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