Sumac Camp, Deschutes River, August 1982

Guides are traditionally the grill masters in our outfit. Gordy has his battered up and downer on, his face inscrutable behind the brim, sunglasses and beard. He is the image of his wading mentor, the blue heron. The barbecue tongs he wields so deftly are his beak, his skinny bare legs and enormous wading shoes complete the image. I smile as I tell him this. He jabbers his tongs at me in mock bird and cracks the tightest grin.

The company menu has not changed since I can remember. Steak the first night to ease the transition, chicken the next to get involved with, burgers the third night when you’re too happy (hopefully) and rummy (definitely) to care, and steak again your last night to celebrate the experience, no matter the results. Kohn has shucked a dozen ears of corn we scored at a farm stand in Sandy. A big, bagged salad that has barely survived the trip and a loaf of sliced and heavily garliced French bread lay on the table—an early meal ahead of the evening sesh.

At the moment, we have the water all to ourselves. There could still be late comers to the party, drift or power boat. The grade angling all the way up to the the canyon rim behind us, the original route into the region, can still vector in a surprise party of fishermen. And unlike Lockit, while providing exquisite shade and comfort, our current camp has no quality camp water.

Kloan is a concentrated four hundred yards long, straight as an arrow and the best runs are scattered in peak season quite competitive. Shade comes early, buttressed by the steep western wall. We’ll be on the water well ahead of it.

In the mottled shade of sumac trees the troops are stirring: talking quietly, adjusting leaders, replacing tippets, tipping a beer, tying on flies. It is the infantry waiting to attack, a rock group waiting to perform. But first they take up a plate and eat.

We’ve done well this trip. The hop farmers are happy no matter what and my guys have done themselves credit; we provide little more than a catered, water taxi service for them. That said, there is an honest resonance between us, and I’ve made plans to join them in Costa Rica this winter to fish.

I take the espresso brewer from the dry box and fire it up. The boys make short work of dinner and gather by the boat. We share the rejuvenating tonic around and talk tactics. Everyone, save Mike, want to cross over. “We’ve fished this side last couple trips,” Don was saying. “I’ve seen guys doing well across the way, one big rock in particular, down near the bottom. Wouldn’t at all mind having a shot at that.”

“You know that side as well as I do,” I said. “Never had a chance to fish it, what with the success we’ve had here and the sleds and all; they like it there. Speaking of which, you’d better scoot before they show up. Take the boat, I’ll hang here.”

Close to show time now, I go over to Gordy. He’ll take the canon runs below camp, Bathtub and Cabin, more than enough for his two guys. Mike would work around them, his sights set on the Green Light Hole, a long hike down to the very bottom of Kloan.

Gordy nodded, considering. “I was thinking Kohn and I might row across and hike upriver and fish those hummocks below Bed Springs, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on my guys, that is.”

There is no sign as yet of approaching sleds or rigs descending the old Freebridge grade behind camp. I get that it’s a Wednesday but still, fish are in, and I figured the grape vine would be abuzz already. Next week will be nuts. Mike sets off on the trail down to Green Light. With everyone gone I grab a camp chair and take it down to the water. I can see Pete and Terry Kleese not far down river, but no one else.

Hot as all get out still. I decide to wade wet and slip on bulky socks and wading boots. With the espresso coursing through my veins I can’t sit for long, and I decide to check on the Brothers K. As I pass the foundation for the bridge keeper’s titular bathtub I see Pete trying to yank his fly from the sagebrush up on the bank. “Hang on, Pete, I got it.”

“Thanks Rob, that’s the third time I’ve snagged up.” He laughed but I could tell he was frustrated.

I pull it free and walk down to the bank. The rumble of engines grabs my attention as two jet boats hove into view. I glance over to see if I can spot my guys and, sure enough, Don is in the water already near his rock and Ken is hustling into the water just above him. Not a lot left on that side, tough call for the sled captain.

The sleek sleds cruise motor steadily up center channel and the lead boat driver’s eyes dart from side to side. They radio back and forth . . . and continue on. He glances my way with a tight smile and holds up one hand which I return in form.

I sit down on the bank, eye level with Pete and brief him on the history of the bridge keeper and his apricot orchard, then a quick overview of the run he was fishing and the one his bro was working right below.

“It’s tough right were you’re standing, back cast is a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Right.  Your bro has it easy,” I tell him, pointing fifty yards downstream.

“He’s a better fisherman; we should trade places. I tried to roll cast and I’m lousy at it”

“Hell, so am I, here’s my workaround.” I step into the water and Pete hands me his rod. “Open your stance so you can see where your line is going, you know, then throw your back cast parallel with shore, like this.” I demonstrate. “Then push your forecast out as far as you can. Bend it, like this. Ain’t pretty, but it gets the job done. Then toss a mend downstream. See the arc the fly’s cutting? That’s what you’re looking for.”

Pete nods. “Let me give that a try.” I step back onto the bank and watch Pete make a decent go of it. “You’re a quick study, Pete; I’ll leave you to it.” I turn, pause.

“Just one more thing. See that line of rocks that you’re working down to? Right on the other side is the head of Bathtub, proper, a classic bit of water. And seeing as though you’re the first time caller, there’s likely to be a fish or two sitting right where the water breaks, slurping up oxygen.  So, when you get down there, stay low and swing your fly right across the top. We’ve taken some nice fish within spitting distance of those rocks there on four feet of line.”

“Bet that was a rush!”

“Steelies have a bust-out speed of 26 feet per second, so it’s like hooking a passing truck. Make damned sure your drag is set right.” I recalled Don the day before as I watched Pete give a yank on his line; no overrun. “Nice, you’re set.”

“Thanks Rob, appreciate it. We wanted to tell you, my brother and I have had a good trip, by the way. Again, of course, like every year. While we haven’t hit it as hard as your guys, you know, we’ve each hooked all the fish we could have hoped for. It’s just great to be out here, change of pace from the farm, the whole business. When we get back it’ll be time to harvest, so nice to have a change of pace before that.”

I nodded, smiled. “You two are totally non-maintenance and the satisfaction we get from fishing is entirely subjective. When I get to a certain place and feeling good I’ll hang up the rod and go with the glow. Granted, my satisfaction threshold might be higher than yours out here but then this is my jam, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, I get it; each to his own.”

“How’d you and your brother get into fly fishing, anyway?”

“Our dad was a big fisherman and his dad before him. He would take us over here to camp and fish every summer when were old enough. We didn’t get the bug quite like he did but we do enjoy it once a year and floating the canyon is just the best.”

“I fell in love with it myself, and I still don’t know how much of it is the river, the canyon, or the fish.” I laugh. “A powerful trifecta.”

 ***

Not a peep from camp now; it is well past midnight. I’m about to hang it up, too. By pull-out tomorrow we will have hooked over 50 fish, total high water mark for me and a hell of a way to open the season. Sure makes my job easier, doesn’t hurt tips, either.

Gordy had intel that it was raining like hell in Portland and heading this way. I’m sleeping on board tonight. Kohn and Gordy are on cots still, under a wing they set up over the kitchen. It’s nice on the water right now, the boat is swinging free in a shallow pocket just off the bank, wind has softened. Bit of a hassle sleeping like this, moving things around, building the lounge up with one leg on the cooler and one on the dry well, trying not to drop anything overboard. But I can smoke my pipe at least.

Kenny waded out to visit while I was setting up and brought a bottle of Scotch. Said they had a wonderful trip and will be back again next year. Great bunch of guys, these guys, like fishing with your buddies. A little ganja and whiskey and Ken and I are hanging over the gunwhale. Netted some neon green ryacophila larva, found a fry stationed behind a rock and speculated on his response to a dead drift versus a swing or lift. Research.

Everyone is looking forward to the rapids tomorrow, a tonic for the desiccated, blistered, sleep deprived but fish sated likes of us. Gordon’s Ridge, Colorado and Rattlesnake: Class II+, III and IV, a white-water crescendo.

It occurs to me (not for the first time, either) how camp vibe becomes a little looser and more congruent each day, building on a crescendo of its own. Guards are let down, friendships formed, as people get to know one another better. Kenny and Mike performed this great Irish skit tonight and had everyone in stitches.

What it is, I think, is a fundamental alchemy, a quality of homogeneity that comes over everyone. Gradually the posturing falls away and there are no more guides or clients, doctors or farmers or even fishermen, only people.

***

Editor’s note: Rob Lyon worked as fishing guide on the Deschutes River for many years. For this series, he pulled from one memorable trip in 1982—over 50 fish hooked. For more memories from those magic days on the water, check out Part 1 and 2 of his Deschutes Journals.

Photography courtesy of Ken Morrish, Rob Lyon and Zento Slinger.