Fishing
Not even an angry bull can keep a fisher from his favorite creek

By Nick Provenza
Seattle Times assistant metro editor

MARIAN WACHTER / THE SEATTLE TIMES

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With all of life's highs and lows, advances and regressions, pleasures and pains, it's nice to have one or more places for your mind to wander in pursuit of a moment's peace.

For me, one of those places was fly-fishing for trout on Satus Creek, in the lower Yakima Valley in Eastern Washington.

You can't do that anymore, though, and that's how it should be. After years of irrigation runoff and low water flow, the creek was closed to rehabilitate and protect the water and its fish, particularly steelhead.

But in the days when I could fish the creek, it was wonderful, except for the bull, but I'll get to that later.

For 3-1/2 years I lived in Yakima and fished the creek often and with the zeal of any recent convert to fly-fishing.

My rusting Ford Pinto would putter the 30 miles from my home to the water, a small stream that meanders from the top of Satus Pass all the way to the Yakima River. State Route 97 follows the creek for most of its length.

In the late 1970s, not many people fished there, even though they could. The fish weren't too big, and the water flows through a semi-arid desert where at the end of the day a person wearing rubber waders in 90-degree heat got more than a tad sweaty.

Nonetheless, the land is filled with the aroma of sage and the scent of a cool stream with fish. Oh, and there are the cow pies, but we'll get to that later, too.

Satus fish were mostly rainbows, averaging 6 to 10 inches, although I once hooked a 16-inch rainbow, clearly a denizen of the creek a long, long time.

And did I mention snakes? I'll get to that, too.
 
On a day's outing, I'd drive along SR 97 until I came to a gate on the south side of the road. The gate was never locked and I liked that. "Not here to keep you out," I'd heard the fence say. "Just here to keep the cattle in."

I'd get out of my car, joint up my rod, tie on a fly and head for the water.

Once stream-side, I'd study the water, looking for the dimple of a fish rising, or searching for overhangs and cut banks where the water ran deeper and the bigger fish often lie.

Making the first cast was always a joy. You just might hook a fish from the get-go.

Or not.

If you didn't, you knew there were a hundred more casts to be made and that you would likely get fish, perhaps just around that bend or beyond that outcropping or near that stand of trees.

Of course, catching fish is only a part of the story. In the relative coolness of an early Yakima Valley morning, standing stream-side by yourself, casting to a small water with a slight breeze blowing — well, that's a pastime given to you by the gods.

Now about that bull ...

In Eastern Washington, a lot of cattle range freely over the land.

One day, I was studiously fishing a small undercut bank, hoping that a rainbow was hungry and would come to my fly.

I made the cast and followed the fly as it floated toward the cut bank. I was oblivious to much of anything around me.

Until I heard the snort.

Looking up and across the stream, about 12 yards away, a huge Hereford bull, horns and all, was staring me down. He didn't look happy.

He delivered a few more snorts just in case I wasn't REALLY scared out of my waders.

Oh, and bulls actually do paw the ground when they're ticked.

I slowly stepped to my right. He stepped to his left. I took a step back. He took a step forward. This wasn't a dance I wanted to continue.

Not bothering to reel in my line, I took off for my car, which was about a quarter-mile away. I heard the bull splashing through the water, and my heart sank.

As I ran, line started stripping from my reel. My fly had caught on a bush. I put the brakes on the reel using my right hand. That made the line go taut until the fly snapped off and the line sailed in a big tangle over my head.

Afraid to look back and dreading the pounding of hooves, I continued to run as fast as one can in waders.

And that's when I stepped into a fresh cow pie, which took my feet out from under me and sent me headlong into a sage brush.

I'm dead, I thought.

But I heard nothing. Peering over my shoulder, I could see Mr. Bull still near the creek, rubbing his hind quarters on a cottonwood not far from the spot where we had our stare down.

He bore the smug look of a victor.

I untangled my line and reeled it in, and walked way around the bull to another part of the creek to clean the cow pie off my waders. I was done fishing for the day.

But I always went back.

On another outing on Satus, I was fishing closer to the pass, catching and releasing several fish.

I was in a portion of the creek where over many years the water had cut away the bank, leaving 8-foot walls on either side of the water.

Too lazy to walk farther on the creek to make an easier exit, I decided to climb the wall.

As I neared the top, I put my arms and elbows on the top shelf to pull myself over the lip. When my face crested the wall, I was eye-to-eye with a 5-foot snake.

In a very girly-man way, I screamed as I threw myself backward, landing on my tailbone, which gets sore to this day when it rains.

I gathered my wits and pride and hobbled along the creek until I could walk out. I returned to the spot of the snake siting and saw the critter slithering away — not a rattler, but a non-poisonous bull snake.

I walked back to my car, feeling a bit relieved, a bit foolish, and more than a bit sore.

It has been more than 20 years since I last fished Satus Creek, and I suppose one might wonder if this stream, with its history of bulls, cow pies, snakes, screams and falls, is really where I want my imagination to go in search of a bit of peace.

You bet it is.

Nick Provenza: 206-464-2142 or nprovenza@seattletimes.com