NW Gems - The Middle Fork "Hideaway"
Backpack fly fishing the middle fork of the Snoqualmie River, WA
I don’t pretend to be an expert on this river, only an expert of the small region that I have occupied on occasion. Although it’s been a awhile, I know this stretch well. A canopied hike from the Gateway through a flourished floor of fern, moss and flora. A little rain. A little sun. And a whole lot of fish.
I first found my place on the middle fork in 1998. I was living in Seattle at the time as a weekend warrior of non-city life. It was a hobby of mine to scour through REI elevation maps of the North Cascades and the Olympic National Forest searching for interesting, off the beaten path, locations to explore. This was more of a beaten path with bush-whack possibilities. However, having only two days to explore before returning to madness, it appeared perfect for a quick retreat.
It was a mid-July, sunny, late Friday afternoon. I grabbed my pack, a fly rod, my rifle, some clothing and set off for an area that I knew nothing about. The drive out of the city and into the wilderness is astonishing. The noise starts to fade. The air becomes cleaner. The strobe light of the sun through the trees replaces reflections of glass and concrete. The Rolling Stones serenade and time seems to drift away.
“Why are you carrying a gun?”
The parking area of the Middle Fork Trailhead is ample and usually quite full. It’s not surprising for wilderness access this close to the opulent human wasteland that is Seattle. What is surprising is the way the trail seems to bleed away the crowd once passing through the Gateway.
Out of the car and into my gear, my boots leave the pavement and over the Gateway bridge to the Middle Fork trail beyond. It’s cooler out now and a little damp as I begin the trek to my unknown destination. It is now mid evening, and the shadows begin to grow. I pass over a small, wood footbridge protecting a now dry stream. The trail is well used and easy to follow. Another footbridge lays ahead and I notice, through the trees, an aberration above it in the distance. Something familiar and yet so out of place moving in my direction. The color pink stands in stark contrast to the earth tones of the forest.
I cross the next small bridge and, around the following bend, encounter a surprised female jogger. Dressed in pink from head to toe with a white sash and a rainbow headband, she looked like a cotton candy swirl from the fair. She stopped abruptly, and I gave her a friendly "Hello". My salutation did nothing to ease her anxiety as she asked, "Why are you carrying a gun?" I responded, "It’s not a gun. It’s a rifle. I carry it in case my bear spray fails to deter a bear or cat. It affords me a secondary means of defending myself." "A bear or cat?", she replied. And I said, "Yes. And you look like food to them". She gave me a quick, nervous smile, said "good evening," and continued her run down the path. I will never forget that woman, and I doubt that she will ever forget me. Encounter number one.
The forest floor grew darker as I got a late start. I just passed the seventh footbridge and decided to turn left directly through the forest toward the sound of the river below. Navigating with careful footwork, I made my way down the gentle slope, navigating between ferns and fir trees and enjoying every step. After approximately two hundred yards, I stood at the river's edge.
I sat down on a large rock and paused for a few minutes. The sound of the rushing water filled my ears. I needed to eat. "It’s time to get wet", I thought to myself as I dropped my pack and swapped my hiking boots for my felt-bottom waders. I could tell the water was cold. The flow was swift but manageable, and there was much more daylight left on the water. I put my pack back on and proceeded to hike upriver in three to four feet of water for about one hundred yards. The river then opened up out of the narrow forest to wide open skies. Just in time for dinner.
“There’s a fish behind that rock.”
Thirty more yards and I found my space. A sand and rock beach capped a West to Northwest bend in the river. The beach backed up to what I remember thinking was perfect bear brush and small trees. But, there was a nice, flat area for my tent and the ability to back cast on this point was above average.
I pulled my cookware and a freeze dried dinner pouch from my pack, fired up the stove and poured a cup of whiskey while waiting for the water to boil. Fish began to rise in the flats as the sun set down river to the West. It was perfect.
As I ate my re-hydrated dinner, I pondered a large rock in the river that was creating a significant back swell pool behind it. The type of pool where fish like to hang out and escape the current of the river. “There’s a fish behind that rock” I thought, as I sipped my whisky. It was near dusk and the dishes were done and it was time to “toss bugs”. All I could think about was the fish behind that rock.
Three casts was all it took. And wham, rod tip down hard. It was certainly a fish of good size, fighting and running as I reeled and released. Now I’m wet again as darkness dwarfs the light. I click on my headlight as I near the end of my line and flip my net across my back and around my shoulder to the front. The light catches the golden beauty of a brook trout swaying just below the water surface. He flips once more as I net him up. I remove the fly, pause to appreciate, and gently released him back to the river.
“What a great catch”, I thought as I returned to my tent for another whiskey and some warm, dry nighty night clothing. The stars were out now and I wished that I had gathered firewood earlier for some warmth and light. “I will remedy that in the morning”, I thought as I crawled into my tent and slipped into my bag for some well deserved sleep.
I awake to the break of dawn. The dim, white blueish light creeping in from the East. The water is alive with fish poking and flipping about. On with my gear and into the river I go, starting upstream. A few flip casts, and I have my second catch of the weekend. A small cutthroat trout this time. What a beautiful morning.
“A blessed hole, I would say.”
I fished my way back down to camp as the air warmed considerably. It was time to shed the outer layer and enjoy breakfast and coffee. Another fisherman passed with a friendly, “Good morning”. I said, “Good morning”. And, no sooner did the words leave my lips, he hooked a beautiful cutty behind the same rock that I had caught the brookie the evening prior. “It’s a good hole”, I said. “A blessed hole I would say”, he replied enthusiastically. We shared a cup of coffee and talked about life and fishing. Thirty minutes later, he disappeared around the bend downstream. Encounter number two.
I spent the rest of this Saturday fishing, swimming and generally screwing around. It was summer. It was sunny. It was quiet. The sound of the wind through the trees and the movement of water over rock interrupted only by the occasional raven caw or squirrel chatter. Nothing less than Nirvana. I smiled… often.
Encounter number three came on Sunday. My last day. I started the day as I normally do when backpacking. With a fresh pressed coffee, warm granola and dried eggs. Another sunny day was on tap. I was looking forward to fishing downstream for the day. My plan was interrupted.
Shortly after breakfast, while I was prepping for the day, I was alerted to footsteps in the brush behind my camp. These weren’t the footsteps of a human. Too soft. Too deliberate. Instinctively I quietly reached for my bear spray and my rifle. I backed slowly down into the river away from my camp and crouched. Whatever it was kept moving back and forth behind camp making very little noise. All of my food and “smells” had been carefully hung out of reach in a large tree after breakfast. “What am I missing?”, I thought as I waited slightly chilled, rifle across my knee and eyes piercing the underbrush.
When she finally revealed herself, I was astonished. This wasn’t our first encounter. She was beautiful. Medium-long black and brown hair. Fine lines, and a healthy rear end. And she was deadly.
This black bear had cubs. As she began checking out my camp, her offspring came out from the brush behind her. Almost unknowingly, my feet were busy navigating around the deep swimming hole in a backwards, upstream track across the river from my temporary home. She noticed me and knew what I was doing. It wasn’t like I could hide.
She sniffed around the front of my tent and peered around the inside, as I had not zipped it down. Her cubs, busy hopping around, seemed gleeful at their find. One cub took the pants I had left out to dry and began chewing and rolling around. Soon the sibling joined in and it became a tug of war that cost me a fine pair of North Face zip-offs. Damn kids!
I found myself at the bank of the opposite side of the river. Slowly, I made my way up the bank and concealed myself thirty to forty feet upstream in the forest where I could still view the majestic lady and her two young heathens. They didn’t seem bothered by my association and kept sniffing around with nothing to find. This went on for another two or three minutes with each of them stopping from time to time to look around and ponder. Mamma bear finally moved into the water for a drink. Then, as nonchalant as her arrival, pushed her way back into the brush with cubs in tow.
I sat in my spot and made myself comfortable for awhile. This was not my first time in close proximity with mama bear and her kids. I had a previous encounter when I was a teenager in the forest behind where I was raised. That time was a touch more hectic as it was me that surprised them. Nonetheless, this new encounter got the blood pumping. I don’t know if it was karma for encounter number one or if it was just fate. But seeing those bears in my camp was beautiful. It was a reminder of what I was taught as a child. When out in the world, you are at the will of nature. And, nature’s will is always stronger than yours. Thanks Pappy!
“This is how life is on the river.”
Aside from my pants and a knocked-over clean pan, everything was cherry. Just like I left them. I methodically gathered my belongings, packed up and figured that I didn’t need to fish the rest of the day. I locked myself into my gear and made my way back through the river to the middle fork trail that I had come in on. Instead of turning right on the trail to head back to my car, I decided to turn left and hike further up into the wilderness. No need to waste a perfectly good day in the woods just because I expeditiously felt the need to vacate from my perfect river setting.
That day I ended up hiking five to six miles and fishing again before arriving back at my vehicle in the paved parking lot. Looking out at the river while driving away and for my entire drive back to chaos, I felt enormous gratitude and love for the weekend that I had just experienced. Nature has always been like that for me.
I ended up making over a dozen trips back to this spot on the middle fork while living in Seattle. I’m certain that I could make the journey blindfolded if necessary. Rain or shine, it is an ethereal location given to us to enjoy. I plan to return again soon.
This is how life is on the river. Slow, considerate, purposeful and peaceful. A far cry from the madness of the city.
All the love. -m
