Dropping a Line

More than a few Newport Beach winters ago when Keith Shequin used lemon juice to bleach his hair, the ocean did a number on many of us 1970s Orange County surfers. It went south. Turned into Lake Michigan. Stayed as flat as a Mi Casa tortilla for months.

Drastic measures were undertaken.

Shequin started fishing. Fishing from rock jetties at 36th and 28th streets, from the Newport and Balboa piers, fishing for oily, bony bonito, a morsel you don’t often see on the menus of fine fish restaurants in the greater metropolitan area.

I got dragged into this endeavor reluctantly. Fishing had never been my forte as I soon displayed the faculty of a flayed worm.

My time usually was spent trying to extricate tangled line while Shequin and other card-carrying members of the 38th Street Gang were showing off their bounty. One time while impatiently fiddling with a rather baffling crow’s nest, my hook somehow found its way into the side of a bonito that was being reeled in by another. As I continued to uncoil the snarled line, I pulled one way, the man who legitimately caught the fish the other. I actually thought, and this is the God’s honest truth, that I had rights to that foot-long fish. It would have been my first haul. Seeing Rightful Owner was not exactly happy with the situation, Shequin embarrassingly ran over to unhook my line so the man could reel in his treasure. I hope he enjoyed it.

I wasn’t asked to go fishing with the guys after that, and until the waves finally picked up in spring, there was a period of separation.

I am thinking about tangled lines and etiquette and a host of other fishing follies as shafts of light blast the snow-dappled Cascades one early June morning.

The water is as smooth as ice cream. We’re gliding across it in a 17-foot New Bay without one of those homespun names on the back. Behind us, Mt. Rainier rises above Seattle skyscrapers like a painted Hollywood backdrop. To the right are prominent peaks of the Cascades. To the left are the jagged summits of the Olympics. I used to wake up at this Godforsaken hour to surf and do nothing but surf.

But here I am in the middle of Puget Sound salmon fishing. Yes, fishing. After 35 years of recreating in Orange County, I am being introduced to the wonders of the Pacific Northwest by two colleagues who have asked to remain anonymous.

Mark Yuasa, captain and boat owner, is the Seattle Times’ fishing writer. ESPN has climbed aboard for an interview that appeared in the prime-time filler slot of 4:30 Sunday morning. Also along is one of the Northwest’s great outdoor writers, Ron Judd, the author and Seattle Times columnist who seems to have an affinity for pounding pesky dogfish into oblivion before tossing them back. Ron insists on a plug for his new book, “Inside Out Washington: A Best Places Guide to the Outdoors,” in case anyone is planning a trip to our fair state.

My interest is purely empirical. I am here to make some comparisons about the Northwest in contrast to Orange County where I hiked, mountain biked and surfed for three decades.

For the two locals, I am the fool, the foal, the foil. I wear the scarlet letter of someone from California. They are going to have a good time showing the city boy how real men recreate. After all, there is nothing quite like salmon fishing in Washington to prove your masculinity.

But I am ready. I know this is a test and if I pass, if I happen to actually catch something edible, I might be accepted into this secret society of fish scales and chowderheads. And the day is beautiful. I mean, it looks like almost every day in Orange County. But after a long spring in which the local newspaper reported in a front-page article that it had rained 39 consecutive days--the 39 days I had lived in Seattle--this was something to behold. And my fishing luck was about to change.

By the time we reached our location and Mark baited the hooks, I dropped a line into the blackness and peered over the boat. Within 20 seconds I felt a tug. My muscles tensed. My heart raced. I started reeling.

*

My first fish. My first catch and it’s a beauty. It’s whitish and wide, more than 12 inches long and flapping above the deck like a go-go dancer. A dogfish, Ron says casually. A bottom feeder. We hate them. He gave the creature a whack and threw it back. I’m distraught. That was my first catch and I expected a little ceremony, not insolence on the part of my new buds.

After a few more of these experiences, I began to understand their reaction. Every imaginable creature is enjoying my bait except salmon.

Then our captain said it was time to change locations. After another hour of little luck and lots of bottom feeders, I was thinking I’d never see a salmon. I figured at least the two experts would bring in something. I mean, they sure talked a big buildup. Then I felt a strong tug on my line. Mark and Ron say I became quiet. I say I was concentrating. I started reeling, but thought I’d lost whatever was there. Then suddenly, I felt that resistance again. Everyone came over to help as I reeled in a three-pound silvery, slimy fish, the only salmon we caught.

I called Keith Shequin that evening.

Since then, I’ve called Orange County friends repeatedly about the splendor of the Northwest, whether it’s fishing, hiking or cycling. Washington is the place Outside magazine and Backpacker like to feature with pictures of the year’s one day of sunny mountain scenes.

We used to hike or mountain bike the Santa Ana Mountains all winter. Shequin and I got caught in a flood of mud and hail one November day along Santiago Truck Trail, but generally, those cool winter days were perfect for the beach or mountains.

Orange County was becoming increasingly depressing, though, even with the colorful wildflowers arriving by mid-February. Encroaching suburbia and toll roads decimated the precious little wilderness left. So, I moved to Seattle to escape.

But, and isn’t there always a caveat with these circumstances, let me tell you about my little hike to celebrate the last day of summer ’96. The prospects weren’t good as a group of seven embarked in a downpour along Seattle’s freeway. It was a miserable way to end summer: The sky was the color of an over-ripe avocado and pelting us with drops the size of mosquitoes. We bravely headed east toward Stevens Pass along the scenic Mountain Loop Highway, where those more experienced than myself said the day was promising.

Miraculously, the sky cleared. OK, it didn’t exactly clear, but the rain subsided. We embarked on a slippery trail with sparkling specks of water stuck to the ferns. It was quiet in the aftermath of the downpour. And beautiful. We stretched out along the trail and I fell to the rear. About a third of the way up I noticed one hiker, Kristin, slapping at her legs. Funny, I thought. Until I reached the area she had slapped and felt the sharp prick of what I figured was a bramble.

Then I heard the little sucker. An angry yellow jacket repeatedly biting me. His friends were joining the fun. My fellow hikers had stirred the insects’ underground nest and the buggers were out for blood.

My blood. As I ran up the trail screaming “BEES” the yellow jackets feasted. I counted 19 bites in their wake; Kristin had four and her hand swelled to almost twice its size.

Undaunted, we continued. The primary purpose was to find a blueberry patch and bring home enough fruit to make home-made jam. It’s a Northwest thing.

When we finally reached the summit where the berries lie, the fields looked uninviting. The fruit already had gone into its winter slumber. We greedily ate the few berries we found.

Then we reached a lovely little lake where we planned to lunch. The setting was enchanting. This, I thought, is why I left the traffic, smog and degradation of Southern California. Who needs sunny, white-sanded beaches and good surfing? Who needs year-round mountain biking and early-morning hikes at El Morro where the sun peaks over Saddleback?

The thought was frozen for about two seconds.

Or I should say, I was frozen in about two seconds. It was getting a bit chilly. The others, some of Washington’s most avid skiers, were casually pulling out all-weather gear. Taking the food out of the backpack, I wondered what the fuss was about on the last day of summer.

But I noticed something white coming out the sky. Slowly at first, then faster. It was a snowstorm. It was a snowstorm in September.

And it hasn’t stopped snowing through the worst winter in at least 25 years. The Cascades received a dumping this month --of a foot of fresh, white powder. I am the proud owner of new Gore-Tex, all-leather boots, but the summer hiking season might not begin until August, if at all. I’m keeping my snow shoes close at hand.

And that’s something you can’t brag about in Orange County.