Outdoor Central Oregon January/February 2020 | Page 45

JAN/FEB 2020 a frequent and favorite river companion for many years, landed along a log that angled down through the water surface. After performing a few of its namesake dips and trilling a few quiet liquid notes it plunged below the surface and I watched as it flapped it wings down to the bottom and under the log. The oil in its feathers traps air which gives it a form-fitting silver sheen when submerged, leaving it resembling an animated mechanical toy as it looked for nymphs and sub-aquatic invertebrates that comprise much of its food. It soon popped to the surface and re emerged along the log with a black salmonfly nymph, (Pteronarcys Californica, if you must know), clenched at the tip of its beak. It adroitly bashed the nymph several times on the log and then gulped it down. After a peremptory adjustment of its tail feathers and a quick fluff up and dress down, it plunged back under water and flapped off mechanically once more. I left the Dipper to its submarine pursuits and turned my attention to the fish below me and the question of where to lay out the first cast of the day. A truth of being out along the water at any time of the year is that everything happens around the water’s edge. Life congregates beside the water as evidenced by the numer- ous animal and bird tracks one finds there. Vegetation, insects, animals, birds and yes, even humans, all gravitate to water. Birds in particular have long held a personal fascina- tion and a revered place in my fishing psyche. I have shared many experiences with birds and have observed them closely for years. One can learn a lot from watching a Heron ply its quiet and stealthy trade along any shoreline. I have found that watching birds is a reward in itself. They are uniquely beautiful and each one offers something, if one has eyes to see. Truth be told, a day along a river with fly rod in hand is not necessarily about catching fish. I have come to a point where I don’t need to focus exclusively on fishing, I gain much from stepping back and observing the totality of things at the fringes of the water. These days I pick and choose more selectively with hopefully better results as time goes on. Each day astream is an opportunity to be connected to natural and elemental underpinnings of life on a level deeper than a mere fish count would allow. And yet, I am always there to con- nect with a trout or two, or three, if I can. I spotted a nice fish holding just off the bank in deep run downstream from a large par- tially submerged log. It swung round and inhaled something indistinct and then returned to its lie. Ah, a feeder, I thought to myself. Here was a chance to feel that familiar bend in the rod again. I picked a careful route upstream from the fish and then down the bank with uncertain footing, trying not to disturb the sizeable trout that was now 25 feet or so be- neath me and perhaps 10 feet off the nearside edge. I chose a small woolly worm fly tied with a black tungsten bead head and an olive marabou feather body and tail. I cast across the stream from the fish and pulled the line in with rapid ½ inch long tugs which made the fly wiggle, hopefully enticingly. As the fly neared the fish I increased the rate of tugs and swung it in front of the trout. As I hoped, the fish came forward and I watched the white of its mouth as it opened. It grabbed the fly and turned away and I came tight with the line. The hook caught in its jaw and the fish went for the surface and tussled back and forth 45 throwing water left and right. It gathered itself and turned downstream, speeding against the pull of the line and causing that deep, satisfying bend in the rod. I gave line and let the trout pull away before checking its runs with my trigger finger. The fish was a good one and I let out a laugh that echoed back from the far bank. After a few more runs I led it to the net and admired the strawberry flanks, the dark green back and the pearl sheen on the cheeks. It lay in the mesh opening and closing its gills as I held it at the surface. I eased the fly out of its jaw and held the trout in the river for a few moments as it gathered strength. Discerning the right time I relaxed my hand and let it slip away, watching as it slowly swam downstream and out of sight. I have yet to understand how a 20 inch trout can transform a man, something I have experienced thankfully many, many times. I cannot yet put my finger on just what it is that holds such sway, that changes the internal status quo so readily. Maybe I don’t need to be able to pin the thing down, perhaps I should just continue to remain in a constant state of thankfulness for Central Oregon rivers and trout, and for being led by forces beyond my understanding to become a fly fisherman. After catching and releasing several more nice trout, I glanced at my watch to note the time approaching 4pm. “Ain’t it funny how time slips away?”, as Willie would say. The clouds reflected less light as the afternoon sun declined. Never strong throughout the course of the day, the sun was now a vague and barely perceptible presence hovering just over the trees to the southwest. A chill wind picked up, chasing fast ripples along the river and it felt like time to go, so I reeled up the line and turned for the truck. At one point I turned and looked back. A single set of tracks – my own, marked a me- andering trail along the river’s edge behind me. There will be days to come, like many already gone, where there will be other fishermen to intrude and inspire, to argue and agree, and to share the river and the fish with. But it was just me that day, no one to fol- low after, no one else to consider as the hours unfolded. Solitude is a rare and valuable thing today where we constantly jostle, dance round and collide with the strangers we share our world with. I suppose this is why those footprints leading back upriver behind me stand as emblematic of both where I found myself and where I would prefer to remain, and perhaps as a metaphor for something lost. I may not be able to predict with any great degree of certainty where I am going exactly, but where I had been I could see quite clearly in that one set of tracks. Truth be told, it’s a lot like life. Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces others to fly fishing in Central Oregon. Find him at [email protected]