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.