John Day, Coeur D'Alene & Spokane River Adventure
4:30 AM Wednesday October 26th:
Sitting in the living room of the 1960's rural farm house overlooking the barren mountains near Condon, Oregon, I sit stroking the head of Cedar, a gentle grizzled wire-haired hunting dog bedded down on the couch, fire flickering in the darkness. I am still on Kansas City time and the two hour lag has me up long before the west coasters, I make some coffee and settle in to write. Yesterday, I steered the rental car through a steady evening rain at the base of Mount Hood, stopping at The Fly Fishing Shop in Welches, OR to pick up a fishing permit. As Tony entered my vitals into his state issued computer, we talked about shooting heads and the inventory of his expansive shop, I later found out that his entry onto the fishing retail life was the result of a logging accident that cut his career in the woods short.
I turned the car back onto the two lane highway and continued east along the forested base of Mount Hood, past the summer cottages doing their best impression of a Scandinavian village, past the swaying cables and sturdy towers of the Mt Hood Meadows and Timberline Lodge, anticipating the first snows of winter that will mark excitement and anticipation for the skiers. The road splits into a y and I bear left, the last 20 miles into Maupin give way to low ridges and scattered pines, then sage brush flats and the deep cut deep cut draws of the central Oregon high desert.
Todd Fearon sat at the bar when I pulled open the sliding door of the Riverside, there were a few low tables with local having beers and watching a football game, being indifferent to such things, I paid no mind to who was playing. It had been a few years since I had seen Todd and many more since we had fished together for the first time at his cabin on Butte Creek near Chico California. A trip that ended with me turning my ankle in the stream bed and he, performing first aid as I piled into a rental car en route to a work assignment in San Francisco. He was reading a copy of Grays Sporting Journal and sipping a local beer, we exchanged greetings and enjoyed our time together catching up on our latest adventures, family and careers. I ordered a pork tenderloin sandwich that covered the plate and a local stout. We paid the check and tipped the bartender. I always seem to long for small town living when I visit places like this, there is something about the closeness , the intimacy and the familiarity of a small community that is appealing to me. Then I catch myself and realize the I am romanticizing about a life that is not. When I have these thoughts, the cynic in me always thinks about the reality of my restlessness and quickly disenchanted I could become with some little squirt town. It is always after these times that I come to my senses and appreciate the life that I have, variety, challenge and complexity are my fuel in life. The world is as it should be and these things are just fleeting dreams or glimpses into old thoughts long past.
It was a twelve mile drive out to Sage Canyon ranch Todd's Porsche Macan, as we pulled into the driveway where we unpacked and settled into the bunkhouse anticipating the bird hunt to come the following morning. We checked in with Bob the ranch owner and his guide Mike then warmed up by shooting a few clay birds on the range overlooking a sage canyon. The dogs, Gus, Ollie, Wyatt and Birdy worked hard for us all morning and we shot a few slow moving birds. The speed of the birds was no consequence as my shooting skills left me as the first fat rooster passed within 25 yards, missed twice, we then trailed him, jumped him again and I missed three times as the bird disappeared over the horizon. I managed to fill the air with lead but never creased a feather.
We wrapped up around noon and then pulled some repairs on the brakes of Todd's Porsche SUV. The culprit was a small pebble lodged between the dust shield and the brake disk, the noise disappeared, all was well and we were on our way over the next ridge in to the John Day drainage to the east.
At Hotel Condon, streets quite we met our host and some other fishermen for dinner and talk of the ranch and fishing. One a real estate developer from Portland named Liam, the other, Paul, a retired physician from Denver. Jim Cox from the Western Rivers Conservancy was our host, and Todd, my fishing companion. Breakfast will be at 6am, Mia and Martin our guides are up preparing for the morning.
Martin, our guide, a young enthusiastic and skilled fisherman from Bend sat reading Haig-Brown's A River Never Sleeps. We talked about grandpa Bud and the letter and hand tied flies that Haig-Brown had sent him in the 1960. I appreciated Martins unassuming style and eagerness to get us on some fish.
Fishing Day 1:
We drove the 5 mile road down to the river as the sun was trying to rise through the thick wet fog that filled the scab-rock canyons. At first sight the river looked smaller than I had thought it would, the tight side canyons opened up to a wide valley and great rock cliffs and bluffs, sage and range grass running to the edge of the boulder strewn rivers edge. I began casting through the lower section of the first pool and the rust that had accumulated over the past years quickly surrendered to a normal cadence of strip, cast swing and step. We fished three runs and then broke for lunch at the "lunch hole". Liam, landed a fish at the lunch run just before we arrived. After some hot soup and a sandwich, assembled on a small table at the edge of the river bank,we moved on.
The afternoon was more of the same, cast, swing, cast swing....nothing but a few smallmouth who could not resist the bright colors of my Green Butt Skunk, Skykomish Sunrise or Egg Sucking Leech. As the evening wound down, in a long run with Todd at the head, myself in the middle section and Jim our host at the tail, Jim struck and landed a nice fresh fish.
We drove back to the house and had some pot roast and then turned in for the night. dinner, then went to bed.
Fishing day 2:
Up at five this morning and after some breakfast we loaded and worked our way back down the long bumpy road to the river. Today had a gloominess to it, the heavy drops of rain falling steadily on the water. Todd and I fished with Martin again today and Jim joined Paul and Liam. I started in the lower end of Jim's run, methodically covering the water, no fish. We moved upstream to the run with the boulder field, all three of us waded across and I worked the upper run while Todd worked the lower pool. No fish.
We met up with the rest of the party at the lunch pool, their morning, wet and miserable with no fish. We stood in our rain jackets on and ate, kind of a defeated feel to the proceedings as catching a fish seemed like a far away dream. Paul and Liam had both seen enough and decided to call it a trip and get on the road, we parted ways as Mia warmed up the truck. Todd and I loaded in Martin's tundra and traveled downriver finish the afternoon at the Rock Hole. Martin told us that this run had produced the year prior with seven steelhead caught, was encouraging and gave me a burst of resolve to fish the run with a renewed sense of purpose.
I stepped into the upper end of the pool and began casting off of the tip of the large rock that split the upper run. There were two solid flows of water that met at the end of rock forming a slack run and back eddy, classic steelhead water with walking speed current and just the right depth. Shooting the line over the the near current and into the far flow, while lifting the rod high and mending, the egg sucking leech moved slowly through holding water, just the right amount of action to make the fly dance and pulse in the current. Then she took, the take and first jump cam almost simultaneously, then the first run, a screamer 50 yards downstream toward Todd, then she stopped and the line was slack. I realized that she had turned, a frantic effort to recover line as she upstream along the inside. At 50 feet she slowed and pulled toward the current, then another run, reel screaming. Martin went tot the truck for the net, she turned her head toward the current and made a third run, this time not quite into the the backing. As Martin waded in, I turned her toward the shore, a few more short bursts and then it was over, lying bright in the shallow water. It all happened so fast, from a feeling of final desperation and prayer for a fish, a few cast into the last run of the trip, then the take, the fight and there she lay in my grasp, the final verse to a months long preparation. She lay there fresh from the sea, a journey of hundreds of miles, from the mouth of the Columbia at Astoria, to the mouth of the John Day where she most likely held for days or weeks, waiting on the cool fall rains to drop the scent of her some steam and spawning grounds. We quickly snapped a few photos, myself and Martin, honoring the fish and the memory. Then a celebration.
Todd, worked the Rock Hole one more time hoping that another fish held in the depths. He finished his trip without a fish, the price of steelhead fishing, hours of tedious casting absorbed in the silence of our thoughts, we fixate on that moment when a hard pull on a tight line pierces the calm, then the fight is on and an anxious angler prays for a fish in the net. Preparation, anticipation and diligence all virtues for the Steelheader.
Back at the ranch house, a call waiting for me from my boss, a promotion to Vice President after a 17 year run, sweet success both on the river and life. Both achievements make me realize the sheer power of persistence, a belief that a good thing will come if we simply stay with it long enough and with the right attitude.
Packed in the rental and after my plans to fish the Deschutes with my long time friend from Portland collapsed at the last moment. I turned the car north toward the Columbia River and the town of Arlington, through ridges lined with wind turbines, enormous blades turning slowly in the October breeze. Past the food processing plants at Boardman and Hermiston, then north through Kennewick ,my home town. Nine years had passed since Dad 's funeral, nearly unrecognizable to me. Across from where the old trap and skeet club stood, a new emergency hospital towers from the fields where in my youth only rolling sage hills,tumble weeds and cheat grass held the pheasants and quail we would chase. A stop in Zips in Ritzville for wrangler and fries, old memories from childhood come flooding back. This is food that I requested when I was sick or under the weather. I remember mom bringing a paper sack with the same burger and fries as I lay on the couch in our den at the old Havana Road farm, window open in the dry summer air. It seemed like days but probable was not, our memories have a way of making things out to be more epic than the reality of what we really experienced. I had a fractured skull, the result of fooling around swinging on a punching bag in the LaMear's basement. I fell off head first to the concrete floor, days later I was on the couch eating a belly buster and fries, this is what I remember.
Rain on the windshield, Interstate 90 through Medical Lake, Cheney, Airway Heights, Spokane, Post Falls and then five hours from the start at the ranch house on the John Day, I steer right off the ramp in Coeur d'Alene. Sleep came quickly after a long day filled with abundance and good fortune.
Fishing Day 3:
I met up with Fowler after picking up an Idaho permit at Black Sheep in Coeur d'Alene. A beautiful fall day with the smell of rain and pines in the air that are notably absent on our small rural farm in northeast Kansas. We drove the north shore of Fernan lake, over Frenan Saddle then dropped into the the upper Coeur d'Alene river drainage. We fished a series of runs and pools where the stream is small and manageable. The water was up after recent rains but ran clear over the rocky bottom of the valley floor and the cold through my waders reminded me that I was back in the mountains. It occurred to me as I took in the world around me, tall firs and pines, tamarack trees turning, it all came rushing back, living in this part of the world. How I took this for granted, the ten years we lived in North Idaho. a contrast to the limited trout options of the Midwest, with revered stretches of river less than a mile long, spoken about by Mid-westerners with a reverence that is lost on the fortunate, but spoiled sportsmen who call the Panhandle home. After an hour, we loaded and made our way downriver through Pritchard. On one bend in the road we came face to face with four elk, two calves, a yearling cow and a mature cow who was at least 500 pounds. They quickly stepped off the road into a mossy stand of old growth fir, pine and spruce. The horizontal lines of their backs visible as we rolled by,down the winding pavement. It was good to re-live some of the memories that Brad and I share from the the years when I lived in Coeur d'Alene. True old friends are hard to find and we need to hold onto the ones we have.
We met up with Carrie and Austin at Anthony's for dinner, Susan and Brooke. It was nice to catch up with them and cement the informal bonds that the families of good friends have. A nice dinner and night to remember.
Fishing Day 4:
We talked about making a trip up to Pend Oreille, a chance at the huge Kamloops that Brad famously found and has managed to keep under wraps for many years. As morning unfolded, with rising water and a long drive we opted for a simpler day trip to fish the Spokane River near State Line. We met at the Orvis store where Mike helped us pull together a Commando Head and running line for Brads spey rod. It was an opportunity to introduce a new way to get to the fish and worked well for Brad once we were on the river. After getting tags at the Post Falls Cabela's, we started at the Liberty Lake exit, the water was too high at around 5000 cfs and it was un-fishable. We went upstream on the north side of the river to Harvey Road and looked over a stretch below. We fished on the south side near the dog park on some slower moving tailout water, no fish. We grabbed a coffee at Starbucks and back to a walk in access directly across from the weigh station. I was able to fish the riffle and run thoroughly with a streamer and nymph rig. One pull but no fish. As I was wrapping up, Brad got cold and did a little recon, finding a pod of fish sipping surface flies along the north river road. I rigged a dry on my Commando head with a long tippet and proceeded to disgrace the rising trout with a splashy cast that immediately put them all down. Darkness was upon us and we drove back on the secondary roads then parted ways, promising to do it again soon.
Travel home:
I am writing this on the plane, on an Alaska Air flight from Seattle to KC. This week away has helped me focus some things as I begin to contemplate this phase of my life. What I know is that the best of life lies with the memories we make with those that we love, or families and close friends. Being intentional about slowing down and creating opportunities to be together, enjoy nature and the blessings that we share is what living is all about.