Through the Desert

Desert Steel...

The Deschutes is downright breathtaking. Every. Single. Time. Due to the natural beauty of the canyon, I've made a concerted effort to make it out to the river in each of the last four summers, fishing for steelhead during the last three. I typically find myself there during the hottest month of the year for both air and water temperatures. Due to these conditions, swinging for steel is much slower than the fall months of September and October. The water temperatures on the lower river are borderline creating a thermal barrier of sorts. This forces some fish to hunker down in the Columbia awaiting cooler weather and others to make their way upriver seeking colder temperatures. Due to this, most of my fishing has been concentrated above Mack's Canyon. Outside of an overnight solo float from Pine Tree to the mouth, I've mostly fished the river on foot. This summer, my friend Austin had a brand new raft, which had us following the railroad on the hunt for steelhead. 

Any overnight trip on the Deschutes should be on every angler's bucket list. The river's scenery, wildlife, and whitewater are worth the price of admission in and of themselves. The icing on the cake is a cold river (it could be colder) teeming with life in the form of redband trout, steelhead, and aquatic insects. Flowing through the desert, this attracts all sorts of wildlife from eagles, big horn sheep, ospreys, deer, mountain lion, chukars, otters, heron, and more. From a geologic perspective, the canyon walls reveal the history of earth. I often find myself staring at these walls, or the wildlife, and miss the tell tale signs of a steelhead's take. At night, the remoteness of the canyon reveals the Milky Way galaxy and an unfathomable amount of stars. On some nights, you are treated to consistent shooting stars as meteors burn their way through the atmosphere. When you share that all with friends, good food, drinks, and a cot under the night sky, the vibes become immaculate. 

Cedar Island

Luke Hatch and Austin Tighe

A New Year and a New River

The only moment of sun over four days...

In the winter of 1781-1782 Mt. Hood erupted sending hot pyroclastic flows and a lahar down the Sandy River basin radically altering the landscape. The lahar filled the river’s channel and covered an old growth forest with 26 ft. of volcanic ash, mud, sand, and debris. When Lewis and Clark arrived at the river’s delta entering the Columbia, the river was still recovering from the immediate aftermath of the eruption and devastation of the lahar. Therefore, the name they gave this system reflected what they saw and learned from indigenous tribes. The river has since reclaimed its bed but the remnants of the Old Maid eruption period are still highly visible when floating down the lower sections of the river as it carves its way towards the Columbia. The river’s native steelhead populations, like they have for eons, adapted to this changing environment because the eruption is a naturally occurring process. On the other hand human industrialization, clearcutting, hatcheries, and the damming of the river had a much larger negative impact on the system and the entire PNW. Nonetheless, the steelhead persisted. Over the years, I heard a lot about the Sandy River and was always looking forward to one day fishing it. 

Over the new year, I was fortunate to spend the first few mornings gearing up in the dark surrounded by moss covered trees and the sounds of a high Sandy River. With each passing minute, new light illuminated the day’s playground and conditions. Having never been on the Sandy, each bend revealed rapids, runs, and buckets to swing through with the ever present hope that my fly would intercept with a steelhead’s journey. It was a constant state of optimism and anticipation. As John Buchan once said, “a perpetual series of occasions of hope”. Looking back on it, the river, and the hunt, are all just one big metaphor for life and the new year ahead.

No salt, no steel?

Someday

Someday, I'll make it there, I swear...

Out of reach. Privatized. Too expensive. Too exclusive. Not enough information. The sport of kings. I have to hire a guide? A lottery system? Beats? Where am I going to stay? The list could go on and on, but these are a few of the excuses that repeated in my head over the last decade whenever I entertained the idea of heading north to go Atlantic salmon fishing in eastern Canada. Each time I seriously considered making a DIY trip at the end of the school year, all of those questions and doubts would inevitably squash the idea in my head. I always gave into fear and the unknown. One winter evening, I was listening to a live Instagram session between Topher Browne and Travis Johnson that discussed all things Atlantics when I did something I normally never do: ask a question. I wanted them to talk about DIY fishing, but didn't want to feel like a parasite seeking information. Instead I asked something that I actually find very interesting: "Do you ever think the PNW would adopt the "pay to play," model of eastern Canada in order to protect increasingly smaller populations of steelhead?" Topher laughed out loud at my mere mention of "pay to play". I believe his exact words were, "anyone that thinks that probably hasn't done much Atlantic salmon fishing". 

Touché Topher, touché...

Skunkings and Outliers

Great Lakes "Steelhead"

One fish per day. If I were to average the number of steelhead I've landed on the swing over the last 16 years on the Salmon River, that is what it would come out to. In general steelheading terms, that is a pretty good number. For real, wild, and native PNW steelhead, it is high. For potamodromous rainbow trout on the Great Lakes, it is low. For my style and ego, it is right where it should be. Keep in mind that I don't fish the lower fly zone, you'll never find me on the DSR, I'll seldom swing a few runs in the Upper, and I'll occasionally dabble in Altmar on a slow day. I like that number. It means that I get skunked quite a bit and every now and then I catch a bunch. That number keeps the experience from getting stale and ensures that I keep making the five hour drive as I burn the candle on both ends of a work weekend. Every now and then there are outliers. For example, in 2020-21 I didn't land a single fish on the swing on the SR in New York, but caught 3 wild summer fish in Oregon on the Rogue, North Umpqua, and Deschutes. This year, I fished nine total days and didn't catch a single fish on five of them. But...I landed almost 30 fish on the other four. Two outlier days where time and timing converged with pods of migrating fish, some fresh out of the lake. On days like that, you literally forget certain interactions, grabs, and released fish. Looking back on it, I prefer a particular day fishing with Mike Kohler, Nate Kohler, and two of their buddies. On that day, I took a back seat and helped them get into fish. On that day, I fished less, and only landed one. It was a big chrome hen on a dry line and a wet fly. That's the one you remember. Everything else is just skunkings and outliers...

Mike Kohler with the release...