Humpy Wrastlin’ Good Times

So I went to the circus this past Saturday, and by that I don’t mean the Puyallup or Skokomish rivers, though I did fish for salmon.

Amy, River and I hit the big top in Everett — elephants, tigers, nutso acrobats, clowns, women fired out of a cannon, the whole shebang.

Pretty fun, actually — but it was a pretty close thing that it wasn’t me getting fired out of the howitzer.

I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but in a sense, my life has become a circus act itself, with me tightrope walking between magazine job, pregnant wife, being a dad and expecting No. 2 around Thanksgiving.

On Saturday, I figured I had just enough time to take my high-wire act to the Skykomish to fish for humpies for about an hour, hour and a half –maybe an hour and 45 minutes if I was lucky and there were no complications.

The first major hurdle was getting River to sleep for his two-hour midday nap. No nap and he’d be our own little caged lion at the circus, which started at 3:30.

Still, it’s fairly easy to get him to fall asleep. Drive car, play soothing music, maybe sing a lullaby or two, River nods off.

Only this time he didn’t so easily. I had to keep driving up Highway 522 further than I wanted before he finally fell asleep and I could turn around to drop him off at my parents’ place. Where he woke up.

Argh.

I laid the 26-month-old on the couch and covered him up. He watched me with tired eyes, so I shooed my mom out of the room in hopes he would nod off as I made a quick sandwich.

He still was laying down as I made for the door — but he was also still awake. I told mom to maybe hold his hand to help him get to sleep, then prayed he would drop off.

I was already 15 to 20 minutes behind where I’d wanted to be, meaning even less time to fish, so I zipped out to Tualco on the Skykomish below Monroe and bounced across the farmer’s field/parking lot to its far corner where I jumped out of the car at precisely 11:42 a.m.

There were more than a half dozen rigs there, which didn’t bode well, but all I needed was a rock from which to wail on the pinks. I skinnied under the barb-wire fence and then held onto my two float-rigged rods with one hand and a green rope with the other and rappeled down to the river.

There were three guys in my spot — but all in the wrong spot.

Well, “wrong” spot may be too strong as they had a pair of bonked pinks in the shallows.

But they were also fishing with a big, ol’ downed tree in the water in front of them. Puzzling, especially considered there was an open rock downstream.

Oh, well, it was mine now.

I hopped aboard and started running my crappie-jig/speed-fishing routine.

At this particular hole, and with this particular setup — bobber, 1/2-ounce egg sinker, 30-inch leader, 1/16- or 1/32-ounce jighead and pink/light pink crappie tube jig — you can make three, maybe even four casts a minute because you’re really only fishing about a 20- to 30-foot stretch of the river, and only fishing, at most, 10 feet out.

Any further out and the setup becomes ineffective, possibly because of depth and current speed affecting its presentation. Run it too far downstream and you’re wasting your time with a wrist-reeling exercise.

At least that’s what I’ve discovered in extensive test fishing here in previous seasons.

Probably having a billion fish in the river helps too, no?

Indeed, pinks were splashing their way upriver, past the gang of anglers on the bank about 30 yards further down, past the guys in the drift boat, flat bottom, kayak and, yes, float tube. They splashed on past me, up towards the horde at Hanson’s, and then towards Monroe and beyond. The Sky was pink, pink, pink.

So it wasn’t too long before I had my first takedown — and first completely lost setup, a result of a bad knot-tying decision (an embarrasingly common occurence, I must admit).

I reached for the other rod, which sported a size 1 half-and-half Dick Nite under a bobber. I’ve had fantastic luck on DNs in the past, mostly drift-fishing (earlier that day, and a bit below where I now fished, a friend hooked and released 15 on them), but I’ve found that they occassionally work underneath a float.

With limited time, I gave it about five minutes, but without any takedowns, I set that rod aside and retied another crappie jig on the other.

What followed was approximately 1 hour and 14 minutes of humpy wrastlin’ good times.

Pink after pink bit (yes, bit; the hook was in the tip of their snout or upper jaw every time). I easily missed more strikes and lost more fish on than I got to shore. It was ridiculous, and I didn’t want to leave, even though the sun had moved well around on my left cheek and was beginning to peer accusingly into my eyes.

Yes, I know, it’s getting late, now go away!

I was starting to get bit another way and wanted to experiment with it. At the tail end of some drifts, as I either clicked the thumb-release over or began to reel up, fish were biting, probably as the jig swung up in their faces.

I gave it another dozen last casts.

And then another dozen more.

But by now my fairly fine-tuned inner clock was starting to scream it was getting late. I’d budgeted about an hour of driving time between the river, River and home again, where I needed to pick up Amy before going to the circus, and the damned clock said I was pushing it.

So, after a final satisfying battle with a humpy that got away at shore, I called it a day.

As I walked past, one of the three anglers who’d been fishing above me (and catching fish) said, “You were thumpin’ them down there.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it almost wasn’t fair. I could see them coming through in big schools right in front of me.”

I climbed up through the brush, jumped in the car and saw I’d used up every single available minute of fishing time. It was 1:33. I had 57 minutes to get River and meet Amy to go to the circus.

River never did fall asleep at my folks’, but as I prepared for a pretty serious and deserved evil eye from Amy, I lucked out again. Junior zonked out JUST as we got back to our place, picked Momma up. And then he awoke fully refreshed as we arrived at the circus 40 minutes later.

Phew, close one for AW.

Otherwise, yours truly might just be blogging about his new life as a clown working for Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey.

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