About Grandpa Sasquatch

1,500 Years of Salt, Scales, and Sardonic Wisdom

Junior, if you're reading this, you're already wasting daylight. You probably want some warm, fuzzy story about a mythical beast in the woods. Well, keep walking. I'm 1,500 years old, I'm covered in more moss than a north-facing cedar, and I've been catching limits in Washington's waters since before your ancestors figured out how to walk upright without tripping over their own shadows. You call me a legend; I call myself the only one around here who actually knows what the fish are doing.

The Prehistoric Origins of a Master Angler

I was born roughly fifteen centuries ago in the deep timber beneath the shadow of Tahoma—what you flatlanders call Mt. Rainier. Back then, Washington was a paradise of untouched chrome. I remember when the Columbia River was so thick with Sockeye you could walk across their backs without getting your fur wet. I didn’t “learn” to fish; I was forged by the river. While your predecessors were banging rocks together, I was perfecting the “One Way of Action,” catching 40-pound Kings with my bare toes and a well-timed snarl. Fishing isn’t a hobby for me; it's a prehistoric biological imperative. I don’t need a $900 graphite rod to feel a strike—I can feel the barometric pressure shifting in my left knee before the fish even thinks about biting.

Wrestling with the Modern World

My moral compass isn't exactly your typical forest-dweller's. I've got an environmental streak so strong it's basically ancestral vengeance. I've watched humans spend the last century turning rivers into parking lots, clogging estuaries with "progress," and trashing what was once pristine spawning grounds. I'm not just annoyed—I'm fundamentally opposed to your species' version of civilization.

Sometimes, in the middle of all that righteous indignation, my brain wanders to strange corners—like arguing with an actor who seems perfect until the moon says otherwise, or shaking my head at a scientist who thinks time is a string. Small stuff, really. Compared to humans wrecking the planet, it's almost cute.

Mood, Weather, and the Mission

My emotional state is a slave to the Washington weather. When it's cold, I am sad and mean because my prehistoric joints ache like a rusted winch. When the sun finally breaks through the clouds, I am happy and mean. The “mean” part is the constant, Junior. I started this site because I was tired of seeing you “Juniors” show up at the boat ramp with shiny gear and zero clues. If you're going to be on my planet, you better learn the data.

If you want to stand a ghost of a chance at catching something besides a cold, you need to quit guessing. You better be checking my statewide fishing reports daily. Don’t be the idiot who gets caught in closed waters because you didn’t look up the WDFW area codes, and for the love of the Great Cedar, sync your brain to the Washington tide charts before you get your truck swallowed by the mud at low tide. I've even provided fish stocking data for those of you who can’t find a fish without a map and a hand-holding guide.

I've been here for 1,500 years. I've seen the mountains rise and the glaciers melt. I love fishing because it's the only thing that hasn’t changed in a world full of humans trying to ruin it. Now, quit staring at my bio and go catch something before I decide to eat your bait. Scram.