentials needed for a few days on the river are carried in the truck at all times - rod, reel, tackle box, sleeping bag and Carharts. Anything beyond these staples are fluff and simply not needed - friends camped on my favorite holes willingly supply the rest. Of course, repeatedly taking advantage of a camp could get one labeled a Utahan, an Idaho steelheaders lowest form of fisher, so one must take care to stop at the liquor store and bring a package of hotdogs to replenish the food supply when it’s appropriate. My many steelheading friends make sure I know when it’s appropriate with friendly little verbal reminders like “Damnit Worly stay outta my whisky and bring your own - ya frickin’ mooch!” Will do my friend, will do. And thank you for the reminder … close steelheading friends are such a special blessing.

Worly Note: As much as I hate siding with the man, it’s a total dick move to drink and drive so don’t be a dick, get a sober someone to cart you around. ‘Nuff said.

In this new age of political correctness and non-drunken driving it’s important to select a sober driver to make the run up to Shoup. Driver selection is not an easy task and generally requires the drawing of straws or arm wrestling to help make the determination; at 275 lbs I prefer the latter. There is always much pissing and moaning by the appointed designated driver, partly because he will have to wait until we get there to start his fishing ritual, but more so because he will be subjected to a sober five to ten hour ride packed in an extra cab pickup with four over-weight-ready-to-party-rednecks hell bent on sucking down social lubricant from 44 oz convenience store sippy cups the entire trip. Couple this cargo with a half-dozen mangy dogs along with everyone’s essential gear needed to fish and you have the key ingredients for a friendship “incident” between driver and passengers somewhere along the way.

In addition to the driver distractions mentioned above, the sober selectee must often navigate through white-out conditions in the dead of night while enduring the God-awful smell of homemade habanero pickled eggs (a steelheader’s delicacy) being devoured by this motley crew as they loudly discuss world events and women’s breasts with their mouths full. Nor let us forget the repeated noxious fumes that emanate from every mammal in the truck or the annoyance of the self-proclaimed music know-it-all twho invites himself on every trip insisting everyone listen to his new CD featuring Toby Keith doing electric versions of Alan Jackson’s acoustic versions of Travis Tritt’s tribute covers of crappy Hank Williams Jr. originals. Someday we’re gonna have to start throwing in an extra sawbuck for the driver.

No one is really sure how long it takes to drive to Shoup from the upper Snake River Plain; the variables introduced by the many obligatory stops on the way make it impossible to quantify. A typical trip will include gas at Bob’s Quick Stop in Rigby, a pee break at Sage Junction, a quick one at the bar in Mud Lake, a pee break at the Birch Creek bathrooms, a pee break at the top of Gilmore summit, and a full on sit down at the bar in Leadore. This bar gets the special “Worly Seal of Approval” because of their world famous Clam-diggers served in to-go cups … look it up, world famous I tell you. From Leadore we push on to Tendoy before the next pee break and from there we make the final approach into Salmon. Bertram’s Brewery on Main Street is one of our “must” stops, the Mt. Borah Brown is the finest in the western US and it isn’t unusual for our group to have several while grabbing a bite. It’s also not unusual for us to pack up a growler or two or even three for the drive between Salmon and Shoup.

At this point in our journey the only person paying attention to the outside world is the sober driver. The rest of we intrepid anglers are lost in heated conversations about the best breed of dog or what color corky should be used fishing the clam hole or how full the port-o-lets are going to be at Poverty Flats. Like something out of a Frank Herbert novel, we seem to possess the ability to fold space through simultaneous oratories and long draws off the growler so the white-knuckle winding half -hour drive into North Fork passes unnoticed by all, except by our unlucky sober driver that is, who’s gnashing his teeth and muttering something under his breath about “if you dip-sticks don’t shut the hell up…” All drivers seem to get grumpy around this time, we have discussed further investigation of this phenomenon but to date no one has pursued any meaningful research.

The narrow road from North Fork follows the Salmon downriver and soon turns from paved to a two- track rutted block of ice. Fair weather fishers can often be found along easy access points during the fall and late spring seasons in large semi-permanent settlements that resemble hurricane Katrina refugee camps. These are not real Steelheaders. These fakers bring giant fifth-wheels with generators and wives and kids and satellite dishes. I’m pretty sure they even wash. Fortunately for those of us on a mission to slay steelies downriver, these pseudo outdoorsman are noticeably absent in February. The weather is way too icky for them.

Although Shoup is identified as the preferred destination back home, the reality is we fish downriver from this little canyon oasis, often times miles downriver depending on who is fishing where and if they can put us up for the night. By now we are driving in total darkness and the truck tracks down the ice ruts like a kiddy car ride at the State Fair. The river looms below us and with our enthusiastic aid, our driver searches for familiar vehicles parked in wide spots in the road in hopes of finding lodging thus bringing his driving and adult supervision responsibilities to an abrupt end.

For no reason whatsoever, our driver suddenly snaps. He is no longer just grumpy; apparently the volume on our “Highway to Hell” sing-a-long has pushed him to an emotional state identified by Idaho Behavioral Health Specialists as Sober Steelhead Psychosis (SSP). He rolls to a stop and requests we take our dogs and exit the vehicle. When we do not comply, further words are exchanged and we manage to reach an agreement that allows our quest for shelter to continue. Our enthusiasm is abated; he uses yelling and bad words with hand gestures to express his extreme displeasure with our AC/DC tribute …the wiener.

We round the blind corner at Shell Creek and find a roaring fire on the roadside surrounded by a crusty pack of die-hards (steelhead lingo for unemployed tradesman that have been on the river since New Year’s Eve) and inquire about who might be further downriver. Eureka! We are informed there are “a bunch of outfits (steelhead lingo for pickup) with 1-J plates camped down Corn Crick.” We attempt to share our jubilation with our new friends through goodwill and spirits but our driver insists we keep moving and keep we our voices down (he swore at us again). Fine, we’ll just stay in the truck.

The last few miles are covered at an angry breakneck pace. We need to be out of the truck. The dogs are whining, we all have to pee, and our driver’s last nerve has been effectively frazzled. No fire awaits us at Corn Creek, but lights are on in two of the four snow-bound trashy trailer steelhead specials. We pile out of the truck with the dogs like ten circus clowns in a Mini Cooper and pee while the only sober member of our group handles negotiations with the camp spokesperson. Sleeping arrangements are made, camp chores are assigned and most importantly, weekend booze allocations are inventoried while enjoying samples of delicious Ten High and several cans of slushy Bush Light. Tomorrow we fish … for the rest of the evening we drink, we eat, and we attempt to cure our exhausted designated driver’s SSP.

Next week:
Part II: Fishing Etiquette

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