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PHOTO BY DAVID CAMPICHE
Rainbow trout from Black Lake.
THE OLD MAN AND THE
BLACK LAKE
I
PHOTO BY DAVID CAMPICHE
Black Lake, the old reservoir for the city of Ilwaco, is stocked with rainbow trout.
By DAVID CAMPICHE
It’s 5:30 in the morning, and the phone rings.
I stir from bed, fumbling with my footsteps and
the black plastic receiver. The synapses between
brain and body seems lost in shadowland. Coor-
dination has fl own south.
“Mornin’ champ. Up to some clammin’?”
Phil’s voice races through the back roads of my
brain. My mouth is dry. I can’t yet spit out my
words succinctly. “Wha…? Oh, yeah. Now?”
“Not tomorrow, cowboy. Perfect tide, perfect
day. Looked out the window yet?” I admit that I
haven’t. “Well,” says Phil, “time’s a wastin’.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re on the beach, and
Phil is dead-on right. The beach is as close to
perfect as landscapes can be. The sun is rising,
caressing the soft, white-hatted surf. A spangled
mirror refl ects the robin-egg sky back on the
still salt water that has settled behind the sand
bars on the east side of the ocean as the tide
pulls out. Blue sky on blue water. Blue velvet.
Sleep has evaporated from my eyes. As I
walk toward the clam beds, an eagle of huge
size fl oats effortlessly over my head, no higher
than a fl ag pole. I think of this as a good omen.
Around us, the clam holes are scattered like pol-
ka dots on a party dress. Many a day we have
grubbed and drubbed for the bivalves. We have
stomped and thumped and worked the surf like
prisoners on a chain gang.
Not today. This is a turkey shoot. In 10
minutes we are washing the clams and circling
the truck. The clams are big and fat, the best dig almondine. Soon we have six.
of the year.
Across the lake, a giant trout is skirting the
placid water, an acrobat dressed in a quicksilver
“Still time to go fi shin’,” says Phil. I argue
pants. I watch it admiringly. It jumps again, and
but not for long. Already, it is 60 degrees on the
I realize — suddenly, shockingly — that it is
beach.
attached to my hook, and running toward me. I
Off we go to Black Lake, the old reservoir
tighten the 6-pound test line, and the battle is on.
for the city of Ilwaco, recently stocked with
The fi sh looks too big for the gear. We — all the
lovely rainbow trout. I’ll be honest, I never
men on the dock — coax it in, offering advice
bothered to fi sh it before, preferring the wilder
like a ticker-tape moment. The fi sh jumps, runs,
steelhead streams that abound in Pacifi c and
tugs and pulls, demonstrating a
Clatsop County, and of course, all
boatload of trout trickery. The line
that ocean and the silver-backed
‘STILL
TIME
holds. Minutes blur by.
salmon. But rumor has it that
TO GO
Finally, one of my new-found
Nancy Allen, Phil’s wife, has just
FISHIN’,’
friends goes below the dock to net
landed a 4-pound trout. There was
SAYS PHIL. the beast. Another offers a plastic
no denying the excitement.
ice chest before the trout is even
A group of retirees has gathered
I ARGUE
landed. Photos on a half-dozen
on the small wooden dock that the
BUT NOT
phones (man’s new best
city built: Norm and Dan and Arlie,
FOR LONG. cell
friend) click away like a train
seniors for sure. On the surface, it
ALREADY,
thumping on the rails. I’m smiling,
appears that this fi shing event has
IT IS 60
12 years old again. Everyone is
more social implications than gam-
ing for meat. Stories stumble out
DEGREES ON smiling.
A car pulls over and a man
like the tide rising: fi shing in Idaho,
THE BEACH.
jumps out and greets the boys with
Montana, on the Deschutes and
an enthusiastic, “Wow! Are there
on the Salmon. Steelhead fi shing,
fi sh in this lake really this big?” No need to an-
bass, salmon, pike and trout — if it swims they
caught it. But the prize was in the telling: talking, swer that question. In the grass the trout glistens
like a newly minted coin. At 6 pounds, it looks
smoking, exaggerating and, yes, bending the
like a lost salmon.
truth, if only a little bit. Fudging, so to speak. It’s
The air is warm and annealing. A golden orb
okay, apparently, in fi shing.
rises, higher and higher in the sky. Shadow and
Phil brings out a jar of PowerBait. I twist it
light mingle, ancient friends. This lake and all
onto the hook and cast away. Quickly enough,
those trout, big and small, are but a fi ve-minute
the pole begins to twitch. Gently, I seize up on
the line. This is no salmon, just a small trout per- drive from Long Beach. They are waiting for
you. As is this magical day, and so close to home.
fect for pan-frying. I salivate thinking of trout