Fishing the Crooked River (again) March 14, 2015:

Yesterday, I once again took the three hour drive to the Crooked River valley. Winter is essentially over at this point, opening up more options across the state. The Deschutes salmonfly hatch will be in less than two months. I have missed the hatch in some way or another every year for the last five years, but I might get lucky this time. The Oregon Coast will get calmer and suitable for bottom fishing, which is a good thing, because we’re running out of space on Depoe Bay’s memorial plaque. However, I decided to gun to the Crooked River for one last trip. Although I love fishing this river (the trout and whitefish aren’t unusually fussy) I dread coming here for one key reason.

And no, it’s not because I get laughed at.

I cannot land fish in this cursed river to save my life! Sure, my blog is filled with pictures of redside trout and mountain whitefish that I have caught here, but those represent a miniscule fraction of the many that I’ve hooked and immediately lost for some reason or another. I don’t know whether it’s because of the unusually small hooks, or some strange mental thing where I psych myself out, or the fish gods giving me the finger, but something is seriously wrong. I was in denial until this trip, where I lost so many fish (nearly all whitefish; I don’t see whitefish as inferior to trout, but at least I can tell myself that I do) that I threw my rod across the river and had to go retrieve it.

On the bright side, this tree is pretty!

The day started out with me hooking and somehow landing a decent sized whitefish. Before I get into another rant about how great whitefish are and how those who argue them as trash fish should go drown themselves, I should say that I was able to land this one. As I was unhooking the sucker (they are actually in the Salmonid family and are closely related to trout and salmon), I noticed that a truck was approaching. I made a big deal of nonchalantly holding the fish up right as the truck drove by.

“Whitefish trash!” the driver (probably) shouted as he drove by.

Another example of my amazing fish photography skills.

I continued to fish. I already ranted about all the fish I lost before I started this post, so I’ll talk about the ones that I did amidst uncreative scenery shots. Here’s one of a completely ordinary and unimaginative stretch of river water:

I must have lost twenty fish out of that one stretch.

I fished many of the pools and riffles with small Bead Head Pheasant Tails and Hare’s Ears. Wading was problematic, as wading atop the algae covered rocks were like walking on black ice. It turns out that screaming “SHIT!” at the top of your lungs carries really well through the canyon.

Who said that?!?

Oddly enough, among all the fish that I should have landed that inexplicably came off, I was able to land a rainbow in the midst of unwrapping my legs and net from a cocoon of fly line. The fish wrapped the leader around the rod tip three times and I almost fell face first while trying to land it, but I somehow netted the fish. Perhaps I landed the trout because I thought I had no chance and I might as well go down swinging, a situation similar to my dating lifestyle.

There are other things in this picture similar to my dating lifestyle, but I’ll leave it at that.

The weather was nice, and it was probably the first time I’ve been able to fish this river without wearing multiple protective layers of women’s underwear. However, the wind soon became unbearable, with howling gales sweeping through the canyon. Wind is also a pleasant reminder of how sharp your size 18 hooks are. Except for with fish, of course. Still, I was able to catch a decent number of fish that day.

I’m not nearly coordinated enough to take pictures and hold fish at the same time.

As I should have learned by now, blow-by-blow accounts of a fishing trip are rarely interesting to those other than the writer. Because of that, I'm not going to describe every minute detail of the remaining trip and just say that I caught a few more fish, including one at the very end of the day. It's a great feeling to catch a fish on the "last cast" (although it is rarely destined to be the last) and walk away from the river after releasing the fish. Of course, this never happens and I continue to cast in the  blind fruitless hope that there will be more. 

I dress like an eighty year old man.

As I packed the car and removed my waders, I felt an unbounded sense of excitement. It was March, and I had already had several great days of fishing. In a week, it would be spring break, summer would be a few months after, and of course I can't forget all the local ponds and streams to explore in my free time. There are flies to tie, whitefish to defend, and Mt. Hood restaurants to bash in the coming year. I've mapped out exciting new spots as well as familiar old ones, and am ready to hit the lakes and rivers of the area. It's time to go start casting!

I hate panoramas,

Kamran Walsh