{"id":38145,"date":"2026-01-12T08:00:29","date_gmt":"2026-01-12T16:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/?p=38145"},"modified":"2026-01-26T10:27:37","modified_gmt":"2026-01-26T18:27:37","slug":"the-deschutes-journals-part-one-park-camp","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/2026\/01\/12\/the-deschutes-journals-part-one-park-camp\/","title":{"rendered":"The Deschutes Journals Part 1 \u2014 Park Camp"},"content":{"rendered":"

Deschutes\/Lockit, August 16th,\u201982<\/i><\/i><\/p>\n

We are early walking in the evening sun, Don and I, hiking the old railroad grade down along the bend. Mike and Kenny hiked upriver to claim Steelie Flats before the jet boats did. This, the second trip down with these three and I\u2019m stoked to have them back in my boat. Gordy\u2019s people are fishing camp water. There is shade everywhere but here.<\/p>\n

It’s a good crew, and the boys don\u2019t mind the hundred plus heat. Kenny is co-owner of a fly ship in Reno. Mike owns an auto body shop there. Don Kemp is a neurosurgeon out of San Fran who fishes the winter-run Nor-Cal streams but says that fishing summers here is the absolute best.<\/p>\n

Gordy has the hop farmers from in state who come every year, more as a hoot I think (and respite from the wives if I\u2019m eavesdropping correctly), than any real desire to fish. They do seem to enjoy themselves on the water, but once they\u2019ve got their evidence<\/span> pics they spend more time working the wet bar than the water. Gord\u2019s good with that at least, but man, give me greyhounds any day; they\u2019re first to leave camp to maximize they\u2019re chances and the last to return.<\/p>\n

\"\"Behind a weathered loading corral, a chipped, enamel cup floats in an old concrete cistern. I take two cans of Rainer Ale from my vest and drop them in. We drink from the spring and pick at the dusty blackberries. The sun is up still, barely an inch of it, emptying through a notch high up the west canyon wall. Directly cross the river the calvary is mounting up. A large jet boat encampment is stirring. We watch them load up the troops and motor off, both boats heading down river for the evening sesh, a good sign.<\/p>\n

I think how the revolution of the earth strictly regulates our fishing. Steelies will not rise to the river\u2019s surface into glaring desert sun, which is precisely where a fly man will want to tryst. Only in the twilight of morning and evening do we get our shot. Only a determined fisherman, certainly a spinner or spoon angler, can still prevail mid-day, but there is something very special about connecting with our quarry at the cusp of each other\u2019s world.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, the sun is down. A wash of shade floods down the bank and over the river, instantly transforming it into a metallic sheen reflecting a marbled palette of ochre, rust and dusty blue. Don slips slowly down the bank, careful not to loose a stone.<\/p>\n

Obscured by Russian olive at the bottom of a loose scree slope, a bit froggy looking at first glance and a 9 out of 10 on the difficulty to fish scale, cramped and short and ending abruptly a rock ledge. Frankly, it is the antithesis of what fly fishermen are looking for. But Gordy turned me onto it when I was a rookie. It is fished with fly line held completely out of the water, the tip of the rod leading the fly like an orchestra conductor through oily, swirling currents.<\/p>\n