One cold winter day my old pal, Burien builder Dave Stamborsky, and I were searching for a likely place to catch a steelhead. I convinced him we should try the Hamma Hamma on the Olympic Peninsula.

It's a short, narrow little stream that flows out of the mountains and dumps into Hood Canal. I had fished it before, but never in the winter.

Since it was too small to float, we decided to hike it up to the famous Blue Hole, where I had caught summer run fish before. Dave had never heard of the famous Blue Hole, but he was an easy mark for my raving tales.

When we got there at about eight in the morning, we were looking at three feet of snow under an icy crust. Dave is a big man and athletic, a former football star at Highline High. He outweighed me by 20 pounds. We looked at the crust, tested it in our hip boots, decided it would be okay and started up the river.

It was easy hiking for a bit, but then Dave broke through. He was up to his knees in that brittle snow cover. Somehow, I was able to stay on top.

Dave hauled one leg out and made it about four feet upstream, when he broke through again.

Luckily, I was still slithering along, urging him not to give up. I cheered him by painting a picture of the great fishing that awaited us at the Blue Hole, only about a half mile upstream. He showed admirable spirit and determination, breaking through on every step, the snow crust soaking his jeans up to his crotch.

I felt a little guilty because I was able to stay up there like a skater.

Dave was not too happy after about 200 yards and also not bashful about telling me my idea of scoring big at the Blue Hole was rapidly losing its appeal.

I suggested that he just lay down on the frozen surface and I could just skid him along like a log. He failed to see the humor in that. So I suggested he get on his hands and knees to spread the weight around.

I said if he wanted to go back to the car, he could sit down facing east and I would just push him back to the car, like a grocery cart, as it was downhill most of the way, and if he got going too fast he could use his hands for brakes.

None of my brilliant schemes appealed to him. That ended our quest for steelhead for that day. He agonized his way back to the car, the same way we came in, and would not be placated till he got some hot coffee in his belly.

As we started for home he said, "You got a lot of crust, Robinson. Next time I pick the river."

A month later, we made a trip to the mighty Cowlitz. I drove to his house at dawn, helped him load up his jet sled and we headed south in his big pickup. We made a ritual stop for breakfast at the Poodle Dog in Fife, and then with spirits high, headed off down the freeway.

Halfway there, Dave suddenly pulled over onto the shoulder, announcing he had to take a nature call. He left the motor running, turned on the blinker lights, climbed out and walked around his rig to take care of his problem, discreetly hidden from cars whizzing by.

The Devil made me do it. I slid over to the driver's side, put it in gear, and slowly moved his pickup down the shoulder while Dave was shouting and shaking one fist at me.

I have scores of other Stamborsky stories I will tell in future columns -- if he lets me live.