off the bottom as trying to pry an abalone off a rock. Tie a 12 lb. test line to a 12 lb. bar of iron, then throw the iron in the water. You're pulling on it waiting for it to rust light enough to be lifted. It's like that; all constant, heavy pressure, with little sign of success. When the fish got tired of circling around in the hole it too moved off upstream, where everyone knew there was an old car body that was famous for attracting fish for breakoffs. Mine circled widely around the dangerous spot but never found it, then headed west to midriver. The water shallowed out there, and I realized I could see the fish towing me, dark and ponderous, with a fly showing clearly in the dorsal fin. I decided I must be foul hooked, so I pressured the fish even harder, and broke it off. "I was foul hooked", I explained to Don as I anchored back in line. I could see a fly in it's dorsal fin". "Yes, but was the fly in the dorsal fin YOUR fly?", Don asked. \"Probably every fish in this hole has a fly or two snagged somewhere on its' body. It fought like a fair hookup." That was a new thought, and I felt suddenly very, very stupid. I started talking striped bass with Dan Blanton who was two boats down the line. Dan is the outdoor writer for one of the big San Francisco papers, and has been published widely in Outdoor life, Salt Water Sportsman, Fly fisherman, etc. I had been reading articles by Dan Blanton for more than 20 years. Talking across prams, we shared information on the state of the striper fisheries in S.F. Bay and the Umpqua-Coos Bay systems. I told him of some of my experiences fishing for stripers on the east coast, which Dan had never done. I even got to the point where Dan offered to take me striper fishing "if you ever get to San Francisco", but I blew it five minutes later when I mentioned that my favorite outdoor writer was, hands down, Charley Waterman. I must have said the wrong thing. Dan didn't say another word to me, and left an hour later without hooking a fish. So much for my social skills. About 9 o'clock, a nondescript fisherman in battered rowboat approached from downriver to a chorus of conversation as he rowed along behind the hogline. "That's Bill Schaadt," Don said. "Hey, Bill, we saved a place for you here". Don pointed to the narrow space between his pram and mine, the only break in a hundred foot line of boats. At a glance, the Bill discerned that the only choices were either end of the line or the premier spot between Don and myself. Bill moved in and I was introduced. He dropped his anchors, worked on his leader and fly for a minute or so, and began casting. There was really nothing identifiable about Bill, which was in his case his distinctive feature. Everyone else in the line had a fancy something, a well lacquered pram, a fancy rod or saltwater reel, a lofty down coat, a cowboy hat. Nothing Bill had could be identified. The rowboat looked like its odometer had turned over several times. His rod was generic,
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