Merry Christmas!: Fishing the Crooked River December 21, 2014

It's that time of year again. Loud, tasteless music blares in overcrowded shopping malls. Tacky inflatable decorations adorn neighbors' lawns and inevitably pop or leak. Friends and family attempt to put their animosities aside and coexist peacefully with one another for a whole twenty four hours. My bitterness aside, I like Christmas. However, this year I've felt that the month of December just lacks that "christmasy" vibe I've felt from when I was younger. It might have to do with my age or the slew of other things I have to endure. Many friends with similar feelings have tried to "override" their sentiments by caroling, watching sappy holiday specials, or baking dry, tasteless Christmas cookies. Naturally, I avoid all of the above and go fishing.

The joy and happiness of Christmas.

Despite the 90's grunge album cover above, fishing the Crooked River was a productive way to kill time during the holiday season. Although the dreary rain and grey weather was far from the idyllic snow and singing elves of Christmas, it didn't affect the fishing.

I have never seen such a depressed looking fish.

Must be the weather.

I immediately started catching a few small Redsides on a Bead Head Hare's Ear. I had brought fishing gloves to avoid the near-frostbite of last time, but shed them due to their lack of mobility. Luckily, it wasn't unusually cold and I rarely needed to put my hand into the frigid water. Although it was very cold, the water was still low and unaffected by the rain that had been plaguing nearly the entire state. The weather had been unseasonably warm and my adopted town of Government Camp had been enduring a miserable snow year. Another reason to go fishing.

8,000 trout per mile is complete baloney.

I worked my way across several pools, losing countless fish due to reasons beyond my control. Fly fishing is extremely frustrating in that there is a complete lack of control at times. Unlike sports or musical instruments, which can be generally controlled and up to the individual, fishing requires the cooperation of a wild animal that couldn't care less if Christmas is in four days. Nothing like standing up to your waist in a freezing river when you could be decorating Christmas trees or holding hands or doing whatever normal people do during the Christmas season.

Merry Christmas to you, too.

As I worked my way downstream, I picked up a few larger fish. The Crooked River isn't known for producing "trophies," but there can be some decent fish to be found in and among the smaller ones. However, in winter many tend to be more lethargic than their juvenile counterparts, making the occasionally frisky fourteen-incher a terrifying real screamer from the gates of hell.

Proof that I am capable of catching fish larger than an Oscar Mayer product.

I've learned that you're much more likely to land a fish if you enjoy the fight, rather than if you have a full on seizure upon connecting to a larger-than-average fish like the one above. Especially when one is used to endless eight inchers and expecting fish of that size, a bigger trout can often induce panic and hyperventilation. You try and lie to yourself through the battle convincing your conscience that you'll be okay if the fish gets away, but we all know that Santa is watching.

Let's all look at another random spot on the river.

As it began raining harder, I caught a few large whitefish in a big pool. Although whitefish have endured a long reputation as "trash fish," nothing could be further from the truth. The Mountain Whitefish, Prosopium williamsoni, is a member of the family Salmonidae and is thus closely related to trout and salmon. Its behavior, appearance, and fight are very similar to that of a trout, and many anglers are beginning to appreciate whitefish for both sport and food. 

They also look beautiful. 

If you think they're "trash fish," wait until you hook one of this size in fast water.

Although smoked whitefish would make a great Christmas gift for my relatives that I wouldn't have to pay for, I slipped back my "freshwater bonefish" and continued fishing. Although it was mid-afternoon, the early darkness of the winter solstice began creeping up on me. The rain also got worse, and soon nearly every photo I took looked like some grainy shot of the Loch Ness Monster. 

Or even rarer, a whitefish that took a dry fly.

(Photo later confirmed to be a hoax)

After a while, the gloom became too much for even me to bear, as the familiar numbness of my extremities had begun to creep up on me. It also started to rain harder than ever, and all the guides with their clients had left. It was only me, somehow standing in the only part of the Crooked River where the water rushed over my waders and under my shirt. Every step contorted my body in a stranger position as I tried not to fall. Gasping in the cold as I tried to squeeze one last fish in, I eventually gave up and waded/swam back to the other side to take more scenery shots.

I can't stop thinking about the 8,000 fish per mile thing.

Soon my phone had given up against the cold and was hibernating. The river rushed past me while the rain rhythmically I stood there, hands numb, soaking wet, rain dripping off of my hat into my face, thinking about that one fish I should have landed while some Christmas carol droned off in the back of my mind. The one with Bono, I think. 

Merry Christmas, 

Kamran Walsh

Frostbite Fishing: Crooked River November 29, 2014

Thanksgiving just passed us by, and with it comes the long cold snap that renders most places unfishable. While many anglers choose to hang up their waders for the year and pull out their long underwear, a few diehard fishermen choose to brave the freezing elements and continue to find ways to fish. Many of these men and women are of a species referred to as steelheaders, chrome-crazed fanatics with unkempt clothes and unruly hair. Withholding comments about my own physical appearance, I also like to fish for these turbo-charged torpedoes. However, there are many other places to fish during the darkness of winter. One of these is the Crooked River.

You try to take a decent photo from a moving car with your hands frozen into claws.

The Crooked is a small tailwater river draining from Central Oregon's iconic Prineville Reservoir. The stable temperature of the reservoir translates to the stable water temperature of the Crooked River, making it ideal for year-round fishing. Since nothing else was easily fishable in late November, we loaded up the jeep and headed out on the two hour drive. 

Organization is more of a secondary concern.

After an uneventful drive, we finally reached the river. The rugged canyon of the Crooked is beautiful, and I sorely regret not taking more photographs. Despite the sunshine, the air temperature was freezing, with ice having formed along the banks of the river. However, the fish didn't care, and I soon begun hooking native redsides on small nymphs. 

Although the fish in the Crooked River are  known for being small, they are numerous and obliging. Unlike most tailwater fisheries, the Crooked is a relatively easy place to fish. The wading is easy, the fish are not unusually spooky or selective (although they, like any trout, can be extremely frustrating at times), and the cafe-latte colored water allows anglers to approach the fish more confidently. 

Yes, I caught ones bigger than this.

It was after the first couple fish when the cold hit. When excitedly casting, mending line, checking rocks for nymphs, and landing trout, your hands tend to get wet.    This is usually not a problem, but when winter fishing, sub-freezing temperatures can numb your hands to the point of uselessness. The tiny flies on 7X tippet that are essential for this river become nearly impossible to tie on, and even simple tasks such as holding your rod and unhooking fish becomes difficult.

The wind had also seriously started to pick up.

As a result, I could take no more fish or scenery photos for the rest of the day and had to call it quits soon after. Although it was a successful day fishing one of Oregon's best native trout streams, the cold was a serious problem and future trips will have to be better equipped against the elements. 

Tight lines,

Kamran Walsh 

Last Mt. Hood Trip of the Year: October 19, 2014

Another year of fishing has passed. Although we in Oregon have been luckily given a long and fruitful summer, these days are drawing to a close. Although there will still be winter steelhead and tailwater redsides to be caught, the days of fishing without three layers of long johns are essentially over for the year. However, I was able to squeeze in one last trip before the buckets of snow would start dumping on the mountain.

There are fish in there.

Many of the Mt. Hood streams fish extremely well into the fall, especially since there are many important insect hatches that the river doesn't get for most of the year. The ultra-buoyant dries that are essential for the fast current work year-round, but they are especially effective when similar-sized flies are flitting about. 

It took longer than it should have to get this fish in position.

It was a grim reminder how broken and beat up my gear is. One rod (the one I busted at the Deschutes the last time I was there) was broken and waiting to be repaired, and the other had a reel that was attached via a rubber band. This reel belonged to the original rod, and I had to transplant it because the existing reel had also fallen apart. Since nothing was hatching when I first got to the river, I used a small spinning rod with a nymph instead. 

Mt. Hood streams have a mysterious quality to them. Being shrouded in rarely-ventured woods, you always wonder what could be hiding itself among the trees. Although you rarely see other people, there are regular reminders of their presence, hidden in the shadows of the woods. Seriously, I'm pretty sure people live there. I'm not talking about camping, but full-blown residence.

The message written on the rock is "be love," something that would be said by hippies. Or people who work at New Seasons.

Moving up in the river, I switched my spinning rod for the broken fly rod. Even though the reel was hanging by a thread, I was able to manage and began immediately catching fish on a "Kam's Caddis." Although it was a complete zoo, I only took a few photos, focusing on safe and quick releases. The current between me and the productive pools was swift and not ideal for resuscitating exhausted fish. Besides, I had forgotten my waterproof phone case at home and I risked losing hundreds of dollars and the phone numbers of over twenty girls with each step.

I also caught a few fish that I am almost positive were cutbows. Cutbows can be tricky to identify since Coastal Cutthroat and Rainbow Trout look similar to begin with. However, there are still important traits to identify them from one another. For one, any trout with red throat markings are cutthroats. Unless you forgot your hemostats and were using a treble hooked lure, the red throat marks are key features of Cutthroats. In addition, a mature Cutthroat will be nearly completely covered in spots, like a leopard, and only have a faint pink stripe. Rainbows, on the other hands, have brighter stripes and are largely absent of ventral spots (at least where the distinct stripe is present). There were a number of fish that showed clear traits of both species.

There was also a Brookie mixed in, a relatively uncommon catch in the river. As I was reeling it in, I noticed the distinct spawning hues of this species and rushed to net it in the fast current. Although Brook Trout look different from non-char trout, they also feel different, having proportionally larger heads and heavier builds. I also continued my infamous streak of horribly botching pictures of this species (see http://mthoodfishing.blogspot.com/2014_08_01_archive.html)

Keep in mind that it's legal for me to eat you. If you had waited ONE more second...

After catching a number of fish from the same pool, I began working my way upstream. Although the hackle on my Kam's Caddis had been shredded to nothing and my reel had finally popped loose of its bearings, I was still able to fish. Holding the reel in one hand and the rod in the other may have been a pain, but I was still able to hook into the last  fish of the day.

One person I showed this to thought it was a sea-run fish. That's a good thing.

Not huge, but a nice fish for the river. Since my tackle was practically disintegrating, I figured it was high time to start climbing back up the cliff to the car. Although the trout fishing was over for the year, and I would have to start transitioning to other things, in many regards the cyclical nature of life is what keeps the forces of nature intertwined and the coming seasons ones to be cherished. I have no idea what that meant, but I'm keeping it that way.

24 Miles in One Day: September 7, 2014

The end of summer is rapidly approaching, with fall and the drudgery associated in shouting distance. I have already found myself in the hallowed halls of my school. However, that doesn't mean I have to stop fishing. With the weather still nice and the fishing better, my family and I set out on one more float trip on the Deschutes River aboard our raft, the "Squash." (I wanted to call it the Time Bandit, but it wasn't my money)

The stumps in that raft are me and my dad's friend Steve.

The Deschutes is one of my favorite places to fish for trout and steelhead, and  we were planning to do the great trout fishing section from Buckhollow to Mack's Canyon. Of course, all the passes had been given out. As were the passes from Warm Springs to Trout Creek. And Trout Creek to Buckhollow. And pretty much every other section of the river. Except one.

Mack's Canyon to Heritage Landing. Famous for steelhead and an a vicious onslaught of Class 4 rapids, it ran for 23.5 miles with no break in between. An estimated six to seven hours of nonstop rafting, with only one day to do it. In addition, I had heard lots of terrible things about the trout fishing that far down. However, the steelhead fishing there is legendary, so I brought a spinning rod and a few spinners. On the downside (again), I would only have an hour or two to fish considering how much ground we would need to cover. Steelhead aren't exactly known for being fish that can be caught in that time frame. Without much else to control, we settled for simply getting up early and loading the raft with the essentials at five in the morning. Fishing tackle, food, and of course, the venerable honey bucket. Bailer, crayfish container, and portable restroom all in one, we would never think of forgetting it. Especially since boaters are legally required to have one. Soon after, we found ourselves hitting the river right as the sun was creeping over the canyon walls.

The unfortunate watermark might reveal that I did not take this photo.

With us was my dad's friend, Steve. An experienced rafter and fisherman, his job was to get us through the onslaught of dangerous rapids in one piece. However, there weren't any at the start of the trip, and I settled down to do some casting for steelhead. Although everyone's heard the "fish of a thousand casts" soliloquy (I might have even mentioned it in a prior post), I was determined to reduce that ratio. And after fifteen minutes, I hooked into a fish. I had the drag set relatively light, so the fish uncorked a few strong runs. It was about eight pounds, wild, and what people pay thousands of dollars to fish for. I only paid five bucks for the spinner and even less than that for the line. Of course, I should have probably paid more, as the fish made one final jump and snapped the line just out of reach. I was happy to have hooked the fish, but I sorely regretted not hooking it further down, out of the sight of my parents and Steve. This was because I knew the worst was yet to come.

I didn't get a picture, but this one is pretty neat.

I'm strange about conversation following the loss of a fish. For instance, when I'm with my fishing buddies and I bungle a catch, there's the usual barrage of good-natured ribbing and insults. I'm cool with this, as it takes the edge off and I can usually counter with something even more PG-13, especially if they lose one later on. However, when someone goes "oh, bummer," or "what a shame," it reminds me that it IS a shame and not something to be made fun of, as in exhibit A. And that's exactly what my parents did. I can understand what they were trying to do, but I'd rather have a buddy go "dude, you pansy, you totally botched that steelhead!" than "oh, that's too bad. Next time you should (insert useless advice that wouldn't have changed the outcome)." I might sound harsh, but when my dad (who was 100yds downstream at the time of the hooking and didn't see anything) told me that I should have "let it run" as if I had never hooked a steelhead before, it rubbed me the wrong way.

I lost all my remaining spinners to the bottom ($20 down the drain), so we hit the open road (river?) again and started rafting. Unlike the Squash, the raft I was in was larger and less maneuverable, but more stable. Still, the lack of a draining system would lead to pools of water at the bottom that would need to be bailed.

Is that a leak?

This was more of a rafting trip than a fishing trip, although I had caught a steelhead. However, I still had time to do a little trout fishing. It turned out to be a lot better than I expected, and we were able to catch a few decent redsides in the short time we had for lunch. It was especially good considering the time of day.

Even when they're this small they fight like steelhead.

Steve had never used a camera phone before.

Apparently neither had I.

I had been fishing for trout for so long that I had forgotten to appreciate how beautiful they are. The Deschutes, although not a difficult place to fish per se, can take some practice, especially with larger fish. However, most of the 8-14 inchers are fairly obliging, especially with nymphs. Landing them is hard, however, because they fight much more powerfully than most other trout their size. I would have liked to try for a few more trout, but I fell down while wading across a slick-bottomed riffle, a bad combination. Although I was okay, I broke the tip off of my four weight. Fixable, but a serious inconvenience. Besides, we had more ground to cover.

The Colonel Sanders school of rowing.

We floated for several more hours. Although the river could be heard flowing beneath us, there was relative silence. Occasionally it would be broken by a Kingfisher's chatter, a Heron's prehistoric croak, or someone from the shore frantically pointing in front of us and shouting something about a sharp rock. After a few bumps later, I got back in the middle of the river and pulled out the map.

The latest in GPS technology.

It was hard to tell exactly where we were, but it looked as if the onslaught of rapids was about to start. I went over a small wave train that I assumed was Gordon, and headed for Colorado, one of Deschutes' Class 4 screamers. I talked to Steve right as we neared the bend where they would be in sight.

"It seems late in the year. They shouldn't be that bad."

"What do you mean? Do you have any idea how many people die in this river each year?"

I gulped. "Uh, no."

"Neither do I. You'll be fine."

I turned the corner and faced Colorado Rapids head-on. Even from a distance it was pretty intimidating. The churn of water could be heard from hundreds of yards away. I assessed the situation.

"I'm seeing a V that carries along the left bank. I'm thinking that I'd ride the seam along the right and pull away (or whatever I said, I don't remember.)" 

I rowed forward into the churn. Keeping straight, I got battered around a little and narrowly missed a rock, but made it out. I sighed in relief.

"Yeah, made it past Colorado!" I shouted triumphantly.

Steve looked at me. I felt uneasy.

"That wasn't Colorado," he said while looking at the map.

"Then uh, what was-"

"That's Colorado." he said while pointing straight ahead.

I choked on my spit. What was ahead looked like some sort of washing machine. If the previous one sounded like a thunderstorm, what was ahead sounded like a tornado that swept up a drumline. I know that many experienced rafters will scoff at my imagery, but I hadn't gone over anything rougher than a three. I held my breath and pulled in the froth.

I'm not actually sure if this is Colorado or not. My mom wasn't rowing, so she took the photo.

Of course, the worst wasn't over. Rattlesnake Rapids, the only one on the stretch nastier than Colorado, was still ahead, and I was even more nervous. However, Steve told me that I'd be fine if I was able to do Colorado, so I rowed downstream and readied myself. Confusingly enough, Rattlesnake Rapids are not located at Rattlesnake Canyon. Even more confusingly, Rattlesnake Canyon had its own arguably-scary rapids.

I kept rowing until the rapids were in sight. Along the way, I had gone over a few smaller ones, and was preparing myself for the big one. I'm probably going a little heavy with the artistic license, as I can't say that I was truly scared. Especially when I saw them from up the river.

Then Steve showed me this photo:

Although from a completely different time of year, I still got a little shaken up. However, there was no time for nerves, as they were rapidly impending. Taking a deeper breath than the time at Colorado, I plunged in. Although not as bad as that picture (which I suspect is from somewhere else), they were pretty rough, and I fell forward when the current yanked my oars back. I was still able to keep control.

About to go over Class 4 Rapids? Great time for a picture!

After we had cleared Rattlesnake, there was little in the trip left. A half an hour or so later, we were at the mouth. Although it was annoying to dodge the hordes of meat hunters, I was reminded of this place, as it was where I caught my first ever Chinook Salmon close to five years ago. However, I had snagged all my lures so I was forced to be content with watching a guy across the banks lose one and curse loudly. I looked at my watch. 7:30. We've been on the river for nearly twelve hours. I think about this until a Fish and Game warden saunters up. 

"Hello."

"Hey."

I was kind of nervous. Even though I hadn't broken any regulations, I still get an uneasy feeling talking to wardens. My parents and Steve were loading the truck.

"Any luck?" He asked apathetically as he pulled out his clipboard.

"Uh, yeah. A few trout."

"Got it." He marked something on his clipboard.

I wanted to tell him about the steelhead, but I didn't have a tag. But I thought you didn't need one if you were releasing them. However, I heard that you need one even if you're targeting them. But the steelhead wasn't technically "landed." I didn't have to mention it. But most steelhead technically aren't, I thought. They get released from the water, like with tarpon. And I play by tarpon rules.

"And a steelhead."

He looked at me. Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead. 

"Did you retain it?" I noticed his hand moving towards his pocket. The pocket that must carry tickets for fines. Or even some sort of weapon to apprehend me. I considered making a run for it.

"N-No..." I stuttered as I backed away. He was rummaging around in his pocket. I knew I was going to get it.

He pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth while putting the clipboard away.

"Okay, I'm just recording the ones kept," he said as he walked away. "Have a nice day."

I felt stupid for thinking that he was going to pull a GUN on me because I caught a steelhead. Imagine how I'd feel if I had ten undersized sturgeon that I snagged. I would probably take hostages. Sitting down, I looked at the sunset. Then, I turned and looked at the river. At the water. The water that will most likely flow through this river once and only once, guided by a seemingly mystical force.

Then I got up to use the honey bucket.