Outdoors | Sun safety and steelhead: a fisherman's wake-up call

My Pendleton wool, broad-brim hat rests atop a pair of flannel-lined jeans piled up on a hardback chair. Socks are stuffed in round-toe cowboy boots on the laminate floor. The tails of my long-sleeve corduroy shirt cover my skivvies. Once again, I’m sitting pant-less at the dermatologist clinic when I could be fishing.

A nice young aide led me to the exam room and took a photograph of the tiny pewter-colored scab on my right ankle. My hope is they will burn it off with a blast of liquid nitrogen and send me home with a clean bill of health. While I wait, my mind drifts back to the previous day when I fished with two pals on the Hanford Reach.

We drifted faux eggs and red-hackle flies in a fall Chinook salmon spawning area near Ringold Springs. Where mountain whitefish often congregate to feed on loose eggs. Much to my surprise, I hooked and landed a nice hatchery steelhead on our second drift. Five minutes later, Ted hooked another. Observing how his feisty steelhead thrashed and rolled at the surface on tight line, I asked, “Did you check your drag?”

No sooner were words out of my mouth when his monofilament line broke with the sound of a rifle shot. What followed was a brief tutorial from me on how to adjust drag on a spinning reel used once a year. One more pass over shallow-water salmon redds and Ken got into a steelhead of his own. Unfortunately, his line went slack when the fish blitzed under the boat. What followed was a polite reminder to replace aged monofilament line at least once every 5 years.

While my able companions messed with their vintage tackle, I hooked another keeper steelhead. The day progressed nicely, except for only one whitefish caught, this one a fat 20-incher Ken carefully reeled in to partly assuage the pain experienced when his steelhead broke off.

A garbled call came on the car phone while I hauled my boat home. “We’ve had a cancellation,” a receptionist from the orthopedic clinic informed. “Can you come in tomorrow morning?”

Catching steelhead had amped me up. I imagined a quick return to the Ringold shoreline with Spey rod in hand. Putting thoughts of swinging a fly out of my mind, I agree to the appointment. The following morning, I snap to attention when Doctor Small enters the exam room and introduces two trailing trainees. “Looks like a full court press,” I reply.

While I describe a dark spot on the back of my left knee, he bends over to examine the crusty scab on my right ankle and remarks, “We’ll have to remove it.”

“What about the spot on my knee?” I ask.

“Don’t worry. It’s a benign growth that comes with age. We call it a wisdom spot.”

“I’ve heard of calling moles beauty marks, but this is the first time I heard of a wisdom spot.”

“You can now consider yourself both wise and beautiful.”

“Please burn it off. Its presence bothers my wife.”

One trainee injects lidocaine into the ugly aberration on my ankle with a fine-gauge needle while the other trainee peers over his shoulder. I watch while a clean incision is made with a scalpel and excised tissue is set aside for diagnosis. Reflecting how poorly I fileted my steelhead the prior evening, I remark to the trainee, “I’m glad it was you wielding the knife instead of my older brother. He has the tremors.”

A dime-size hole in my ankle is evident where blood vessels, nerves, and connective tissue are now exposed. What follows is some kind of electrical stimulation. “This may hurt,” the trainee says.

“I can tolerate pain except that which occurs when a sadistic dentist inserts a needle to deaden my sensitive gums,” I reply.

Doctor Small burns off the spot behind my knee, skin tag on my right ear, and a rough patch on my left temple with liquid nitrogen while I grip the exam bench and wince. Walking out the door with a handy brochure titled “Post-Biopsy Care,” my eye catches on the line, “Don’t soak in water for 7 days.”

So much for Spey casting for steelhead later this week, I think. Guess which leg of my stocking foot waders leaks like a sieve?

Reflecting on a brother-in-law who had a basal cell carcinoma cut out of his ear, I plan to lather on sunscreen, wear a large-brim hat, and don a UPF 50+ long-sleeve sun hoodie when I bring my golf clubs out of winter hibernation. Fish logos on the front of my hoodies correspond nicely with a colorful flag on my golf cart that reads, “Should have gone fishing.” Depending on results of the tissue biopsy, I might also opt for knee-length socks (golfer’s hose) and fashionable breeches (knickers).

So far, I have shunned regular use of sunscreen when I fish. Everybody knows fish don’t bite when you have strange odor on your hands. Although one must be careful to minimize harmful sun exposure when pursuing a favorite outdoor sport, I’ve yet to see an angler wearing knickers.

-Dennis Dauble is author of five books about fish and fishing and a recent book about 19 years of cabin life. He can be contacted via his website DennisDaubleBooks.com.

This story was originally published March 2, 2026 at 8:00 AM.