Deschutes Fly Fishing Fun (and Bocce too)

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Brother Mike, from Portland Oregon, and I had a fun fly fishing weekend August 16 - 17, 1997. He arrived in Olympia, Washington a little after noon on Friday. We went out for lunch at a local Mexican food cafe and commenced to talk FF (fly fishing talk). He had tuned up at his fly casting pond in Portland before driving to Olympia. He was primed.

After lunch, we bought our licenses at Big 5 Sports, and became legal. It had been awhile since I dipped a fly in water. I didn’t buy a license in 1996 in an effort to restock the streams in Western Washington. Mike picked up a 3 day pass and I opted for the annual permit, which only lasts until the end of calendar year.

We returned to the house to plan our strategy for the evening hatch on our local Deschutes River. I had sent Mike some cold water waders for his birthday which was among the gear he brought with him. The knee patches didn’t properly cover his knees and concerned about an imperfect fit, he returned them to sender.

I was really impressed with the rig Brother Jim sent him for his birthday. I carry my rig around in an oversized pvc tube. He came out with this polished metal tube. I opened it and out came a cloth wrapping with sleeves that held the two part rod in protective cover. Unveiled was a 9 foot six pound master rig. What balance. Next came the reel. The yellow neon line almost blinded me. I was mesmerized by it the entire weekend.

We talked more FF, and waited for the heat of the day to pass. It was so hot that Mike announced that he wanted to wet wade. Wet wade it was. We left the house to time our entry into the Deschutes in time for the late afternoon hatch. Arriving at the river, we rigged up. We were excited.

The anticipation had built for weeks. Mike had graded high in his classes and we were ready to rip some lips.

We entered the water at the sandy banks near a bridge over the river. I encouraged Mike to go first to test the comfort level of the water. Passing through the critical water level, he said that it was going to be fine. Balls to the walls, I slowly tiptoed my jewels into the water.

Mike started out with a dry fly and informed me that I was using an emerger. I guess I knew that. Mike began with false casts because of the trees that lined the area. I followed suit. We developed a rhythm with the flow.

BANG!!!. The water erupted in white foam. The trigger finger pressed the line to the rod as the butt of the rod rose to set the hook. Gills glinted in a splay of water and sunlight. Head pulled off center, the offended fish landed on its side, thrashing spray. “Fish ON!” Mike turned to me with a surprised grin. "You got a fish!"

Eschewing the reel, I managed the fish with hand pulls on the line, keeping the rod tip at an angle that would hold the tension as the captive darted from left to right. Bringing it within arm’s length I was able to handcuff it with my right hand. The fish watched apprehensively as I removed a difficult hook.

I’ve always loved the colors of a rainbow. What a gorgeous palette I held in my hand. I moved the fish back in forth in the water to get water through the gills. Recovered from our chance encounter, the seven inch beauty, wounded and indignant, wiggled to freedom. The next hour and a half on the river was uneventful. Mike approached me shivering and suggested that it was time to head home. Because of a generous layer of body fat, I had not yet experience the shivers.

We stopped off at Costco for some polish hot dogs for supper, which was a prelude to an uncomfortable night for both of us.

Saturday morning’s dawn came without acknowledgement from us. We got up about 7:00 a.m. and started the day with breakfast at The Place Cafe. Mike enjoyed blueberry trail cakes and I had the regular # 2, two basted eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns and toast.

Later, we arrived at Staircase, the headwaters of Summit Lake which is about an hour drive from the house. This morning, we brought waders with us. Mike borrowed my old pair of Texas warm water waders with the mistaken assumption that it was the wetness of the water that caused cold. This was the day he learned that it is not the wetness that causes hot or cold; it can be wet hot or wet cold. Just as well, the large rocky bottom made wading difficult. We put in
about 3.5 hours of rod time. We were skunked.

Back home and after naps, it was bocce time. Mike took the bocce trophy home to Portland
with him. I tried all the tricks I know, but he was tenacious. It was like a close point boxing match. Neither one of us could break away. I had a 3 point lead in the early teens, but Mike kept coming. We both had miraculous throws. I named him "The Surgeon".

Sunday morning, the alarm went off at 5 a.m. We were at the Deschutes before the first dawn. We both wore cold water waders. Mike has become a believer and took his waders back home with him. We slipped into the dark water, looking for sippers. Both of us were rigged with drys.

Within ten minutes, "Fish On!" I had found the little brother of Friday’s rainbow. I’ve learned that I should enter the water, fish 10 - 15 minutes, catch my fish of the day and go home.

Over an hour later, Mike’s fly erupted in a torrent of water. "Fish On!" he cried with delight as yellow neon coiled in the air. Every thing went slack, falling in slow motion to the surface. The frenzy of the moment was gone, as was the fish. But the joy of strike lingered there with us.
His offering to the fish had been accepted. He took another step up the learning curve of the art. We went home and took naps. Mike headed for Portland a little after noon with his gear and new cold water waders.

It was a fun weekend.

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