The Stages Of Skunking:

As some of you readers may know, I was nearly skunked on a recent fishing trip to the Crooked River. Even though I was able to catch a decent fish, I thought a lot about skunking and the process that it entails. I thought about the stages of skunking and which kinds are worse than others. By the time I finished, I ended up with the makings of a religion. Essentially, for the few who do not know, "skunking" is a process in which an angler fails to catch a single fish. Many anglers confuse the term with not catching desirable specie or whatnot, but a true skunking is when and only when an angler does not catch ANYTHING. Even trash fish such as suckers count as catches in my mind. However, regardless of the terminology, there are many stages of skunking that deserve attention, as well as intensities. This post will delve into these.

On my last post, I published a humorous cartoon detailing the stages of skunking. If the website messed up the copying and pasting, then it can be found at tripod.com or on my Google+ page. Although the cartoon was popular on the communities I published it on, I have my own levels of skunking that are slightly different from the ones on the cartoon. The first is what I call happy-go-luckiness, which occurs at every trip's beginning. You cast excitedly in the hopes of your first strike, there's a sense of freshness and renewal, and all's well on the water. Then, as you continue to cast, the next stage slowly creeps up on you. The slight annoyance stage. In this stage, you are increasingly becoming irritable at the lack of strikes and the rising fish refusing your perfect presentation. You begin to wonder what's up, but still carry an air of self confidence and contentment. However, it's a warning that things are about to take a turn for the worse.

 Fishermen in the first two stages are commonly heard saying things like this: "Okay, there's a rise just where I cast, not sure what's up, but I'm sure I'll catch one already. Oh, yeah, I'm sure."

 After more time fishing and not catching, the frustration stage ensues. During this stage, you are becoming increasingly angry. You often start muttering curse words a midst the occasional prayer or fit of self loathing. This stage is bad enough when the water seems dead, devoid with life, but is intolerable if fish are mockingly rising inches from your fly. As the trout will make repeated valiant attempts to consume your perfectly presented BWO, you begin to sorely wish you brought along a handgun or two.

 Fishermen in the frustration stage are commonly heard saying things like this: "Are you serious? That stupid little fish had the balls to rise two  inches from my fly?? What in god's name are those little bastards eating?"

 After the frustration stage, comes the stage that is miserable, but quite entertaining to watch: the unrestrained anger and fury stage. It usually involves screaming, cussing, smacking the water with your rod, more screaming, and overreacting to common occurrences such as snags and tangles. It is amusing from a distance but frightening close up.

The  anger and fury stage never really subsides. But it's intensity often calms down, only to be replaced by the bitterness stage. This stage, also known as the old man grumpus stage, usually consists of vengeful muttering and groaning about how you can't believe this is happening or that you should have stayed home and never gone. This stage usually occurs in a situation where catching fish would have otherwise made a day perfect, such as a day with great weather, a four day weekend, and
lots of friends around. Of course, none of my friends are interested in fishing, so the latter rarely occurs with me.

Fishermen in the bitterness stage are commonly heard saying things like this: "What a waste of time. I could be home, resting and relaxing, but instead I'm out here on this freezing river catching nothing. I wish I had never come here. I wish I had-"

Depending on how long the skunkee continues to fish, we encounter numerous other stages. There's the classic "prayer stage", where a fisherman converts and prays at least several gods in the hope of a fish. This is not only usually pathetically ineffective, but also highly offensive, as I have seen fishermen praying to many gods, often at the same time. It should best be done quietly. There is also the "chronic depression phase" which exhibits symptoms of dejected, emotionless casting, blank, soulful expressions, and exhausted head shakes instead of frantic casts in response to rises. Instead of cursing up a storm when presented with a snag or tangle, a fisherman in the clinical depression phase will merely sigh. Lastly, there is the phase of false renewal. Often fueled by a missed strike or rise, the unfortunate fisherman in this phase once again adopts a hopeful, optimistic attitude. Although it initially seems better than the other phases presented, it usually ends in a catastrophic collapse when the false hope turns out to be just as its name suggests. False.

Now, in addition to the phases given as examples, there are numerous variables that contribute to the unstable mental capacities of a skunked angler. A notable example is when someone else has the skill or fortune in catching another fish. Not only is this frustrating in that it becomes evident that the fish are catchable, but it seems exceedingly unfair to you. All humans are selfish, but fishermen are the most selfish humans of all, and the mere notion that an angler ten feet away from you in a spot you just fished with an identical fly as yours has caught a fish is absurd and infuriating. However, there are many variables to the humiliation you would feel in this situation. If the fish was small, or perhaps an "undesirable" species like a sucker, then it's not too big of a deal. If the fish was a good sized rainbow or brown, it's much more frustrating. If the fish was larger than average, then it becomes worse. If the said trout happened to be trophy sized, well, it takes a lot of willpower not to snap the said fisherman's neck. In addition, it not only matters what was caught, but who it was caught by. If it was caught by some elderly gentlemen with an ancient rod who had clearly been fishing the river for decades it's one thing. If it's some young guy in his twenties with a Patagonia vest , expensive polarized sunglasses, and a rod that costs more than your house, it's another. But if the person was some six year old with a beginner rod on his first fishing trip who screams bloody murder and isn't old enough to realize bragging about fish can get you shot, it's a really rough day on the water.

Although most trips in the process of ending in a skunk end that way, occasionally a kindred or really stupid fish decides you've gone through enough and bites on. Now this is where things get interesting.  In many cases, the fish is landed and all is well. However, much more often the angler, nervous and in shock and disbelief, either panicks or does something stupid and the hook pops out, leaving the said angler stunned on the river bank. Sometimes it is of no fault of the angler, but crap like this comes with the sport. When this happens, many, myself included, will just say to hell with it and count that one as a fish. They'll simply head back up the bank to their car, suppress their conscience, and go to the Brightwood Tavern to tell a fish story. Others are more sporting than that. Looking in disbelief at their now-straight rod, what ensues is often a combination of screaming, sobbing, casting frantically again, and contemplating suicide by drowning in the river. Some anglers, like my friend Philip, shrug their shoulders and laugh good naturedly, only to curse to themselves and the river repeatedly when they think nobody's looking. In other words, skunking sucks.

The fish in the picture is microscopic, but it saved me from a day of skunking. Note that this picture was taken many years ago and I am not this young.

Also ever-ready is the list of excuses that a skunked angler always resorts to. They range from as simple as a crowded river to as complex as lunar cycles, the Pythagorean theorem, and a rip in the fabric of the space time continuum best explained in an episode of Doctor Who withheld from the public and only available through cyber encryption. Others include cold fronts, warm fronts, masking hatches, cows upstream of where you are fishing, low water, high water, high waters (the pants can be very distracting to the fish and fisherman), and being out of Size 24 Griffith's Gnats. All fishermen should always keep a handy list on them at all times in case they run into another angler. Or, consult the chart made below. Pick one from each column.

Too much....                                 ....cold

Not enough....                              .....heat

Out of....                                      .....Size 18 BWO's

Way too many....                         .....crowds

Unexpected....                             .... cows

Bad...                                          ....other fishermen

Ridiculous...                                   ....river otters


"Yeah, man. There's not nearly enough cows. Lockjaw city! If only I had gotten here earlier...."


Next Post: The Ten Levels of Fishing Success.

Winter Fishing the Crooked River January 27, 2014.

I know that many, if not all of my posts have given very rosy views of fishing. It's like that with any fishing blog or magazine on the internet. Everyone always catches nice fish, cloudy, freezing weather magically clears, and the only real problems of note are the comical quirks of a fishing partner. However, it's important to remember that fishing is fishing. It sometimes frustrates you, infuriates you, and makes you want to scream, shout, and throw your rod across the river. Yesterday was almost one of those days.

It all started yesterday when I decided to give fishing the Crooked River a shot. The weather's been warm lately and insects have been hatching steadily, and I had good luck the last time I was there. It seemed like I was going to catch a ton of fish. As we drove from Government Camp over the pass, it was very cold and foggy, but it cleared up once we reached Prineville.

 Now very excited, we began to drive along the river and I excitedly scouted the water. I was immediately crestfallen. It seemed the entire Oregon community of fly fishermen was there this very day. Every riffle and stretch of water had at least three guys in it, all beating the water to a froth with their casts. I was irritated, to say the least. You see, I am used to fishing in the secluded Mt. Hood area, where crowds are rarely, if ever, a problem. Even other rivers I fish regularly like the Deschutes are at least big enough to escape crowds. Even smaller rivers like the John Day are so easy to fish that I don't even mind crowds. However, the Crooked River is not as easy to fish as the John Day and much smaller than the Deschutes. So crowds are more intolerable than usual. Grumbling, I tied on a midge cripple and headed for the river.

And so it began. I immediately noticed fish rising, and cast to them. But of course, they mysteriously disappeared as soon as my fly reached the spot they were at. Giving that spot up, I headed to another section of the river I had always had good luck in and found five other anglers in that area. Cursing and muttering the virtues of concealed weapons under my breath, I found a decent spot and spent some time casting to it. Again, nothing. I switched flies to a Purple Haze, and waited for the five guys to move on before diving in their spot and trying again. Once again, nothing. I swear, I would see these trout going nuts for these Blue Winged Olives the exact same size as my Purple Haze, and I would then cast over the same water with nothing. I even saw trout come up, look at the fly, and move on. And they weren't even trophy trout, either! They were the eight inch hot dogs that were supposed to be easy to catch! Cursing and muttering with indignation, I looked over and saw some other guy catch one in the spot I was just in. On a Purple Haze. Now furious, I cast repeatedly and even had one take an honest swing at my fly, but of course I missed. Not giving a sh*t anymore, I tromped back across the river to the shore and headed upstream.

This section was a great looking pool draining out of a flat riffle, and had foam everywhere. Trout were rising steadily, and I cast out my Purple Haze, hoping for anything. However, I could barely see it in all the foam, so I pretty much set my hook at every rise. Eventually, a solid twelve incher hit, and I had a fish on for the first and only time of the trip. Of course, he had to wriggle free before I could take a photo, but that's how it goes. I left soon after, and although the day was, all in all, pretty disappointing, many of the people I talked to did even worse. And that's what's really important to me!

Now, I am sorry there wasn't any fish porn in this post, so I included a picture of a Deschutes fish I caught last Salmonfly hatch. It's the same species, so it should count. Until next time, then!