Further Upriver

My bro was coming down to help me do some work on my house. 

Mr T and I had plans to do some exploring for SMB's on the Big River. 

The two plans merged and the three of us met late on Friday night for dinner and a few beers and some pregame chatter.

Saturday morning was checking out of the hotel, eggs benedict, hot coffee and dropping the boat in followed by a quick and seamless shuttle.  Sometimes everything goes smoothly.

The water looked good...higher and cooler than my last float here, but it looked good.  The sun was up and the wind (from a casting perspective) wasn't too bad.   The first fish, a walleye, ate an oversized fly designed for esox.  My big brother was on the board.  Our thoughts collectively were that this was a good sign...

It didn't take us long after that to figure out that it was pre-pre spawn mode for the SMB's and that we'd need to do a little digging and scratching.

The warming shallows that held bass last year at this time were mostly devoid of fish which left us probing the edges, fishing deeper, fishing slower.  

The takes were subtle... just the fly stopping.  My brother is an excellent steelhead angler and he converted his soft bite experience quickly to the task at hand.  It was a mixed bag of slowly tempting the bigger fish contrasting with smaller fish crushing pike flies a few inches shorter than themselves.

As always it was a pleasure to be on beautiful water with a skilled oarsmen doing all the heavy lifting. 

It was also great to be fishing with my brother again.  Miles and jobs and families don't allow us this opportunity very often. 

Thanks for making it happen boys.

Mr T...the slim beauty

scrappy

bronze back

I think those guys were playing dirty...is that a jig?

Lunch

rotund

back

All I want for Christmas

The email came through from my Mom suggesting that a trip out west to Portland, Oregon (over Christmas) to visit my younger brother and his family might be nice...

Council was held, tickets purchased.

Moments later I was on the phone discussing winter steelhead with my brother.
No need to bring a rod, he said, NK would set me up.

The plane touched down and we dropped my family at the house and bee-lined for NK's to grab a rod and the keys to the boatyard.  NK's wife led us to the garage and handed over a Burkie for my use.  My brother said, "This has a scandi on it, where does [NK] keep the skagit heads?"  NK's wife swiveled, opened a bin and handed us the correct grain skagit head for the Burkie.  I was in good company.

Christmas night:
We were right up to the wire.  Listening to some extraordinary fiddle playing by Bacon's wife in a Portland bar, the night before we were to be going fishing.  Phones were out, river flows being checked, options discussed.  The target was identified and I took a cab home to attempt some sleep.

In what can only be described as one of my worst nights ever, the alarm on my phone would have woke me if I was actually sleeping.   Even so, there was fishing to do.  I brushed the remnant vodka from my my mouth, slid on my wool long underwear, layered and we left.

We arrived at NK's a short time later.  He asked us to call him before we got there so he could get up and see us off.  That's how you know a true friend, somebody who will hasten a day after Christmas hangover to be sure to cheerlead you in your adventures.  Good stuff that guy.

With the raft in tow, we took off into the rising sun to find a piece of sloped back into a Columbia River tributary.  We would have been on the water 30 minutes earlier if NK's 96 quart cooler hadn't decided to flip it's lid and fly out of the raft on the highway.  My brother was just off the phone with the shuttle driver when he stared into the rearview mirror and exclaimed,  "What the eff!!!?"

"What the eff" was the cooler going airborne.

It happened on a stretch of highway that required an extra 2 miles to an off ramp, and then an 8-10 mile backtrack to another off-ramp.  We finally located the (now 2 piece) cooler and did our job of not leaving litter on the highway.

We discussed the premonition and wondered if it was a sign of things to come or just getting the bad juju out of the way early.  I considered just breaking NK's Burkie over my knee at the raft launch so I could accept bad omens on my own terms.  Turned out, that was the last of it.

It was December 26th, a day when I normally spend hauling cheap crinkled wrapping paper to the recycling bin.  This year I was in the front of a raft, zipped into a PFD, clutching a borrowed rod and wondering if it was possible to dog paddle with one hand while still being able to return a fly-rod to it's gracious owner.

My brother rowed like a champ and thoughts of swimming vanished as I stepped into the first run.
Stripping off line and rolling out a short cast, I got my fishing song stuck in my head...John Lennon this time. 

I might have hummed a few bars...

..."So This Is Christmas"

Nailed it.

It was raining on my way North, but thanks to the various electrovoodoo weather apps on my phone I wasn't worried.  The front was passing through and McSteel and I were looking forward to a long afternoon of switch rodding for smallmouth.

In a pocket where his phone worked he called to tell me he ran into construction and traffic heading south out of the north-woods and that he'd be delayed.  Since the plan was to meet at a diner/burgerjoint for lunch he gave me his order and I told him I'd deliver.

The hatch of his rig was up and he was messing around with gear when I pulled in with his 20 minute cold cheeseburger and what was left of a large bag of fries.  The rain was still fallling in fits and starts but the sun was sending rays through the gray and we didn't acknowledge the precipitation as we took a few minutes to catch up and exchange news from our respective homes.

And then we fell into an afternoon of fishing...an easy rhythm that we have forged and worked out over 15 years of angling together.  Mostly fishing together, one a spectator, photographer or coach and the other the angler, caster, hunter.  But, from time to time,  we drifted apart, poking around a back eddy or pressing on around a new corner.

Early on, as we climbed out of the river up a steep bank, McSteel clambered up and with eventual secure footing reached his hand down to give me a pull up.  He knows that I could have easily followed his lead unassisted but since we are friends, fishing partners, it would never occur to him not to offer.   On this occasion he retracted his hand and said, "stay still, don't move..." which made me think of every western movie where the protagonist and his sidekick encounter a rattlesnake.  Only this time it was a giant fishing spider on my shoulder which he he deftly flicked off before requesting that I remove the one that was clinging to the back of his sleeve.  "Did you get it?" he asked. "Yep", I replied.  Toothy Muskies no problem...but we both prefer not to hang out with spiders.  Again he offered his hand and this time he helped me up the bank.

Give and take, flick for flick.  That's how we roll.

The smallmouth were in an exceptionally eaty mood.  We took it as a sign to swing and twitch gurglers and ska-oppers with our switch rods and we were not disappointed in the results.  We hung no record book fish but the sheer number of willing topside feeders kept us giddy until the sun had fallen behind the trees.

We walked the trail down to the last run of the day.  McSteel said it as I was thinking it,  "I wish this day would never end..."  

When we got to the final run, I stepped in and began casting as McSteel worked his way through the falling light to a point 100 yards below me.  I began casting, alternating between snap-T's and switch casts and focusing as much on the feel of the rod through the casting stroke as the fly through the fishing swing.  I could barely make out McSteel in the darkness downstream but the squawk of his Hardy as a nice fish pulled line through his guides gave me a good indication of where he was and what he was up to.

Run for Summers

The Deschutes was blown by rain.  So came the report from our advanced scouts on the West Coast.  It might clear or we have some alternatives...further communications indicated.

When McSteel and I climbed off the Delta flight in Portland the evening of October 4th, the verdict was still being deliberated using advanced diagnostics, fishing reports, conjecture, and voodoo in the form of a magic 8-ball.

We decided to delay the launch until the morning of the 5th in order to make sure that all of the data could be substantiated by a visual cues.
In other words, we drove to the river and took a look.

Blown.

We had a plan "B" in place and it was already sounding like the perfect fallback with promising reports of a push of summer-run steelhead in the "Plan B's" lower reaches.  The plan, upon confirming the D was "out", was to launch upstream (on Plan B River) and make a 45 mile float down and intercept the surging fish.  Warm water temps also hinted toward an unheard of dry-fly opportunity for these sea bright fish.

T-Mos, NK, McSteel and I, with a drift boat and a raft in tow, piled into NK's truck and left in the dark.  The early morning drive heading East out of the damp coolness of PDX and into the arid deserts of Eastern Oregon was worth the overnight in town.  If airline travel causes a disconnect between a soul and it's sense of time, distance and place...we were making up for it on our morning commute.

After plenty of gravel pinged off the hull of NK's trailered driftboat, we pulled into a driveway and the rancher who owned the place took our shuttle fee before proudly nodding his head back to the skull and rack of a buck mule deer he had boiling in a pot just outside of his garage.  It seemed the right thing to do to check out his prize and then shoot a little bull with him since we'd be handing him over the keys to our only ride out.  McSteel asked him about the Bighorn Sheep hunter's photos hanging in the garage.  We got a brief history of the relatively recent reintroduction of these critters onto his huge ranch.  McSteel asked the guy if they we decent to eat or if they were just trophy hunts.  The rancher explained that if you gave a dog a Bighorn Sheep steak, as soon as it was done eating, the dog would likely lick it's own ass to get the taste out it's mouth...
A round about way to answer the question...but we got the point.

We dropped off the upper levels (of what I later learned were strata of ancient lava flows) onto a tough steep road that we were told would eventually take us to the river.  I recall the map saying that it was about 10 miles and since it took us close to 45 minutes from start to finish (with a single pullover to tighten the straps on the boat, leave a leak and down a Rainier tallboy)...well, I'll let you extrapolate our average MPH.  Let me put it this way, if you ever figure out where we were, and you get to this road, you'd better not be driving a sedan.

As we unpacked our gear, and loaded the boats, the rancher drove down with four hunters and a couple of canoes.  We ended up launching before they did, and we saw them twice later that day...but after that, in the entire 45 miles of our float, we only saw 2 other people.

I think it's only appropriate, now that the stage is set, to let the images do their job of reducing my typing.   1000 words at a time...

Fly, Flyfishing

Supplies

Early AM prep

last stop

Gettin' there...

I can't remember the name of this band...but their music is pure.

Raptor 1

Balancing the load

T-Mos and NK, going forth.

Well into our cups on the first night, resident geological expert, T-mos, launched into a 90 minute discourse on the formation of this columnar Basalt...I can now tell you EVERYTHING you ever wanted to know about this, tectonic plates, pangea and/or glacial lake Missoula and it's incredible Ice dams.

Kindred spirit

Raptor 2

T-Mos and NK taking in the flora and fauna

Falling light in the canyon

Fresh elk served burrito style.  NK: a magician with a spey rod and a spatula.

McSteel on the McSticks

The only thing close to as beautiful as the backdrop?  NK's loops.

T-Mos Scandi painting.

T snap T

Chasing the white mouse

Another kindred spirit.

quench tracks

Wallflowers - NK and T-Mos

McSteel picking up the only piece of trash we found...1 gallon of clean unopened water...with onlookers

Yawn, scratch...look up.  Good morning.

T-Mos workflow.

McSteel stepping down.

Lunch En Plein Air

The drift boat boys, covering the water.

Why you bring a camera...

T-Mos swinging through

Contrast.

I stepped away from the camp with my camera and a headlamp to shoot some long exposure pics.  When I got back the guys were laughing and talking about...(nevermind).

Elk steaks with chanterelles...I believe that somebody may have ordered a tin cup(s) of famous grouse as well...

Click on the image and look just above the top of the lone tree in the bottom right of the pic.  That would be our camp...just for perspective

Morning climb to take a look around.  My neck was sore all week from looking up at the grandeur.

I snapped this pic just before...

...NK bagged a Quail...Chukar were also present.

Racked

NK and T-Mos, making sense of the map

3 of the planet's finest, and me.

If you've made it this far, my hope is that the picture of the beauty and remoteness of this place is clearer.  Truly awe inspiring scenery on a wild waterway.  No motors, cell service, litter or synthetic light.

Regrettably, I am not wise enough with keyboard or pen to capture the beauty and essence of my traveling companions.   Let me say simply that I am fortunate enough to call one of them my brother and more fortunate still, to call all three of them my friends.   Wise, thoughtful, talented, sincere...extraordinary men.

I have decided to single out another common trait that is shared by my friends, NK, McSteel and T-Mos:

Optimism.

If you have never heard of (or read) the harrowing tales of endurance and survival that the famous explorer Ernest Shackleton went through with his team in the Antarctic...it is a lesson in optimism.  Sir Ernest was wise man in that he selected his crews based on their optimism first and their talents second.  And, if you are up for some free advice: I would suggest, if you ever venture forth, to follow his lead.  If you are fortunate enough (as I was) to get the talent along with the optimism...all the better.

Every morning, as we pushed our raft off, McSteel faced down river and proclaimed "Hope springs eternal"...and we pushed on waiting to meet the wall of steelhead we had traveled so far to intercept.  One of the three had already named the run where we would find these anadromous fish the "Interception Run".  And so, each day we pushed on oars and swung our flies.   And each night we discussed the water flows and the clarity and mileage a steelhead can cover...and the next morning we just knew that today would be the day when we would name a run "Interception".

It wasn't until we'd floated 45 miles without a single sign of a single fish, not a grab, not a flash, not a shadow...it wasn't until after we'd loaded up the truck and nested the raft into the drift boat and looked over the maps and drove further downstream and fished the section where we'd heard reports of catching fish earlier in the week...it wasn't until the rain started falling on our fifth day and we'd decided that we weren't going to find steelhead on this trip...it wasn't until then that somebody finally complained.

And I completely understood and even sympathized with whichever of my friends finally broke down and said "My stomach really hurts....from laughing this week.  I mean it really hurts".

And we drove back to our women and our families and our jobs and motors and synthetic lights and email and voicemail and as we drove we were certain of two things.   The first was that we'd never be able to fully explain the trip.  The second was that we would do it again in a minute...and then we discussed where we should go on the next trip.

It was in the airport the next day when I sent my brother a text:

"Chasing after the souls of fish, stumbling into the hearts of men..."

and his text back to me said simply: "Precisely".

And even still, hope springs eternal.