River Guide Paste

Things to consider as you read:
1 . Italics represent the actual notebooks (scraps of paper, etc.) that had my interminable thoughts jotted down. They are typed exactly how they were written originally. Should I change the grammar in them or is it readable in original form?
2 . As I transcribed these ramblings I would stop once in awhile, change the font and fill in the details in present tense. Does it work, or does it make it choppy?
3 . I am just starting at a random handful of papers and working my way through. Should I group like pieces together and try to manipulate the natural flow into something cohesive, or do I just let it ride in random fashion? Does it feel like the truth? In reality the handful I grabbed first had a beginning entry for me. But does that seem believable? Aww, who cares if it is believable or not? It is what it is and I can’t change it.
4 . In the journal I use a lot of fishing jargon. Should I stop right there and instantly explain or can you follow along interested enough anyway? I don’t intend for this to be instruction on how to fish- although, inevitably, it will end up giving you snippets of the way I do things.
5 . The asterisks in a line indicate the next session of compiling notes. This is done most nights after my family has gone to bed. Does it matter? (Most nights I have actually forgotten to put them in, yet where they are, it seems like it makes sense.)

Man, I’ve tried to start this book at least a dozen times now. The others are in the journal and each one of them is thwarted by the fact that so much has happened on the day I actually try to begin. There is so much to put down on paper for you, so many lessons learned, hardly any of them are that vital, but once in a while I have something of import.
Time is of the essence. But, as a fisherman I tend to negate time unless it’s a Hex season. So much is constantly changing I just can’t keep up, As I finally start journaling for you, people on the outside probably wonder how I keep from getting bored with my lifestyle. I live in a 5th-wheel across from the boat launch of a small campground. And when I say across from the boat launch I mean there is a gravel road between my bed and the river, and that is it. It’s hard to want to take the time to write when there is so much more to absorb, I can’t stop to write it down. My favorite times of the day are the empty hours before I fall asleep.

The journal that I mention here was a wonderfully large, spiral notebook that I accidentally left in an auditorium on the last day of "Fire Training" school at Central Oregon Community College. Today I feel that this notebook had some of my best stuff in it. I started it a little bit before my time in Jackson, Wyoming. This represented the beginning of the "walkabout" period of my life. The BLM required all field employees in our area to take the class as part of our training. I went for the education of it and I did enjoy taking the course. However, I told my boss not to call me if anything caught fire. Although I said it with a smile, I remember following it up with something like “If there is a fire I will be down by the river bank with my shovel making sure the Deschutes doesn’t boil.” More injuries in that job result from some punk kid swinging a tool and sticking the guy next to him than people actually getting burned. They told us this in class, and by adding that to my argument I sealed the deal.
I was provided a Wilderness travel trailer from the 70’s by the BLM and it had an odd, short-door in the back, on the side. It separated my bed from the sound of the river so, I would lay there with the door kicked open looking at a million stars so clearly that I could actually see their three dimensional relationship to each other in the galaxy. Or is it the Universe I am seeing? I don’t know. I haven’t studied astronomy enough to understand what I see; I just know the terms from smallest to greatest – solar system, galaxy, and universe. There are probably more terms, but no one has reported trout on any other planet so I haven’t bothered to read much about it.

I work four days and have three off but I am busier now than when I am mid-term at Oregon State and working 30 hours per week. There are just not enough hours in my day anymore.
My friend Pete is a broker at Merrill Lynch. He works 65 hours a week I am sure of it. He also paints houses or builds on his own on the weekends. We may still be friends by the time you read this. He always amazes me. He still has time set aside in his day-planner to keep his marriage alive. There is no way I would have enough time for even a girlfriend right now. I’ve got small cream caddis before the sun hits the water until about 8:00 am, rusty mayfly nymphs until about 9. Then breakfast, and it takes a while to do it right.
Once I get some water boiling, I crush some coffee beans in a liquid measuring cup with an empty beer bottle and run them through the French press. After the bean crushing, and before the water reaches a boil, I have a few minutes to start two or three eggs (over real easy). I have solar electricity to run the toaster for the open face egg sandwiches I make every morning.

Breakfast is just one of the many delicate systems that came together with out a hitch back then. If I had shared my time and space with someone else my eggs would have probably gotten overdone- and - and that ruins my whole day. I could take my time with breakfast and coffee since the Pale Morning Dun mayflies don’t come off until 10:30 at the earliest. That hatch can last a good hour; on some days it is off-and-on for three hours, if you pay attention. By the end of the first week or so I had quit fishing the PMDs or any other hatch in the middle of the day. There is just something about the heat of the canyon and ruckus of people by that time of the day that turns me off. If I did fish the mid-day hours, I was using an emerger pattern of some sort to match the next surface activity of the river.
By the end of summer I was almost burnt out on fishing. It was a strange feeling that I am, to this day, having trouble describing. By mid-summer I remember managing my obsession more closely and fishing only the most opportune, 20-minute intervals of the day. It could have been a nice cloud cover, relieving us all from the heat, which would call me to take out the fly rods. I knew I had to set priorities and give myself parameters or else I would go overboard and possibly ruin myself. The priority fishing took place in the evening. It was that small window when everyone, who happened to be camping on a random Wednesday, was making dinner and futzing around their campgrounds. In reality the best time of the day on the Deschutes is the last half-hour of sunset into about an hour after legal time. At this late hour the smallest black caddis was almost always my fly of choice. I am not sure if it is the only bug I saw, or the first one I found active in the evenings. I usually pushed pretty far past the legal time and fished to those rises that were heard more than seen. I learned quickly where each feeding lie was for these fish; it was so familiar that I seemed to recognize the same fish in the same spots each night.
I remember hearing a rise and being able to nail it down to a particular 6 or 8-foot area. I would crane my neck around in various positions just to put the reflection of that brightest part of the remaining sunset within that area and light it up for me. It wasn’t very long, however, before I really didn’t need any light at all. I could fish by the palest moon. Fishing under theses circumstances really sky rockets one’s ability. I had to have the line near finger-tight so that I could time the sound of the strike (amidst the other rises) with a set of the hook. Keep in mind that this is the Deschutes, so my drift had to be flawless- in a dead drift straight down river with no swing across the current what so ever. Normally the best way to fish a caddis is by skating it across the top of the water; but these fish knew the difference between a randomly fluttering caddis and the “quarter-inch ski boat on a perfect arc toward shore”.

I have one spot I fish at this time, and I can barely reach the bruisers that are rolling in the river. The biggest Deschutes fish are smart and they know that we aren’t supposed to fish from a boat or any floating device so they are out in the middle of the river, most of them. The big kids come in to the shallower water at night, at least here, and probably only a small portion of them. They start porpoise feeding at the end of legal fishing time and I just can’t help myself but to keep after them. What can I say? I guess I am a work-a-holic like Pete.
After I call it a day and head back to the trailer I usually end up tying more of these black caddis imitations. A Griffith’s gnat won’t work. These fish can somehow see the difference. And by small, I mean the naturals are 20’s so I am tying on 22’sφ. I start by using some flex-coat on a turkey feather and gluing its small quills together into a piece of cloth of sorts which I cut and fold to make the tent. Sometimes I take the time to administer a hackle, but usually not. The flies don’t really last that long in the trout’s mouth. They aren’t made for durability, I get about 2 or 3 fish out of each one and that translates to about 6 casts with how well I know this spot I cast from.
I call it “the Parapet” and it is the “pole position”. It is one little solid clump of grass that stands about 4 ft tall and offers excellent concealment as well as great proximity to George’s Hole.

I call this “George’s Hole” because I met a guy there early in the summer when I first began feeling like this spot was mine every evening. The old retired guy was a heck of a conversationalist- real loud, casting spinners and wearing nothing but a white T-shirt, red gym shorts, and a side arm of some kind. He had waded out into the middle of the run with his glowing outfit. Maybe he knew he was standing where the fish like to hang out and that is why he had no problem speaking to me so loudly. I sat on the bank and tried to delicately educate him to where the fish lie, but he never really got the hint. I must have sat there for a good 40 minutes before he finally left without a fish so much as giving him the bird with a rise next to him. I remember staying just because he was so intriguing.
It boggles my mind how someone so clueless can live past 40, but I rather enjoy having playful discussions with them. I tend to throw out sly remarks, which can be taken about 4 different ways, and then I wait patiently to see which way their reactions turn them. Like they say in poker, “If you don’t know who the mark is in the first five minutes, then it’ s you”. Well, it is a good idea to keep your wits about you, especially when some wacko brings his revolver to the family campground on a Tuesday.
I doubt I even bothered to fish after he left… I could imagine that I just sat there and quietly apologized to those fish while they slowly made their way back to their nightly bug party- guaranteed to be raging now that he had kicked up all the stuff from the bottom of the river.


When someone comes to visit me I always give one of my flies and first shot on the parapet to my guest. I tell them to keep casting out at the saddle rock but most people always end up casting to the smaller fish that are closer in. I can’t blame them I guess. When you see this many fish rising in such low light its just natural to take the easiest ones first. But no matter how much I tell them where the big dogs are they just make one cast out there and as soon as I go back to fishing 30 yards away I see them casting in to the 8 inch risers at their feet. After I give them about a half hour of fun in the daycare I usually have to kick them out to take one of the fish over 16” that lie a bit farther out, just to make a point.

And don’t let anyone fool you- when most people say they caught an 18-inch fish on the Deschutes the reality is more likely that it was 13-and-a-half inch redside and it just impressed the hell out of them. The Deschutes Redsides are an unbelievable fighter and I don’t blame any fisherman for their embellishments. I have to believe that most tales from this river aren’t said with the intent to lie; these fish are just an impressive specimen of rainbow trout. But then, again, maybe I am justifying my own fishing reports. Who knows?
These fish are definitely worth chasing for a summer. When I first started my job I had to drive back and forth from Corvallis to Gateway for the last three weeks of spring term and take the whole fall term off. These “inconveniences” were no sweat off my back, really. In the end, my four-year education spanned 9 years and 5 schools. I got decent grades in all of them. I was never kicked out. I just kept following my fly rod to new places. I have no regrets.
Only one incident brings back a sick feeling in my stomach. I think every one of my summer jobs has a moment that still seems to haunt me. Looking back, they really aren’t a big deal now since nothing is permanently damaged - except my record of employment with the Federal Government, however, it isn’t anything that would keep me out of office. I am real glad I am about to write it down, that way I ensure the ability to relive it with friends, family and everyone else… over and over.
It was the last day of my workweek. I was going to head down to Reno with Todd, another ranger who worked up at Mecca. He and I were friends back in school at Oregon State so we were just going to head down and party in his hometown. Here is a rough draft of the memo I turned into the Prineville BLM Office:

Regarding the possible confiscation of the BLM driftboat on 8-6-97 this memo will include all incidents leading up to it’s temporary moorage at Trout Creek Campground.
The boat was used as part of a maintenance project involving the easement and trail leading to the Luelling Ranch- an unfinished project, which required the use of a weed eater, shovel, and a pelaskey. There is no public road, thus the driftboat served as the best method of transport for the tools. After finishing that days work the boat was then rowed to Trout Creek Campground, where it was to be trailered, and returned to the chain and lock attached to the BLM “5th wheel” trailer.
As it was being winched onto the trailer I noticed an old weld on the trailer, about 3 ft from the tongue, that was splitting further and further apart as the boats weight was drawn forward. Before the weight of the boat completely split the seam, it was returned to the water and fastened from the bow to the trunk of the first tree to the east of the launch site and the Ranger Station.
The trailer was then taken to Richmond’s Service Station in Maupin to have the weld reinforced with steel plating and welded again. Richmond’s couldn’t have the trailer ready that day. Upon returning to Trout Creek and seeing that the chain and lock were too short for locking the driftboat to the trunk of the tree, it was tied securely and left.
It could not…

And my BS ends there. I am sure I was about to say how it couldn’t have just come untied. That was neither here nor there. I left the boat in the watchful care of the volunteer hosts until we returned. Over the weekend someone had thought it would be funny to take the boat for a drift on his, or her, way out of camp. I guess I trust, too easily, the kind of people who enjoy rivers like the Deschutes. The best part is that the guy who ran the shuttle for our float-trip work-project (the husband of the retired couple which made up our volunteer hosts) admittedly turned too sharp when he was bringing the trailer back to camp and ran it into the rock cliff on the side of the road to Trout Creek- I am sure it was the part of the road right under the train trestle. This little mishap was most likely what caused the weld to break in the first place. I remember leaving this bit of information out of my report. Maybe I was being nice at the time, or maybe he wasn’t supposed to be driving the trucks in the first place. I can’t remember now. The boat was found about 2 miles down river in an eddy. No dents, or scratches even though it went through White Horse rapid unmanned. People freak out about the three rapids on the Deschutes. Although, they change with the flow of the river out of the dam, I have never gone through Whitehorse, or any other upper class rapid, and feared death. Oh wait, once… no make that, twice.
The first time occurred that summer working for the BLM. I didn’t fear for my life, but I did see the life of a black lab puppy flash before my eyes. Todd had just gotten Bela (pronounced, “bayuh”, Italian for beautiful). I had just adopted Cora from the Bend Humane Society while volunteering my assistance to his “dog shopping”. Our buddy, Blake, had come up for the weekend “patrol” with Todd, the three hippie chick rangers from Maupin, and myself. Even though the girl to guy ratio was 3 to 3 this was not a triple date of any sorts. The trip was just for the river of it. I ran the gear boat while the rest of them kayaked. I threw on my spray skirt and hopped in a kayak once in a while to try my hand at surfing or something. However, I ran the raft, with all of our camping gear and the two dogs, through the rapids. As we approached White Horse, and the sound of white water started to muffle everything else in the world around us, I noticed Bela getting real jittery. The kayakers were all through safely before I started my run so they were able witness the pending fiasco from below. In no time, we were starting the slalom course of small peaking boulders on the upper half of the rapid. By the time the dogs and I started the second half, toward “Oh Shit Rock”, Bela was about six inches from the back half of her body carrying her out of the raft, which was her uninformed intention. With an explosive, Yoga-type move (since I couldn’t drop the oars) I threw my left leg around her neck to lasso her back into the boat . I managed to get her neck locked in the back of my knee, but in so doing, I kicked my upstream oar out of its lock. (Secure your oarlocks with a clip or something, btw.) We were now sideways at the pinnacle of White Horse and I was basically sitting on a 7-month-old black lab while holding on to a loose oar, dragging it uselessly in my left hand. However, the downstream oar was still in this battle and I knew we could win. My only fear was, in trying to use that one oar, having some rock catch it and slam it into my face, or worse, it could just clean the boat-deck of Bela and myself in one quick sweep. This one rock, the hairiest part of the rapid, got it’s name well before I went through it, but on that day I re-proclaimed it’s name at the top of my lungs. That rock pulled us in the way the rapid was designed to. It was like a tractor beam and I was piloting the Millennium Falcon. Like Han, I decided to “shut ‘er down” and oblige its wish. I made one last swish of the blade to get us in the best position to absorb the impact and spin off. I shipped the one oar in a split second before we landed on that base station. Luckily, the frame was secure or we would have folded like a blue taco. The raft just slipped its way up the face of the rock and we spun off. It was over as fast as I shipped my oar. I remember holding that poor dog so tight as we floated slowly by the rest of our group.
Although I feel I could take any flat craft through any stretch of turbulence, I also have a healthy fear of all water- you see, you can’t get oxygen into human or canine lungs by breathing it in. One could drown in a glass of water if they didn’t know what they were doing.

If I am not fishing I am tying a fly. Every night is spent tying flies for the next day just to keep up. And while I am waiting for water to boil I sit down to the table where everything is set up and whip another one out real quick. If I am driving I am usually stuck thinking about a new material to add to an old pattern or some other funky cripple pattern to tie. I’ve got no time for anything else. My friends say they wish they had the time to do what I do. Bullsh*t. We’ve all got the same amount of time in a day; it’s just that we choose to spend it differently.
It’s taken a lot of work to get where I am. Nothing comes easy, not even for a fisherman anymore. Maybe that’s why fly-fishing was invented. A type of fishing that can look so difficult it gives an excuse for an empty creel. When in reality, fish numbers are down so much compared to what they were in the past. Ironic how the numbers are down just in the obvious places where every body lives and the easiest “getaways” for the weekend.
At any rate there’s a fishing hole about 100 yards upstream from one of the most popular campgrounds on the river. I mean it is popular for the weekend warrior fly fisherman. This hole is about 30 yards long and about 20 yards off the bank. It offers enough room for 2-3 polite fishermen to fish from different structure- since concealment is as important on the Deschutes as any of the rivers I have fished. In this particularly popular hole, are some of the smartest fish in the river. They are large native Redsides and they see flies from fisherman at least 6 days a week. I am one of the fishermen who cast relentlessly for them. I recognize the same fish rises 2 and half feet upstream and quartering away from a rock in the middle of the hole. There is another that sits 3 ft upstream and a foot to the right of the metal stake that collects debris at the end of the run. These same fish have been there for years it seems. They are the large ones that are burned into memory. They rise the same almost every time and they are the smart ones. In fact, I have never caught a fish over 10 inches here before sunset. I swear these fish know what time it is according to the regulations. It is always the biggest fish that can lie on the bottom all day long and refuse any insect until it is a little past legal time. He’s been hooked too often to eat anything during the day.
I live at this campground now, for the summer, anyway. I am a River Ranger on the Deschutes. I don’t recall the technical name for it according to the BLM, but that’s the affectionate term we use. Pretty much a dream job for a fisherman in his early twenties who is trying to put himself through school just so he can get out of school and fish even more.
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