The Road to Fish is Washboard Gravel
I glance over to the dash clock. 12:42 pm: we’re getting into the heat of the high desert afternoon now. Another bump in the gravel road jars the truck, sending a clatter through the entire cab. “Son of a bitch, this is rough.” Sitting in the passenger seat next to me, Aubrey has braced herself against the door panel and thrown a hand onto the dash to keep our copy of FlyFisher’s Guide to Oregon by Gary Weber out of the floor. Heavy dust swirls behind us and coats the back glass of the camper shell, building up so heavily that it begins to bead and roll off like water. “Shit!” Another assault shakes the truck.
The washboard road winds on and on, and despite the bumpy ride, I’m happy to be driving deeper into this valley. The song Over the Red Cedar by Charlie Parr comes on, and I turn it up. The melody blends well with the scenery, and my mind drifts. Country like this tends to encourage reflection. This question keeps tapping my shoulder: What am I doing here? Why have I become so unapologetically obsessed with fly fishing? I don’t know.
There’s not a cloud in the sky above the brown and golden bluffs that flank either side of the river. This is my first glimpse of the Lower Deschutes, and the scenery surpasses any expectations. We parallel the river now on a particularly rough BLM access road, and pungent aromas of high desert sage fill the truck. The water is a spectacle - a deep teal with long runs of powerful wave trains. I can see from the road that most of the river is deep and would make for treacherous wading.
On the far bank, there’s a railway that mirrors the road we are on, and I know from reading that those steel ribbons have carried train carts since 1908. This river is the soul of central Oregon. Its headwaters begin more than a three-and-a-half-hour drive south of here in the Cascade Range at Little Lava Lake. From there, the Deschutes flows North through a parched and rugged country, straight through the town of Bend, and then moseys on up to Maupin, the closest town to us now. From here, another forty miles of river snakes to the north before dumping into the Columbia.
We pass a few rubber rafts and high-sided aluminum driftboats. That would be the best way to fish this river - a multi-day float stopping at all the best riffles and holes.
That question: ‘What am I doing here?’ It won’t leave me alone.
Something comes to mind: a memory from my early 20s. I befriended a guy who taught me a lot about the outdoors. Austin introduced me to excellent mountain biking, back-country navigation, and some of the best-kept secrets of the Appalachian mountains. Adept at many necessities of life like carpentry, mechanics, growing food, and telling well-timed crude jokes, I defined him as a ‘good man.’ He was also an avid fly fisherman.
Although he never taught me how to fish, in hindsight, it’s clear that he sparked the interest.
I was twenty-five before I picked up a fly rod for the first time. A friend came out to visit Portland, and he brought with him a Temple Fork Outfitters 5 wt. He was no more than a novice himself, but we decided we’d give it a shot.
At a local fly shop, the two of us stared blankly at the tables full of plastic cubes. Each cube held a different pattern, color, or size of fly.
“Which one is good for around here?” I asked with apprehension.
Behind the check-out stand, a gruff man put down his magazine and looked up at us squarely, “Well, that depends. Where are you boys headed?”
“Where would ya recommend?” I asked trying to sound confident.
The whole experience was painful, and in the end, my friend and I, per the shop owner’s recommendation, wasted $15 on some huge pink and blue streamers that looked more like Barbie dolls than flies. It wasn’t the shop owner’s fault - confused by our request, he was trying to outfit us for steelheading. And given the time of year and area we were attempting to fish- that made perfect sense. It was a good lesson: you don’t get anywhere without some humility and the willingness to admit what you don’t know.
Until recently, I often told folks that I was self-taught. But that’s not exactly true. None of us are very self-taught anymore. After all, I did not spend months or, perhaps more accurately, years observing fish rise to small insects to deduce that they may be fooled by a hook covered in feathers and dangled from a line of braided horse hair. No, I had some help. In February, still feeling overwhelmed by all the new terminology and not having the slightest clue as to the difference between a nymph and a dry fly, I decided to purchase a book called Simple Fly Fishing by Yvon Chouinard, co-authored by Craig Mattews and Mauro Mazzo.
I followed it like gospel. I purchased a 10’ 6” Tenkara Rod manufactured by Temple Fork Outfitters and three lengths of 1wt line. Tenkara is an age-old Japanese method of fishing in which a fixed length of line is attached directly to the end of the rod. I then learned to tie pheasant tail and partridge soft hackle flies, leading me down a path of amateur entomology and simultaneously becoming a source of pride and enjoyment. I learned more about trout behavior and reading rivers. I practiced my casting. And eventually, I started catching small fish.
Aubrey and I have been at the campsite for a few hours now, and the temperature is beginning to drop. I take a sip of beer and watch the afternoon sun cast diagonal shadows across the canyon. Orange reflections dance on the surface of the water, and now and then, a strong gust of wind will blow through. Around this time of year, most anglers on the lower Deschutes fish for steelhead. I have more modest ambitions: a Columbia River red band trout, commonly called a red side. This is a particularly athletic version of the famous rainbow trout and is identifiable by a darker red stripe on its side. Coping with such a powerful river makes these fish larger and stronger than wild rainbows. On my sensitive Tenkara rod, hooking into one of these trout may as well be a steelhead.
I tie on a #16 Blue Winged Olive to a 5x tapered leader, careful not to drop the small fly in the sand. This particular fly, if drifted correctly and without drag, will imitate a Mayfly drying its flight gear after hatching from months of sub-surface dwelling. In my peripherals, I see a fish torpedo up and out of the water 15 feet away. I feel my eyes bulge, and my hands tingle, and I anxiously try to finish knotting on the BWO. I take three slow, purposeful steps into the cold water and send a cast 45 degrees upstream and across the river. The fly lands softly into the feeding lane where I had seen the trout rise—a good start. I forget to breathe while it drifts in current. Wham! A trout comes clear out of the water to take the fly. I lift the rod abruptly, trying to set the hook, and I am either too slow or too fast. He’s off. Disappointment sets in.
Another 45-degree cast… drift… Wham! Again, he comes out of the water. I set the hook, and this time, I got him. My heart thuds, and I remind myself to keep the rod tip up. I peer intently into the water. I glance at Aubrey on the shore, who has now jumped from her camping chair and is nearly in the water with me. “Keep the rod tip up,” I repeat to myself. The fish breaches the surface again, writhing back and forth. I hold my breath because, though a glorious spectacle, fish often get off the hook with these aerial maneuvers. He splashes back into the water, and I finally get a hand on the line. I place the rod under my arm and slowly retrieve him hand over hand. Here he comes.
Aubrey snaps a quick picture, and I return the handsome trout to the river. My nerves begin to subside, and I feel cool water lapping against my knees. A gust of wind tickles the backs of my ears, and crisp air fills my lungs. A wave of gratitude swallows me.
My finest memories have consistently required equal parts effort, discipline, and failure. Once you let go of immediate gratification, the whole game changes. You find that there’s a lot of enjoyment to be had in learning.
All the best fish are at the end of washboard gravel.
Signing off,
Jon
This essay is not a paid endorsement. Here’s links to some of the resources mentioned:
FlyFisher’s Guide to Oregon by Gary Weber
Simple Fly Fishing, by Yvon Chouinard
Over The Red Cedar by Charlie Parr on Spotify
