Story: The Legend of Dirty Bert & The Steelie Spear: Steelheader.net- Steelhead, Salmon and trout fishing

THE LEGEND OF DIRTY BERT & THE STEELIE SPEAR

“Dirty” Bert Winthrop was plumb crazy, and dirty. Not as in “perverted” dirty, although he was that too, but for the simple fact that he rarely bathed. He had a knack for ridiculous behavior, stinking, unnatural acts, and destruction. The destruction was mainly confined to him, but sometimes it would spill over onto us. I don’t know why we kept him around as a friend for so long, maybe it was the excitement of the unknown, or perhaps we were just idiots.

Late last summer, Bert, Chuck Tender, and I planned a trip down to the Cowlitz for some steelhead fishing, beer drinking, and general debauchery. Chuck and I headed over to pick up Bert at his house in Ethel. He met us at the front porch riding the largest wheeled-cooler I’ve ever seen, like a rodeo bull. He was coming straight at us at a high rate of speed, “Lookout you sonsabitches, Bert Winthrop is back in town!” He announced this every time we met, although I don’t know why, because I don’t recall him ever leaving town.

Bert had his gear corralled under both arms as his cooler slammed into the front tire of my pickup. Stuffed under one arm was a yellow “cracker rod” and reel, tackle…can (Folgers tin loaded with hooks, leader, dead worms, homemade lead weights, half a wool sock, and various unidentifiable items), and a bag of pork rinds. Under the other he held a pair of footless neoprene waders, a roll of Skoal, a partial half-gallon of Old Grandad, and a garden hoe.

“What the hell is that for Bert? Looks like a bent garden hoe.” He stuck the hoe right under my nose. From the fog of alcohol emanating from Bert’s pie hole, I could tell he had very recently caused the Old Grandad bottle to become “partial.” His eyes stared straight at me in a fiendish glaze (I referred to his expression as a glaze, sort of a drunken gaze). His eyes always straightened after he was half crocked, while sober he could look left and right without moving his head.

“That there is genuine steelhead spear, made it myself last night on my neighbor’s grindin’ wheel. Damn fine modification of a simple garden tool, eh?” Bert fondly admired his modified tool.

Chuck spoke up, “Hey Bert, I think the only modified tool around here is you. Did the neighbors know you used their grinder?”

“Nope, they don’t know nuthin! Don’t know I used their hoe either, HA HA!” Bert was in rare form.

“Bert, you dumbass, you can’t spear steelies, that’s illegal,” I shook my head in disbelief, stifling a laugh.

“Oh yeah you can, if’n they’s attackin you! This here’s a self-defense mechanism.” Bert explained after taking another horn off the jug.

“I see you wore your Sunday best Bert,” Chuck said sarcastically. Bert was sporting his usual trucker’s mesh cap with the naked ladies, chew stained cargo shorts, customized t-shirt that read, “Mystery at the Gas Station, Who Pumped Ethel?” and Birkenstock sandals. Over his head and shoulders he had draped a bobcat pelt. The angry cat’s face in permanent snarl, stuck over the crown of his cap. He claimed the bobcat warded off evil spirits and was good luck, but in reality all it did was ward off the ladies.

“Damn right, Chucko! I see you wore your homosexualsayswhat hat?” Bert laughed at his cleverness.

“Nice try Berto, how many times have you tried that stupid joke on me?” Chuck was quick this time.

“Oh dang, ya got me Chucky, first time too! Good for you, you aint’ as dumb as you look. Let’s get the hell outta here I got some beer and whiskey to drink and a steelie to spear!” Bert slapped the side of my pickup with his two-ton cooler as he hefted over the side rail and threw the rest of his junk in the back.

“What you got for beer in that cooler?” I asked despite knowing the answer. “You know we’re just goin down for one night and a day.”

“Three cases of Schmidtty. I brung plenty for them wimmens that’ll be wantin to beach it and party with ole Dirty B!” Bert yelled cracking open a frosty Schmidt and spraying the inside of my pickup with skunky slop and foam.

“Nice going jackass! Now get in and let’s go!” I yelled.

The ten minute trip down to the river property was uneventful, save for Bert and Chuck trading insults, lots of cursing, and Bert yelling out the window to proposition the 65 year old Betty Grundle while she was bent over picking cabbage. Apparently she wasn’t amused, because she yelled something about the lack of length in Bert’s package and how it would look nailed to her tool shed.

“That dirty ole wench, she’s spunky, ain’t she?” Bert laughed, toasting Mrs. Grundle with his third Schmidt of the ride and loaded up his lip with a healthy pinch of Skoal.

We arrived at my property and rode down through the gate to the “Old Bar” to set up our fishing “camp.” Camp was a few coolers, lawn chairs, and a loud radio. Some women kayakers had pulled up along the bank. Bert noticed them and stumbled out to say hello, “Well lookee here, they musta knowed Bert was in back in town! C’mon ladies how bout we party tonight? I got plenty of Schmidtty!”

He was such a smooth operator, I was surprised they didn’t take him up on the offer. Evidently they didn’t know Bert was “back in town” or they never would have pulled up. Of course they immediately left, much to Bert’s displeasure, “Hey, what’s wrong baby? Ain’t never seen a man wearin’ short pants with a wildcat on his head?”

“It’s beer thirty and time to rip some lip!” Chuck exclaimed tossing me a Busch Light as he cracked on open himself.

“Oh I see how you bastards roll, drinkin’ that garbage. Well, you two stay the hell outta my Schmidtty! Keep that horse whiz to yourselfs!” Bert’s delusional beer grading skill was known far and wide.

“No problem Bert, we’ll stay well away from your fine brew,” I stated as I finished rigging up my leader.

So, Chuck, Bert, and I set to fishing for summer run steelies. We lined up on the bank about twenty feet apart, casting up to the head of the narrow slot and letting our gear bounce down to the tail out. It was hot so we just waded shin deep in our wading boots. We made sure Bert was downwind. We could see the sheen of oil coming from Bert’s legs. He said, “That keeps me waterproof. You wipe off that there oil and next thing you know, you’re fillin’ up like a sponge. That’s how people get drownded!”

Chuck and I used a traditional corky and yarn/pencil-lead setup with a little shrimp oil and a single hook. Bert used something entirely different.

Bert called his set-up the “Baker’s Dozen.” It was basically the same setup that Chuck and I used, except where we used one or two corkies, he used 13.

“Them fishes sees it good! They chase it like it was candy.” Bert believed that steelhead were almost blind despite all the biologic science stating otherwise.

“Them tree-huggin’ hippies don’t know sh*t about fishin’. They likes to blab about how they understand them fish, only thing they understand is how to chug that ‘spensive coffee, wear them little black glasses, and eat rice cakes. Never caught a damn fish in their lives I bet. If they just spent a week with ole Dirty Bert they’d shore nuff learn a plenty! Don’t need all that fancy book learnin’ to think like a fish!” Bert yelled as he set down his most recent empty beer and chunked his gear out into the drift. “Watch and learn ladies!”

“Screw you Bert! Watch and learn this!” Chuck set the hook and a silver rocket exploded out of the water. He fought it like a champion up and down the drift as the fish made several runs and acrobatic aerial leaps. He even took a second to open a fresh beer and drink half of it while fighting the fish, “Top that Bert, you drunken sap! Bet you can’t drink and fish at the same time!”

“Chucko, I’m going to kick your monkey-ass up and down this bar after you break off that fish! I’ve caught more fish with my feet than you’ve ever seen.” Bert ran back towards the truck, yelling at Chuck all the way. “I’ll land that fish for ya Chucky my boy, just hold on a sec…”

I waded down below with the net, as Chuck angled the steelie to the bank just as Bert came raging back toward us, with something held high in the air. I looked back just in time to dive out of the way as Bert leapt high into the air. In one hand he held his “steelie spear” above his head, the other held an ice-cold Schmidt, both sparkled in the bright sunshine. The wildcat fur waved in the breeze as Bert dove toward the fish and Chuck, yelling like a crazed banshee.

Time seemed to hang in the balance, like everything was happening in slow motion. For a split second I thought I had traveled back in time to the plains of Montana, and was witnessing an ancient Crow warrior attacking a herd of buffalo…then I realized in the next split second that I was grossly mistaken. I was witnessing history alright, I’ll bet no one else, in the history of man had ever seen a drunken dude wearing a bobcat pelt, holding a Schmidt can in one hand, and a garden hoe fashioned into a spear in the other, diving at a terrified man trying to land a steelhead.

“WHOOOOO YEEEEEHAAAAA!” Dirty Bert yelled as he dove headlong into the river. Chuck’s face was frozen in fear, his life flashed before his eyes. The steelhead thrashed violently as Chuck dropped his rod and dove out of the way.

Seeing his opportunity to escape the angler, the fish ripped skyward spitting the hook and leader out of his mouth. Just as the enraged steelie came to the peak of his leap he was met with the razor sharp blades of a customized garden-hoe spear just behind the gill plate.

The full force of the collision rocked the river bottom. I fell backward into Bert’s open Schmidt cooler, birds fell from their perches, dogs barked, and somewhere off in the distance women screamed. Bert crashed into the water and disappeared. Seconds later he burst out of the water with a loud roar, fish dangling from the makeshift spear in one hand, and still holding the fresh Schmidtty in the other. “THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT, SON!” He took a drink of beer, “Hell, didn’t even spill a drop…”

Well, needless to say, it was quite a sight. Fish was on the menu for dinner, and we feasted like kings. Bert lit himself on fire only twice that night. It was a good day. No one would have believed our story, except a guide boat had been drifting by and a crazy old lady was videotaping her trip just as Bert made his leap. It took some fancy talking to get a copy of that tape from Betty Grundle.

The End

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"Curiosity is natural to the soul of man and interesting objects have a powerful influence on our affections."---Daniel Boone