Book tours and fancy hotels can't keep Pat from his spring chinook.
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Sep 5, 2007
I have just returned from a book-promotion tour for my second Bo Tully mystery, Avalanche, perhaps the greatest novel in the entire history of American literature. But enough of this unbiased literary criticism. Along the way, I once again met a thousand or so Outdoor Life readers. I frequently despair of the modern world, but these folks renew my belief in the basic decency and good humor of humanity. I even tell them they are my kind of people, and they don't appear to be in the least offended. It makes me wonder, though, if they are all that familiar with Rancid Crabtree and Retch Sweeney.
One problem with book tours is that they cut into my hunting and fishing time. But not all that much. On this tour, for instance, Bill Monroe, the outdoor editor of the Portland Oregonian, had sent me an invitation to go fishing with him and some of his pals when my tour hit town. Obviously, I suspected this invitation from Bill and associates was little more than a ploy to glean fishing tips from me. As is my practice, I would dispense such advice freely and even endlessly, as some recipients have exclaimed with admiration. For example, I have found from many decades of experience that having your line in the water improves enormously your chances of catching a fish. On the other hand, as I've frequently learned from those same decades of experience, having your line in the water is no guarantee you will catch a fish, because the rotten little beggars will usually...! But enough about fishing technique.
One of the problems with fishing and hunting while on a book tour is that my wife and I stay in hotels along the way. In this instance, we were guests at the Governor, a classy hotel in downtown Portland. When I showed up in the lobby at 4:45 a.m., clad in my rubber boots, rubber pants, rubber jacket and fishing hat, I can only say that the hotel staff on duty at that dismal hour regarded me with suspicion, if not with outright horror.
Speaking of that dismal hour, I should mention that Bill had insisted upon picking me up at this unholy time. As I waited there in the lobby, ignoring the suspicious stares of the staff, who appeared never before to have seen one of their guests clad in fishing attire, it suddenly occurred to me that I had gone through this exact same experience 25 years earlier with another writer from the Oregonian. I thought for a moment that it might have been the same Bill Monroe, except that person was young and dark-haired and much more attentive to my lectures on fishing technique.
When Bill had indicated he would pick me up at my hotel at five, I said, "Isn't that rather late in the day for fishing?"
He said, "Five in the morning."
It became apparent right away that Bill had a great deal to learn about fish. For one thing, fish cannot tell time. You would think an outdoor editor would know that fish are almost illiterate when it comes to numbers. Sure, some of them might be able to surpass me in long division, but those are the rare exceptions.
Twenty years before I reached my present age, it became obvious to me that fish have no concept of time. Therefore I routinely awaken at a decent hour, eat a leisurely breakfast and then wend my way down to the river for a few hours of fishing.
And now, here was Bill Monroe insisting that I rise at 4 a.m. in order to be ready for fishing at five!
Bill pulled up in his car at the stroke of five, thereby demonstrating his ignorance of the angling code followed by elderly fishermen. When we say five, we mean seven or even ten.
"What are we after?" I asked Bill as we headed out to a stretch of the Willamette River, which wends its scenic way through the city of Portland.
"Spring chinook," he said.
My heart leapt. Spring chinook is the tastiest of all salmon!
We soon arrived at the marina, where a group of Bill's friends awaited us: Jim Monroe, John Shmilenko, Torrston Kjellstrand and Ron Powell, the owner and driver of our boat.
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