Middle Fork (November 2010)

As if I hadn’t had enough. It was November and I had heard that the Middle Fork of the Willamette was a good section to fish. Well I just had to check it out despite the temperature being in the 40’s and it was raining. I’m always up for an adventure though.

Like most my other chronicles, it started early. I packed up and headed west on Hwy. 58 towards Oakridge. I got to a coffee shop and indulged in my legal drug of choice, caffeine. Basically, I just drove down the highway until I saw a spot that I thought looked good. I fished one section without any success so I moved on. Like the Mckenzie, the Willamette is a beautiful river. At least this section of it was.

I pulled off, grabbed my gear and jumped over the guardrail. I found a spot that looked promising. Although, it was not easy getting down to the river. It could have been a lot easier if I hadn’t been so careful. It was quite steep, and I probably could have been at the bottom in a couple seconds. Once I traversed down and got to the river I was able to cross onto a shallow gravel bar and fish a decent hole. I tied on my go to possie bugger, and it didn’t fail me. Sure enough there were some nice trout holding in there. I caught a few, one decent one that I decided to take a picture of. Clever me.

Not much else to this story here. Just a cool river and some fish. Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to see Sasquatch. So you won’t be seeing me on the Discovery channel anytime soon. Bummer. 

My Deschutes Initiation (July 2010)

 I have yet to travel to many other rivers other than the ones here in Oregon, but I am not afraid to say that I think the Deschutes is one of the greatest in the country. Not only does it hold quality fish, but the scenery is incredible. Whether I am rafting down it wishing I had my fly rods, or on a fishing trip, the Deschutes never fails to impress. The canyon, the rolling hills, and that train that looks like it’s going to run right through your tent at 2 in the morning because you pitched it too close to the tracks, all add up to something special.

After high school I went down the Deschutes from Warm Springs to Maupin on a fishing trip. I went with my uncles and my cousin. It was a lot of fun. I caught my first Redside on the fly while on that trip. I guess you could say this trip was my initiation, but I’m going to call it my pre-initiation. After this trip I got busy with college and what not, and my dad was still holding out on me with those fly rods in the safe.

Needless to say, when my Uncle Mark called me in June to see if I would be interested in going down the Deschutes in July, I was game. This time I would have my own gear and would actually know how to fly fish.

After work I left for the canyon. While driving I couldn’t help but feel blessed to live in Oregon. This state has a lot to offer, and I got to see a lot of it on my way. Starting in Eugene heading east you get the lush rainforest of old firs and beautiful McKenzie. Then you see Three-Fingered Jack over the pass. After that you’ve got the high desert and big ponderosa pines and not to mention the awesome view of Three Sisters. I was lucky not to run into on coming traffic. Finally, heading down into the canyon you’ve got the desert and barren hills. Let’s just say I have had much worse four hour drives.

I got to camp that evening excited to see everybody, and enjoyed some good food. They got there a day earlier and had some success. Uncle Mark hooked an absolute pig. The steelhead was about 30”.  After some more fishing stories and catching up, oh and a couple Mirror Ponds, I was ready to hit the sack and get ready for the next day.

The alarm went off at 4 a.m. and I wasn’t even tired. I was stoked to get on the river. The light that morning was incredible and it made for a beautiful initial float. In fact the main picture on the blog was taken on that morning. We got to our first spot that was a good one. It had a big riffle with some deep slots. I had a spey rod this trip and was trying to get the hang of it. After working it over for a bit we didn’t catch anything. On to the next spot. The next spot was a great riffle for trout. I had my 7-weight and tied on a couple nymphs. Sure enough I hooked into a nice Redside. The next take was a big surprise. Granted, I was nymphing for trout, but in this riffle there happened to be a steelhead. I set the hook and then realized this was no trout. It took about 15 minutes to land him. It was a nice hatchery steelhead that we were going to throw in the cooler. This guy had other plans though. As my uncle was just about to take the picture, the steelhead had one more wiggle in him and I dropped him in the river. I tried tackling it, but it was too late. He was gone. My uncle and I just stared at each other for a split second, then we started laughing. Oh well! We agreed that next time we would finish him off, then take the picture.

 

Catching that steelhead was fun, but it didn’t compare at all to my first one I caught on the swing. I have to say that swinging for steelhead is the way to go.

The rest of the day was fun, but uneventful. That evening though, was one for the books.

After dinner, I went with my uncle’s stepson Cullen who is an excellent angler and respected guide as well. We headed down river to a famous section that produces a lot of steelhead. I had a spey rod that Cullen was kind enough to let me borrow. A while had passed, and I was finally getting in a little rhythm with the spey. Using a spey rod is a fun way to fish for steelhead. Not long had passed and there it was, the initial grab. FISH ON! I yelled downstream to Cullen and he came up to coach me on this one. This steelhead was different than my first two. It was strong, and very aggressive. It was a native. She took me into my backing twice, and even with the large spey rod she was quite a ride. I landed her and was able to take a picture. She gave quite a fight and it took a long time to revive her. But she swam away with confidence.

That night at camp I was telling my story and everyone kept saying how lucky I was. And I was. Then the train came around the corner and lit up the whole canyon almost to confirm how lucky I really was to be on the Deschutes. Everyone just stopped and watched. It was epic.

The next day was a nice float. No fish. It was one of those days that Mr. Orvis talks about. Being rewarded by the beautiful surroundings, despite not catching any fish. And that’s why I love this sport, and the Deschutes especially.

The one that hooked me (June 2010)

Winter had passed, and the Blazers had upset me again. An entertaining season, but not the one I was hoping for. On a brighter note, I graduated college…early of all things. Not really sure how or why I did that. Anyways. After that I started working full time and anticipating the end of the rainy season.

Spring rolled on by and the rivers were receding to a point that I could actually fish them from the bank without having to worry about being swept away for good. Not to say I didn’t try. I figured I’d be better off watching youtube videos on how to perfect the blood knot rather than risk my life fishing in spots where there probably weren’t any fish holding anyways. And then, June arrived.

My graduation ceremony ended, and I remember having this feeling that nothing could stop me. The world was mine. Unfortunately with a terrible economy and not really wanting to leave Eugene and the Mckenzie, I remained where I was. The night ended with something special though. It reaffirmed my passion for fly-fishing. It was also nice to know that my parents recognized this passion.

I opened the box that my Dad had made, and in it was a beautiful reel. It was a dark green Bauer reel, that when fitted with my yellow fly line only reminds me of all those years as a Duck. I was very moved. And not just by the gift, but also with all the other emotions that night offered.  The box had a note in it as well with a quote (among other quotes and encouraging words my parents came up with) from Charles F. Orvis;

“Unless one can enjoy himself fishing with the fly, even when his efforts are unrewarded, he loses much real pleasure. More than half the intense enjoyment of fly-fishing is derived from the beautiful surroundings, the satisfaction felt from being in the open air, the new lease of life secured thereby, and the many, many pleasant recollections of all one has seen, heard, and done.”

Summer was in full force…finally. The steelhead were on their way up the Mckenzie, so I decided to go try my luck. Me and Ginger (my maroon 97’ 4-Runner) headed out one early morning eager to find some new spots and hopefully get into some fish. The day was Sunday, June 20^th,. I had just turned 22. So after stopping for some WacArnold’s (McDonalds) for a sausage biscuit and a hash-brown, it was fish on.

Plenty of trout succumbed to my tactics early that morning off of Hwy 126. When I got to my final spot though, I wanted to try something different. I tied on a Green Butt Skunk, and figured what the heck. At that time, my double haul was terrible, and I wasn’t even sure I was swinging the fly the way it should in order to hook a steelhead. As I worked my way down river towards the start of the tail out just above the rapids it happened. TUG. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. HOLY CRAP! I was in shock. I suddenly realized that I had hooked into a steelhead! After gaining my composure and getting the giant fish back on to my fly line it was game on. Forty minutes later, I gave out a victorious yell. I landed the 28” prize and afterwards, I was hooked.

There’s something about these magnificent fish that just draw you to what some people call a waste of time. But there is no other feeling in the world than the one when you have a steelhead on the end of your fly line. I will continue to “waste time” swinging flies for hours on end without a single tug. Because, when that initial grab occurs…I know it will have been worth it. 

You had a Sage in the safe this whole time? (September 2009)

Many years have passed from where my last post took place. It is now 2009 and I am finishing up college at THE University of Oregon in Eugene. Go Ducks. My fishing adventures were limited to that sacred spot on the Upper Rogue on family trips to the cabin. You might think that I was an idiot for not taking advantage of the Lower Rogue and the fantastic steelhead and half pounders that frequent the section. Well looking back, I was an idiot. But, to be honest I was way into golf at the time so that’s pretty much all I was concerned with. Living in Grants Pass though I passed up on a great opportunity to fish in a prime spot. In my defense, I had no idea what my dad was keeping in the safe.

Out of the blue I talked to my dad about getting into fly-fishing. Living in Eugene I figured I might as well take advantage of the pristine and beautiful McKenzie River that is known for its trout fishing. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake I did living in Grants Pass. He proceeds to tell me that he has a couple fly rods in the safe that I can use. I figure sure, that would be cool. So he goes to the safe and pulls out a 7 weight Sage and a Pflueger reel. Are you kidding me? I was like, “Dad why didn’t you tell me you had a Sage earlier?” Better late than never I guess. I hadn’t been into fly-fishing that long but I did know what a Sage was. I was pumped!

School was about to start up again and I had a week to play in Eugene. I decided to go to a fly shop and get some line on my reel and give this whole fly-fishing thing a shot. The Caddis Fly Shop got me all set up. They run a great shop there and I encourage anyone who is going to be fishing in or around Eugene to stop by. Not to mention they give away free coffee in the morning, and free beer from Ninkasi in the afternoon. Just saying.

At the time I didn’t have enough money for waders so I strapped on my Chaco sandals and threw on a pair of hiking shorts. Excited to start I jumped into the McKenzie near Armitage Park and started nymphing. There is a nice riffle there and I ended up taking quite a few that day. I’ll never forget that first trout. I little cutthroat that felt like a small guppy at the end of my 7 weight. I caught most of the fish that day with a possie bugger. None were big enough to write home about, but I was fly-fishing and enjoying every second of it. The last fish of the day though was a decent sized rainbow that solidified my desire to progress in the sport.

I continued fishing near Armitage Park late into November. One particular day convinced me that I need some waders if I want to really get into the sport. People thought I was crazy (they had a valid point) to go fishing without waders in November. In summation I was a little crazy. But I was feeding the addiction and I couldn't help it. However, I thought my hiking shorts, cold gear compression long johns, and my Chaco’s would suffice. I was wrong. I was just so eager to be out there fishing. Can you blame me? After about an hour in the river, which was much higher and colder, I decided it wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to be out where I was. My legs were numb and the fishing conditions weren't exactly ideal. As much as I didn’t want to hang up the rod for the rest of the year, I didn’t really have a choice. Needless to say, I got some waders for next spring…

Where it all began (1990 something)

I wake up to my dad shaking my shoulder. It’s still dark out, but I get up immediately in childish anticipation. I know that we are going fishing. I am about 5 or 6 years old and we are at our family cabin, my favorite place on earth. Rambler’s Roost is its name. Built by my great grandfather in 1933, our family has been enjoying it generation after generation. The roost is located just 30 yards from the Upper Rogue River near Shady Cove. It’s a simple cabin with few amenities, but that just adds to its character. Shoot, there is no running water and we have to go get it out of the Rogue in pales that are older than I am. Oh and the outhouse’s light doesn’t always work and the seat is always cold. No complaints here though.

We get dressed, and man, we are lookin’ gooo-oood. I’ve got my big red puffy coat with black and white racing stripes down the arms, and my Osh-Kosh overalls to boot. My Power Ranger shoes that light up with each step are hanging on for dear life by a pair of Velcro straps. Dad has on his denim suit and a pair of white Chuck Taylor’s that he got in the late 70’s. (You’re probably thinking gross! But, he has kept really good care of them and hardly ever wears them.) He still has those classic Chuck T’s and I want them. I’ve tried convincing him to give them to me, failing each time. I don’t know what it is about them but they’re just way cool, and he knows it as much as I do. I digress. I take the spin rod and my dad grabs the tackle box. The rod is a fifteen-dollar Wal-Mart special. I still have it to this day and have never had any issues with it. Don’t get me wrong. I am a fly fisherman now, but I didn’t exactly start out that way. Nonetheless I was a trout bum in the making. With a fresh can of fireballs in the tackle box we head out.

The trail goes along the Rogue and it is absolutely beautiful. Even as a young child I remember appreciating how pretty it was and still is. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our sacred spot where I still pretend that I am the only one that really knows about it. When we get there it is fish on! We end up catching our limit of hatchery rainbows and I couldn’t be happier. On the way back I secretly hope that we run into a bunch of people so they can see all the fish that we caught.

I’ll never forget this one particular outing. It’s what triggered the fishing addiction that I can’t suppress. I am not looking to suppress it, only enhance it with more and more adventures. And so it begins. The chronicles of a trout bum…