{"id":5947,"date":"2015-02-20T09:00:05","date_gmt":"2015-02-20T17:00:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/community.nrs.com-2\/?p=5947"},"modified":"2017-10-16T11:26:12","modified_gmt":"2017-10-16T18:26:12","slug":"putting-summer-summers-steelhead-fishing-july-deschutes-part-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/2015\/02\/20\/putting-summer-summers-steelhead-fishing-july-deschutes-part-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Putting Summer in Summers: Steelhead Fishing in July on the Deschutes, Part 2"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Rob-Lyon-100x100\"Rob Lyon returns to some old stomping grounds, Oregon’s\u00a0Deschutes River, to chase summer steelhead (and something even more elusive). Read Part 1 here.<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Oh man!\u00a0 I was fired up, flying down the grade in the wee early AM with bird song in the locust and basalt crunching under the tires.\u00a0 I had my rod stuck down the front of my waders and an old ski pole thrown over my shoulder.<\/p>\n

It felt angelic<\/em> to cruise.<\/p>\n

There was so much awesome water downstream, and I wanted to fish it all that morning.\u00a0 It was like the joke about the old bull and the young bull sitting on a hilltop watching the heifers grazing below.\u00a0 The young bull pipes up:\u00a0 \u201cHey, want to go down and tupp one of those beauties?\u201d\u00a0 The old bull says:\u00a0 \u201cHell, let\u2019s go down and tupp \u2018em all!\u201d<\/p>\n

I was looking to tupp \u2018em all myself that morning as I skidded to a stop above Virginia\u2019s Run.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6469\"<\/p>\n

I leaned the bike against a rock and walked down across the grass flat to the water.\u00a0 I walked upstream carefully so as not to spook the fish, started at the head and worked it through.\u00a0 An angular run, you start out in the riffle with three feet of line and end up hauling for all you\u2019re worth.\u00a0 It was easy wading and fluid to fish but had none of the geometry I was anticipating downriver.<\/p>\n

Up to the grade again, back on the bike and cruising downriver.\u00a0 Next stop was the Park Camp.\u00a0 The run in front of camp is about as ho hum as it gets, unless, of course, you\u2019re catching fish.\u00a0 The place, though, is etched indelibly in my memory.<\/p>\n

I was working on the river as a roustabout in the early eighties.\u00a0 It was late in the afternoon in late October and very cold.\u00a0 I was fishing straight across the river from the camp, where a drift boat was pulled in, and four guys were out in front, fishing.\u00a0 Suddenly, one of them hooked up. Then another.\u00a0 Then a third.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t believe it!\u00a0 I watched and waved and hoped something was swimming up my side of the channel.\u00a0 It was pretty cool to witness this, but it was the after party later that night that blew my mind.<\/p>\n

I was in camp and had just finished washing the dishes, when I noticed flames reflecting off the water, upriver.\u00a0 We had some bonfires back in the day when it got bitter cold, and I didn\u2019t think that much of it.\u00a0 But I hiked up to investigate anyway and sat down on an icy grass hummock, mesmerized by what I saw.<\/p>\n

Across the water, the guys who\u2019d had the triple were celebrating. In the shadow of a short line of trees along the river bank, backlit by dancing flames, the dudes were capering around the fire, scotch bottles and beer cans on high and whooping to beat the band.\u00a0 I knew right then and there that THAT was really what I was after out here\u2014that rarified realm of shared Jovian largesse\u2014in other words, a successful expedition with my buddies.\u00a0 As much as I dug the one-on-one aspect of steelhead fly fishing, I could dig this even more.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6757-001\"<\/p>\n

The scene seemed North African, somehow, a successful small hunting party on a Tanzanian plain with a zebra haunch on a spit . . . primal and gritty.\u00a0 Around the glow of a raging bonfire some righteously celebratory fishermen toasted and jigged.\u00a0 I must have remained for an hour sitting in the wet and cold, watching.<\/p>\n

Park Camp was less exciting this day, however, and I got back on the bike and pedaled down to the Bend, a quarter mile arc of obscure rim water that has produced some extraordinary fishing for guys in the know.<\/p>\n

The bend is walled-in by steep columnar basalt.\u00a0 The Harriman camp blasted here to put the railroad grade through at the turn of the century and the shards of basalt on the river bottom make excellent holding water.\u00a0 I noticed the effect of it upon the currents as I fished and enjoyed the subtle movement of line and fly.<\/p>\n

I reeled in after a little while, climbed up the steep rocky bank and mounted the bike.\u00a0 I glanced across the canyon to note light cleaving ever closer to the river bottom as I pedaled hard for the False Tail Pool.<\/p>\n

I am chasing shadow by this point and find it, one last swath of it, at the end of the bend and the rim of cliff that creates it.\u00a0 I probably have twenty minutes before the sun makes an appearance.\u00a0 It is lovely, ultimate water and I am so into it that a fish might nearly have been an unwelcome interruption.<\/p>\n

What makes the water here click is a kind of fluid geometry to the flow, a type of liquid precision that I\u2019ve likened before to a river running through a flooded Greek ruins.\u00a0 It occurs as a result of crystalline basalt columns, laid horizontally in the river bed.<\/p>\n

When you fish summers, you\u2019re standing in the river casting in ambient light.\u00a0\u00a0 The river draws her robe around herself and the surface becomes oblique and two dimensional.\u00a0 We don\u2019t get this perspective in full daylight, when we can see deep underwater.\u00a0 And just like humans are often sexier, and always more mysterious, when they are partly clothed, the fishing takes on a certain mystique in the half light.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6718-001\"<\/p>\n

In the wee light hours it is all about the dynamic veneer of the water\u2019s surface.\u00a0 Colors molt from liquid gold to copper to burnished bronze.\u00a0 The contrast of the track of line and fly is accentuated, and if I am fortunate to be fishing through these basalt ruins then, the feeling comes over me like a Chopin nocturne.<\/p>\n

I finish the pool and wade down along shore to a brisk, shallow, sheeting run. It\u2019s like rinsing in cold water after a hot shower, so fast that it eats around my gravel footing like a wave at the ocean.\u00a0 I have only hooked one fish here in years past.\u00a0 It is fast, sweeping water, each cast is zip, zip, and suddenly I feel the sun upon my back.<\/p>\n

I make a final cast, feeding out a ton of line as the sun glares down upon me.\u00a0 I finish the swing and turn around, flipping the rod up onto my shoulder, and reel my line in backward as I wade to shore.<\/p>\n

I felt nearly sated from this day\u2019s fishing.\u00a0 I had yet to touch a fish on this trip, three days in, but it was, honestly, a small thing.\u00a0 I say small because, frankly, if I had<\/em> hooked a fish I might have packed away the rod.\u00a0 That said, I was trying hard to hook one on the Tenky and figured I would stay with that, now, until I did.<\/p>\n

I bushwhacked up to the grade and found my bike, only to discover the front tire was flat.\u00a0 I had no pump and was a good couple of miles out of camp.<\/p>\n

Oh well.\u00a0 I could have stashed the bike and picked it up when we floated by on the way north, I suppose, but it was just a bike, and I pushed it along with me.\u00a0 It wasn\u2019t too bad.\u00a0 I found a groove and settled in, wincing at each sharp rock I hit, glancing down every now and again to see if I had destroyed the tire, yet.\u00a0 Ah well . . . I broke out a Clif Bar, sucked on the apricot bits and went along.<\/p>\n

About half way back I spotted someone hiking down the grade toward me.\u00a0 It was Robyn.<\/p>\n

Someone had told him there was an outhouse a couple of miles downriver and he was hiking down to find it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou seen it?\u201d he asked me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said with a big grin, and pointed across the river.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re kidding me . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNope, that\u2019s it.\u201d\u00a0 I gave it a three count and said,\u00a0 \u201cBut hey, I\u2019ve got an emergency TP stash in my vest.\u201d\u00a0 He was happy to hear that.<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

A couple of nights later, full dark with a moon shining early,\u00a0 I returned from fishing, turned off my headlamp and dropped down off the flat trail into camp.\u00a0 Everyone else was sitting in front of the kitchen where Amanda and Seth were prepping dinner and Steve, it appeared, was holding court.<\/p>\n

It was unnaturally quiet.\u00a0 I stashed my gear and went over, filled my pint cup at the IPA keg and listened in.\u00a0 Steve was recounting the landslide disaster at Oso earlier that year.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d heard the account from him already and knew what an extremely empathic experience it had been for him.\u00a0 As the Director of Public Utility for the county in which it happened, Steve worked the front line at a command post in the slide area for several months, interfacing with the people who lost homes and loved ones, everything.\u00a0 It was a deeply moving experience and I was glad he was telling our friends his story.<\/p>\n

By the time he was through you could have heard a pin drop.<\/p>\n

I got up quietly walking around and firing up the lanterns in the central open area of camp, then called out:<\/p>\n

\u201cFricket, anyone?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"_MG_7007<\/p>\n

If you\u2019ve been in a coma recently, this is a great river game\u2014out of Boulder, I believe. Get a large disc, like an ultimate or freestyle disc and four poles (bamboo works well) Plant two poles at one end like gates, about a foot and a half apart, and place the other two about forty feet off, same deal.\u00a0 Drop some pint sized plastic beer cups upside down on top of the poles.\u00a0 Each team of two stands by their set of poles and takes turns trying to throw the disc between the poles, or goal, at the other end.<\/p>\n

Score a point if you throw it between the poles and a point for each cup you knock off.\u00a0 If the other team catches a flying cup, though, you don\u2019t get the point and they do.\u00a0 It\u2019s as simple as that.<\/p>\n

Steve had played it a few days earlier on the coast and brought four bamboo poles along with him.\u00a0 I wondered how it would go over.\u00a0 We had it set up in the middle of the grove with camp chairs and the keg alongside like a chill Wimbledon.<\/p>\n

Total hit!<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6967<\/p>\n

We had boat loads of jocks along and they got after it.\u00a0 Vaughn and Steve and Zack were the best.\u00a0 I could throw well but I couldn\u2019t catch the cups for beans.<\/p>\n

Only thing was that I\u2019d brought sharp-edged golf discs along instead of the bigger, rounder ones, and we played with them until the carnage could not be ignored.\u00a0 There was a ton of collateral damage going down, errant shots to legs and body.\u00a0 The golf discs were brutal<\/em>.\u00a0 Zack came back sporting a huge bruise on his shin for a week and no doubt Amanda sported a polka dot bosom.\u00a0 But with the beer and excitement we didn\u2019t register the damage we were taking.\u00a0 It evoked fond memories of playing football.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t until the last evening before we packed up to float to our final camp that I finally had success with the Tenky, tying into a beast of a fish that I had on long enough to feel the love.<\/p>\n

With nothing more than the spring of the rod and 20\u2019 of line between us I was battered with every ounce of energy the fish spent thrashing in frenetic terror, and I reverberated with the echo of that violence for days afterward.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6664\"<\/p>\n

We struck camp the next day and everyone was happy to get back on the water. The lower reach of the Deschutes is a beautiful float through a broadening canyon with distant palisades and increasing evidence of early settlement.\u00a0 I jumped ship at Wash Out rapid just above Kloan.\u00a0 As our people pulled in to scout and run it, I hiked up a steep black scree slope up onto the east bank trail.\u00a0 I hiked a short ways down to scope our camp options from the vantage of the old railroad grade, high above the river.<\/p>\n

As luck would have it, I arrived as another \u00a0guy popped up from a trail leading down to the riverbank.\u00a0 We introduced ourselves.\u00a0 He was Peter Crow, GM at Smith Optics.\u00a0 What\u2019s more, he and I knew each other from a project eight years earlier, but had never actually met!<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re looking good, Rob,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou too, Peter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExcept for the glasses,\u201d he added, grinning.<\/p>\n

We laughed.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d lost my best pair of glasses in our pond at home just before the trip and had a beater pair along, and told Peter as much.<\/p>\n

\u201cTry these,\u201d he said, and handed me his pair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoaa.\u00a0 Colors pop right at out at ya! What\u2019s with that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2019ChromaPop, baby . . . that\u2019s what the techs call it, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

Those techs, I thought; pretty sweet shades, though.<\/p>\n

We chatted as the rest of our crew floated in, trading notes on life changes, projects and such.\u00a0 Peter had just arrived and so had no fishing report.\u00a0 He had biked up from the mouth with a trailer and set up a spartan camp scene, planning to stay for several days.<\/p>\n

I scuttled down the trail to catch up with my friends while Peter hiked down the grade a short ways with his phone to the old boxcar to check his mail.<\/p>\n

Peter may have had Kloan dialed, but for us it was a mistake.\u00a0 The steep 4WD grade on the bank behind us destroyed the mood, or my mood, in any case.\u00a0 We could see three or four rigs parked there, camped in the scorching mid-day heat even, no shade at all, and all of them were fishermen. It might have helped if we\u2019d caught fish here, but we did not.<\/p>\n

What I did like about Kloan was the history, the evidence of the old river crossing leading into the interior of the state.\u00a0 The legendary fishing runs we competed for as guides are named after the toll keeper\u2019s homestead:\u00a0 The Cabin Hole and the Bathtub Hole.\u00a0 There was a feral apricot orchard up on the slope and an old Italian rock oven with a single keystone in the roof built at the turn of the century.\u00a0 And the bridge abutments still lie in the middle of the river where they blew down or blew up (no one knows for sure) in the late 1800s.<\/p>\n

We watched Peter put on a clinic across the river that evening.\u00a0 Dave was impressed, said he\u2019d be putting Plan B into effect and biking up with Dawn in September.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t very late but I was bushed; I think everyone was.\u00a0 I took my beach chair down to the water. Camp was pretty quiet except for Dave\u2019s guitar from farther up river.\u00a0 The river was murmuring in front of me and the wind blew up vagrantly.\u00a0 I threw up my hoody.<\/p>\n

I like to process a day\u2019s experience before I duck under all of it to meditate, so I hashed over my thoughts and feelings about the trip, which were many and confused.<\/p>\n

It\u2018d been a good trip, I thought, in spite of the spotty fishing.\u00a0 Amanda and Seth had dedicated themselves to providing excellent meals for everyone.\u00a0 Ordinarily our cook is out having so much fun they can barely get food on the table.\u00a0 These two ran it like a commercial float.\u00a0 Dave was sorely wishing he\u2019d gotten into some fish, but he\u2019d had his way with trout.\u00a0 Vaughn is hard to read, but has a groove, and even without a fish this time I think he dug the chance to get after them.\u00a0 Zack is a concept guy and his one fish was enough.\u00a0 Steve had nothing to complain about, and Robyn was always happy just to be on the river.<\/p>\n

But my own feelings were definitely mixed.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_6618-001\"<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve guided long enough to know how the emotional investment in getting your guys into fish can backfire when they don\u2019t, but it was more than that.\u00a0 Something else was bugging, some old demon demanding its due.\u00a0 I could feel the reverberation, still, from the steelhead hooked on the Tenkara and knew it was tied in with that.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d seen this coming, frankly, a long way out.\u00a0 Ever since the day I\u2019d woken up with a steelie on the line and me emotionally flatlined.\u00a0 Up until that time, in the heyday of fishing\/guiding here in the eighties catching wild \u201csummers\u201d on a fly was like finding the Holy Grail.\u00a0 But a few too many fish and a few too many nights staring into the campfire and dreaming of wilder places and wilder adventures had taken some lustre off the rose.\u00a0 But it wasn\u2019t so much about becoming jaded, I think, as it was about wanting to reconfigure the experience.<\/p>\n

My new perspective came about naturally with a shift in lifestyle.\u00a0 I\u2019d quit guiding by the mid-eighties, followed the river to the sea and hung a right, eventually\u00a0settling on a quiet plot of land in the San Juan Islands where I\u2019ve gone relatively native over the last couple of decades, living more of a nouveau-peasant, neo-Bohemian lifestyle of quite literally chopping and hauling wood, stoking fires and discussing the mystery of Mind with friends while playing disc golf, and not in the least, writing my thoughts.\u00a0 As for fishing, we eat what we can catch ourselves, or buy from commercial fisherman friends, locally.\u00a0 Salmon is our basic fare and I harvest bay mussels in the winter.<\/p>\n

And in a kind of fishing \u2018intensive\u2019 I undertook half a dozen epic, solo kayak treks where I packed along my fly tackle and took the game to what I consider to be the ultimate, integrated venue:\u00a0 living off what I could catch while trekking alone through a wilderness seacoast for months on end.\u00a0 This<\/em>, I realized, was exactly<\/em> what I\u2019d been dreaming of!\"_MG_6419\"<\/p>\n

So, now, coming back to the Deschutes to try and catch a fish that will only have to be released, and only then if it was lucky enough to survive the ordeal, wasn\u2019t looking so attractive.\u00a0 Frankly, I\u2019d put the trip together with the interest of my friends at heart, who were all excited about catching a steelie on a fly.\u00a0 As for myself, after hooking up with the Tenkara, and viscerally registering the trauma I was causing another sentient being just for kicks, I was done with the whole C&R thing.<\/p>\n

I was like the cat, now, I figured, who foregoes toying with his mouse and gets right down to the matter of catching and eating it.<\/p>\n

If I had a Corona I would have tipped it to the beach that was, that night.\u00a0 I could see how beaches were a function not only of space, but time.\u00a0 While the Deschutes may no longer be my beach for fishing steelhead, I might be back in a few months time to hunt the wily chukar partridge, and the river was still a card carrying beach for that.<\/p>\n

\"_MG_7323\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019ve guided long enough to know how the emotional investment in getting your guys into fish can backfire when they don\u2019t, but it was more than that. 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