Perhaps the greatest sentence in the human language is when your buddy says “I just bought a jet boat and a permit to guide on the Lower Deschutes, you wanna come take some photos?” For some, fishing the Deschutes River is their 9-5 job and they know it like the back of their hand. I, on the other hand, am still quite the tourist. After a few dozen trips, I’m still learning the waters, nowhere even near local status even though I’ve lived here for several years. As the “camera” guy I often find myself spending more time behind the lens than casting, but I’m rewarded in photographs rather than fish to hand. This trip, however, was the opposite of that.
Still early in the steelhead season, with the ambiguous rumor of fish here and there, we decided to take an exploratory mission to scout the lower waters of the river. In the predawn hours, where only fishermen and madmen dare to lurk, the guys are stringing up their rods and waiting for the coffee to kick in so they could function in the cold darkness. I, on the other hand, am rigging camera gear, preparing for their moments of glory, taking note that I should have gotten up 40 minutes earlier. The motor is warmed up. We are warmed up. We head out.
The first time you find yourself plowing through a rapid at 30 miles an hour with minimal visibility and see the occasional dark area that resembles a rock you take note of where the life jackets are. Looking back at Russ navigating. he’s cool as a cucumber, weaving through the deep channels as if he’s expecting the river to make way for us. It was poetry. We find our spot.