Outdoor Central Oregon January/February 2020 | Page 44

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FISHING|
WINTER: ONE SET OF TRACKS
BY EDMUND WADESON
Monday November 25 dawned with the news of the impending first snowstorm of the
year headed our way and bringing with it the guarantee of a white Thanksgiving. I sat with
the gravity of it for a few moments until I realized – Perfect! I had set aside one day in
three weeks to get out solo and spend some hours on, preferably in, the water. Wednes-
day was the scheduled storm day and precisely the one day I had targeted to fish. This
day is usually set aside to prepare for the Thanksgiving celebration the following day,
most minds are probably not occupied with thoughts of fly fishing. For me this provides a
welcome opportunity to get afield with the fly rod with less chance of being interrupted
or disturbed. On Wednesday morning the 7am News flashed, “STORM WARNING for
Central Oregon”across the screen as I uncharacteristically donned fleece long johns and
waders in the living room. It took a good fifteen minutes performing a self-wrestling rou-
tine with additional layers before I was ready to load both gear and myself into the truck
and head out.
There is something about driving with snow under the tires for the first time each winter.
Palpable anticipation is tinged with uncertainty and the occasional flash of fear as the
back end of the truck fishtails momentarily when crossing the ruts of previous traffic.
I was highly elated and looking forward to the next few hours immersed in the flow of
things. My feelings were carried forward by snow angling across the windshield, the
heater going full blast, the ominous covering of clouds and a backdrop of Willie Nelson’s
Texas twang. The conditions were radically different from the sunny days of only the week
before. Only head cases would even consider going fishing on a day like this. Again, –
Perfect.
About a foot of snow scrunched loudly under the tires as I turned off the road and shut
off the truck. Upon opening the driver’s door I was hit by a blanket of silence tempered by
the soft shush of falling flakes. Shin deep snow had fallen overnight and having already
geared up for the day, I simply opened the rod case, set up the rod, strung the line and
after a scant few minutes trudged off through fresh powder between the trees towards
the water.
I forded the waist deep gently flowing river and climbed a high bank, picking my way
across snow-blanketed deadfalls and shrouded bushes to a place that afforded an
elevated perspective of the water below. Here and there trout finned in place, holding in
scattered groups or singly downstream from a rock or log that gave a respite from the
current. Snow fell continuously, gently impelled now and then by an errant breeze from
down river that blew the flakes slanting against my cheek and across my lenses. That
new fleece neck sleeve was proving its worth by keeping fingers of cold from insinuating
themselves down my back. Any guard against the elements is handy when the tem-
perature plunges and you’re standing thigh deep in water already harboring the distinct
possibility of hypothermia. I ploughed off along the crest of the bank scanning the water
for more fish, bulldozing a fresh trail in the unblemished powder. A Great Blue Heron
took flight as I appeared round a bend in the river, squawking harshly as it flapped heavily
over the tree tops, seemingly annoyed at having its reverie shattered by so unwelcome an
interloper. Stillness was restored as it disappeared except for the sounds of my wading
boots crunching the snow underfoot and my heavy breathing as I paused now and then to
reconnoiter the water.
Everything around me spoke stillness and calm. There was no noise, no haste, no jarring
interruption to the quietude, everything peacefully existed in its natural order and rightful
place under the gently accumulating white blanket. The flat, white illumination through
the hovering clouds above rendered everything in stark black and white relief, leaving my
sight starved for color. The blue of my jacket stood out garishly as I looked down at my
sleeve, appearing to be a gross colorific insult against the gray toned order of the day.
My attention was drawn by a flash of movement at the water’s edge. An American Dipper,