Chester Allen's Watery Planet

Hanging out at one rip through the tide reveals waves of Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout

This beautiful, bright sea-run cutthroat trout hit a pink Knudsen Spider that swung into a set of tiny standing waves that appeared just as the falling tide started on a Puget Sound Beach.

PUGET SOUND -- Runoff -- the yellowish-brown shade of creamed coffee -- from heavy rainfall kept me off my favorite beaches most of last week, but I suddenly found myself with a few hours one afternoon during the falling tide.

So, I hammered the Subaru to a newish beach I've fished on and off throughout this year. I've fished this beach on the incoming tide and the falling tide, and sea-run cutthroat trout were kind enough to bite my flies. This beach is a winner -- any beach with biting fish is winner for me.

As I drove -- this beach is about a half-hour trip down the highway from my home -- I thought about one particular rip on the beach. This rip forms off a point as the tidal current creates a seam between fast and slow water. If it's an incoming tide, I cast into the upcurrent edge of the point -- and on the other, downcurrent,  side if it's an outgoing tide.

I've also noticed -- mostly during this past spring and summer -- that sea-run cutts and, sometimes, coho salmon -- move in and out of a rip as the water levels change during a tide.

For example, one rip that I've fished changes a lot as the water recedes during the falling tide, and sea-run cutts coming downcurrent -- from the inlet that is rapidly shrinking -- will slide into the seam and hang out for a quick snack.

The cutts know that baitfish, krill, shrimp and other tasty critters have to -- or are forced to -- move out downcurrent during the falling tide. If they don't, they'll often find themselves high and dry or trapped in a pool.

So, I've found myself hopscotching back to rips several times in one tide -- just to see whether a new wave of fish has moved into the seam. It's fun to revisit a rip that seemed to be fished out an hour or so before -- and find a new pod of cutts or coho wallowing around in there.

I wondered what it would be like to fish just one rip through that day's falling tide -- or at least until it vanished with the dropping water level. It's good to know how an entire beach fishes during a tide -- but imagine having some kind of a grip on how each rip on the beach breaks down with changing water levels?

I know this level of intimacy with a stretch of saltwater, rocks, pebbles and shells is downright geeky, but I can't help myself.

I got to the beach at high slack tide -- there was no current at all, and the water lapped at the shoreline pickleweed and saltgrass.  Cutts rarely bite when there is no current, as they prefer to have the flowing water deliver their meals.

But the water was clear and clean again. I just needed some current, and time -- plus the gravity from the moon and the sun -- would take care of that detail.

There was plenty of tie to tie on a new leader and watch a pod of newly arrived chum salmon -- dog-like teeth already poking out of their jaws --splash and spook just off the beach. I watched the fish rumble around as I ate a pastrami sandwich. Then I noticed yellow, fallen bigleaf maple leaves drifting down the inlet.

The tide had turned, and water was now flowing out of this Puget Sound inlet.

I tied a bright pink Knudsen Spider onto my line and waded upstream of the tiny ripple forming off the point. In an hour or so, that ripple would be a full-fledged rip -- a fishy seam of fast water meeting slow water. 

But, at this moment, it was a baby rip peeling off the edge of the pickleweed. Upstream, there were tiny hints of standing waves as the current flowed over an oyster bed. Not one cutthroat trout swirled or jumped.

I wondered whether I was too early for the fish. I wasn't in the mood to cast for two hours without a bite, but I was curious to learn more about this small, 100-foot-long chunk of Puget Sound.

I cast the Knudsen Spider upcurrent of the standing waves, let the clear intermediate line swing in the current for a few moments -- and then started to strip in the gaudy fly.

Three casts later, a handsome sea-run cutt hammered my fly, flipped into the air and ripped line off the reel. Fall sea-run cutthroat trout are strong and fat after months of feeding on rich saltwater food, and they are hot fighters.

A couple minutes later, that nice cutt finned at my feet. I set my rod down in shallows, grabbed the leader with one hand and shot a couple photos with the other hand. Seconds later, that cutt was off the hook and easing away from the shoreline.

My heart was rattling around a little in my chest. I had never fished those tiny standing waves before, and I started wondering what else I would learn while fishing one rip on one tide.

I made another cast and started stripping in the fly. 

I couldn't wait to see what would happen next.

Taking the hidden trail to a nice redsides on Oregon's Deschutes River

This beautiful Deschutes River redside rainbow trout had a bit of a cutthroat trout marking.

MAUPIN, ORE. -- I'm kind of expecting to find myself driving on the wrong side of the road these days.

Why?

Well, the biggest run of summer steelhead in years is jamming into the Deschutes River, and I find myself jamming the Subaru to the water -- and then picking up my trout rod.  This kind of weirdness is cropping up more and more in my life.

Thousands of steelhead -- and some big ones -- are in the river, and just about everyone is hooking fish. Deschutes steelhead tend to be biters, and all it really takes is the willingness to cast a floating line and a decent steelhead fly -- although a black Wooly Bugger will work -- over and over again.

Sooner rather than later, steel explodes out of the river with your fly in its mouth. Your heart jackhammers up to insane pulse rates -- and there's a good chance of posing for a hero shot with 28 inches of steelhead just back from the Gulf of Alaska.

There were a lot of anglers on the river, but I might have been the only one targeting trout. 

I watched a guy hook a big steelhead on a run within the city limits of Maupin Sunday afternoon, and the fish -- at least 10 pounds -- made a full cartwheel in the air before landing on the water like a concrete cinder block.

I felt a little adrenaline sizzle through my veins, but I returned to happily easing my way upstream through a riverside tangle of alder limbs, blackberry thickets and the odd patch of poison oak. Wild Deschutes River redside rainbows -- gorgeous fish with summer-fattened, silvery sides, inky black spots and magenta blush on their gill plates -- lurked in the bankside water for big October Caddis.

The October caddis -- a huge bug that is as orange as a pumpkin -- blundered out of the trees and streamside grass and onto the water. Big trout -- up to about 18 inches or so --lashed after those bugs often enough to keep me expecting a strike on every other cast.

This is my favorite kind of fishing -- casting a dry fly to large, bank-feeding trout -- and I'll happily leave the steelhead to the eager, semi-cranky hordes. While the steelhead anglers jockeyed for good drifts -- although there are hundreds of good steelhead spots on the Deschutes -- I had the trout water all to myself.

My friends John and Amy Hazel -- owners of the Deschutes Angler fly shop in Maupin -- are world-class steelhead junkies, and this is the time of year that they live for.  I was actually surprised to see them in their shop Saturday morning -- although John did have the unruly hair, shaggy beard and beady eyes of a mainlining steelheader -- and most of their talk was steel.

I had stopped into the shop to check out their new flies -- and to buy a few for duplication during my annual winter fly-tying marathon. As I was paying for my flies, John reached into a bin and pulled out a couple giant, no-hackle Elk Hair Caddis flies with bodies made out of orange foam.

"No charge for these," John said. "Fish a little nymph under them all day -- you can't sink them -- and the trout will be nuts for them late in the afternoon."

John and Amy know my trout foibles -- and they are good friends.

Anyway, John was mostly right about that size 8, foam monstrosity of an Elk Hair Caddis. They did float a bead-head pheasant tail nymph -- and a split shot -- with no problem. But the trout ignored the nymphs and just pounded that big dry fly from the start.  The late-afternoon October caddis bite started at about 12:30 p.m.

Happiness.

I worked my way upstream for long distances -- I was looking for steep banks with lots of rocks, a foam line and some nearby trees -- which is a fair description of much of the riverbank.  I did notice that the trout were much more aggressive in weird spots -- places where the bankside current eddied against the downstream flow or where a little brush-busting was needed to reach the water. Elegant casts are almost impossible in such places, but who needs elegance when the trout are inches from the bank and are on the prod?

By mid-afternoon, I found myself hiking along the access road upstream of Maupin. The rocky, washboarded road -- an old railroad grade -- is about 20 feet above the river, and it's fun to gaze into the water as you walk. It's easy to see the trout -- black from this distance -- as you walk. Lots of anglers drive slowly on this stretch and look for rising fish.

I came to a familiar spot that looked kind of odd.

The steep angler's trail down to the run -- a mixture of soft dirt and sketchy rocks -- had suddenly sprouted clumps of three-foot-high sagebrush since my visit two weeks ago. I took a closer look, and it was clear that someone -- or a group of people -- had put some trickeration into use on the river.

The sagebrush clumps seemed to send this message: "It's kind of hard to get down here, and it will be a hassle to wind your way around the brush -- and your backcast will get tangled."

I looked across the road, and it was easy to see the pruned sagebrush that had provided the trickeration.

I felt sorry for the hacked-up sage across the road, but I felt admiration for the enterprising anglers who had taken some pains to protect a nice spot. 

I realized that I was not the only crazed trout addict fishing through a record steelhead run. I thought about moving on, but why not slide on down and make a few casts?

Three casts later, my October Caddis vanished in a big boil, my heart boiled and line melted off the reel.

Minutes later, 16 inches of gorgeous rainbow trout posed for a quick photo. I noticed that the trout had a bit of a cutthroat marking under its lower jaw -- which is fairly common on Deschutes redsides. Then I climbed up the bank -- and carefully left the sagebrush camo in place.

I didn't want to wreck up the water for my fellow trout addicts. I figured that I'd see them sometime during the weekend.

It's easy to spot anglers driving on the wrong side of the road -- and looking for rising trout.

 

Bungling my way to coho frustration -- and falling to sea-run cutthroat trout temptation

Temptation -- and redemption -- came Tuesday evening in the form of a beautiful sea-run cutthroat trout.

The road to Frustration -- and Temptation -- begins in many ways, but this particular journey started with an e-mail from my friend Greg Cloud.

Cloud, a retired biologist and mad-scientist angler, told me that big, ocean-going coho were staging off a South Puget Sound beach during the high tide. Cloud said the coho looked like torpedoes when they chased his spinner. Then he went on to suggest that casting a fly might tempt one or two of these bright, beautiful fish.

High tide on Tuesday was right around 3:30 p.m. -- a time when most productive members of our society are grinding away at work. I left the office at 3:15 p.m. -- it never pays to be late when fishing a Puget Sound tide.

So, I eased out of the office -- and then sprinted for home, where I tossed tackle, waders and even a camera into the Subaru. I was at the beach 25 minutes later, and there were indeed big, bright coho wallowing and splashing a short cast from the beach.

I tried to remain calm and focused, but my heart rate jacked up into one-hour-on-the-elliptical-trainer rate, and my hands trembled a little. Seeing a school of big coho splashing around had me cranked.

Leaving work sinfully early would pay off for sure, I thought.

But I would pay the price for my rush to that wonderful stretch of rocky, pebbly beach. When it came time to rig up, I discovered that I had left my 8-weight fly rod and matching reel at home. I did have my sea-run cutthroat trout rod -- a 6-weight -- but the matching reels and spools also were safely at home.

Perhaps I was in too much of a hurry when I stopped off at home.

I did have a reel with a floating, 4-weight "Sharkskin" line. More on that line later.

Anyway, I put the reel with the 4-weight line onto the 6-weight rod and strung the line through the guides. Luckily, I had my beach chest pack, which carries flies for Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout -- and coho salmon.

But my rod and reel were far too light for the 10-pound coho salmon rolling 30 feet away. I felt like I was hunting a leopard with a .22-caliber rifle. But it is better to fail trying than to slink away, so I tied on a sparkly pink Knudsen Spider and started casting.

A nice coho followed my fly almost to my feet on the third cast, and I had a solid strike two casts later. The coho flipped into the air and crashed into the water on its thick flanks. Then the fish rocketed for the far shore, and I saw my backing melting off the chirping reel. My 4-weight reel sounded like a computer spiraling into a fatal crash.

The tackle held together long enough to make me think I might land the fish. Then the coho wrapped the line on one of the old pilings that dot the beach -- and the line snapped seconds later.

I didn't get too upset, as just hooking a big coho from a Puget Sound beach on fly tackle is cool enough for me. I also figured I had two hours to hook another fish.

I checked my leader, tied on a new, 10-pound-test tippet and a sparse, pink Clouser Minnow. Coho staging off Puget Sound beaches often like a small, bright fly. I wished I had another pink Knudsen Spider, but the lost coho ran off with my only copy.

One hour -- and countless casts later -- I hadn't even gotten another coho to follow my fly. I really, really wanted another Knudsen Spider, and I knew where they were -- on top of the fly-tying desk at home. To make matters worse, the Sharkskin line, which is designed for fishing tiny dry flies to rising trout, has a rough texture.

That rough texture makes the line easy to cast dry flies, but it's hell when you're casting and stripping in streamers over and over again. The rough texture scored my forefinger -- that little crease where the line loops over the rod hand during a streamer retrieve, and it started to bleed.

By this time, the tide had started to fall, and a nice rip was going about 150 yards down the beach. A few sea-run cutthroat trout boiled in the rip, and temptation struck. I'm famous for leaving salmon to pester feeding trout.

I've always been kind of mortified at my lack of discipline about all this. You never know when a school of finicky salmon suddenly goes nuts and starts walloping flies. And you'll never hook those salmon if you've wandered off down the beach to fish for sea-run cutts.

But I did it anyway.

It's hard to resist the temptation of aggressive sea-run cutthroat trout -- especially in the fall, when they're thick and strong from feasting in Puget Sound all summer long. I just can't resist these fish.

A few minutes later, one of the best sea-run cutts of the year whacked the Clouser Minnow, and I soon had about 17 inches of gleaming fish at my feet. A couple of photos later, the trout eased away into deeper water.

I headed back toward the boiling coho. 

I showed the coho just about every waiting period fly in my box for the next hour. After a while, I put a Band-aid on my injured finger. The sunset -- gold and red through scattered rainclouds -- gleamed on the glassy water.

I didn't get another bite -- or even a follow -- from the coho. But that's OK. The memory of that beautiful sea-run cutt was enough for this evening. 

But I'm going back tomorrow with my 8-weight and more pink Knudsen Spiders.

An moonlight journey from Oregon coast surfing to Columbia River smallmouth bass

Where the long journey started....

I bobbed up and down on a surfboard and watched a small, clean west swell bend around a massive, rocky point and march into the small Oregon coast inlet.

The lines -- each a pulse of a faraway storm’s fading energy -- showed on the glassy horizon like ripples in a giant pond.

The early fall swell -- about four feet and clean -- was a reminder of the just-departed summer. Soon enough the big swells of winter -- 10-foot-high, muscled waves with cold winds and rain -- would thunder into the inlet. Much of the Northwest coast is almost impossible to surf during most of the winter, as the combination of big waves and strong onshore winds turn the surf into a heaving, crashing washing machine.

But the past two days had been perfect -- small, clean waves and no wind.

I could see sea-run cutthroat trout and some coho salmon glide through the clear water just outside of the breaking wave. The fish were waiting for the next rainstorm to fill up the little creek that flowed into the inlet. The coho salmon would swim right through a deep channel cut in the beach sand and head up the creek to gouge nests out of gravel, mate and die. 

I stopped looking at the fish swimming under my feet and looked at the horizon again. A bigger set of swells was rolling in. As the swell lines got nearer, the inlet’s shallowing water jacked them up into forming waves.

Some passed under my surfboard -- which is why I bobbed up and down -- but others had that special dark glossiness and shape that meant the peak of the wave’s energy was in my path.

One of those swells was marching right towards me.  My arms had that pleasant, weightless feeling that comes from hours of paddling for waves -- and it was time to head for the beach.

But I wanted one last wave.

I twirled my legs like eggbeaters to get my surfboard pointed toward the beach. Even as I did this, I pulled myself down onto the board.

I peeked over my shoulder and saw the swell -- taller and darker now -- about ten feet away. I made a couple of gentle paddles to get 10 feet of foam and fiberglass moving.

I could feel the wave approaching -- like a gentle finger on the back of my head.

Four or five hard paddles later, the wave picked up my board and I was on my feet.

Sliding down the face of a living, soon-to-die wave feels like riding the heartbeat of the planet. The power of the wave comes through your feet, and the surfboard rails hiss through the water.

The face of the wave crumbled into a mass of whitewater, and I turned the board to ride the last energy of the wave toward the beach.

I stepped off my board into knee-deep water and carried my board up the beach. My throat burned with saltwater.

I stripped off my wetsuit and drank a quart of water, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the waves. I kept telling myself that this may have been the last surf of the short Indian Summer.

But I had a long drive ahead of me.

On the hike out, I waded into the creek -- which was colder than the ocean -- and ducked under the water. Sea-run cutthroat trout skittered under the dark cave of a root-draped undercut bank.

Suddenly, I felt the pull of the long drive.

I hurried up the gravel path to the Subaru. I strapped the board to the roof rack, put the neoprene wetsuit, booties and gloves -- the price of surfing the chilly Northwest -- into the Tupperware bin and then poured two gallons of water over my head to rinse the salt off my body and hair.

I dried off, pulled on clean shorts and a T-shirt and started the car.

U.S. Highway 101 waited.

The highway snakes along the Oregon coast, up and down over rocky headlands and through small towns named Nehalem, Rockaway, Manzanita and Cannon Beach. The ever-present rainforest of cedar, Douglas fir and maple trees line the road and shadow the steep hillsides and ridges.

Near Cannon Beach, I caught a last glimpse of the ocean -- darkening purple with an orange-pink line of sunset glowing over the lines of swells -- before i turned off onto Highway 26 toward the human beehive of Portland.

Highway 26 rolled up and down through the woods -- and a few ragged clearcuts -- past the logging-camp sprawl of the Camp 18 restaurant.

My stomach --empty from a day on the water -- cried out for chicken-fried steak, but i had a ham sandwich in the cooler. I didn’t need a big meal weighing down the long drive.

I ate the sandwich and drank a full bottle of water while inching the car through Portland traffic.

Even as i drove past tall buildings, i felt the rocky cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge pulling at me.

A full moon on the rise hovered over the Gorge as I raced past Troutdale’s neon glow of gas stations, truck stops and fast-food drive-ins.

Then the road was dark --except for the light of the full moon reflecting off the huge Columbia River. Dense stands of Douglas fir trees crowded Interstate 84, and hid the steep slops of the Gorge.

As I drove, I thought about the Cascade Mountains -- solid, basalt rock waves that tower thousands of feet into the air -- and how the Columbia River cut through the mountain range over thousands of years.

The river’s cut through the rock left the gorge -- a stunning corridor of rock and water and trees.

The sky brightened as the road neared the floodlights off Bonneville Dam.

After Bonneville, the road grew dark again.

The Columbia River -- often whitecapped from strong winds funneling through the Gorge -- was calm on this night, and the moonlight gave the glassy water the look of ice.

I thought of steelhead trout swimming up the Columbia toward the Deschutes, John Day and Klickitat rivers, and my heart raced for a second or two.

The road took me past Hood River and The Dalles -- and then past the mouth of the Deschutes River. The lights of steelhead anglers camping in the state park flashed by in a moment.

I stopped in Biggs -- a cluster of truck stops and a bridge over the Columbia River to the Washington side -- for a Coca-Cola. The cold soda fizzed in my mouth as I drove over the bridge.

Then, suddenly,  I was in the rolling hills and steep cliffs east of the John Day Dam. Hundreds of huge windmills perched on the bluffs reflected the moon, and a small red light blinked on each tower.

The moon turned the rolling, brown folds of the land into silvery swells, and I felt as though I was traveling through a motionless ocean.  I stole glances at the Columbia River -- still glassy under the moon -- and thought about casting a popping bug for smallmouth bass at dawn.

Dawn was just a few hours away when I pulled off the road at a cluster of trees and drove up a long driveway through acres of apple and cherry trees. 

The air carried the sharp, sweet scent of freshly picked apples.

A house with one light shining waited for me.

I stepped out into the moonlight, the door opened, and Heather’s warm, strong arms were waiting for me.

Catching more than fish on an early morning sea-run cutthroat trip on Puget Sound

A sunflower star glows in the shallow water of a South Puget Sound beach during Thursday's falling tide.

PUGET SOUND -- A cold, early fall rain splattered on the skylights of my Olympia home early Thursday morning.

I knew that a nice falling tide was happening at some of my favorite sea-run cutthroat beaches -- and I knew that few anglers are pestering these wonderful fish right now.

Most Puget Sound anglers are charging after some of the best coho salmon fishing in a decade. The beaches I planned to fish aren't famous for coho -- although a few coho do show up from time to time.

I did hope for a nice coho on the short drive to the beach. As it turns out, I got a couple of small coho -- and so much more.

I got to the beach, rigged up and found a nice rip right away. Sea-run cutthroat trout and small coho salmon were flashing in the seam between fast and slow water, and I dropped one of Greg Cloud's simple olive marine worm patterns into the fast water upcurrent of the rip.

I stripped in line like a madman as the fly drifted down into the rip, and a 10-inch cutthroat whacked the fly and flipped into the air.

The catching -- for once -- was hot and heavy, and it was clear that these fish haven't seen much pressure for a few weeks. The coho were small -- about 12 inches or so -- and they clearly weren't fish returning to a local stream this fall. I moved to another rip, as I didn't want to shorten the life of a coho that I'd love to catch in a year or two -- when they're measured in pounds -- not inches.

Quite a few sea lice were hitching a ride on this nice little sea-run cutthroat trout.

As I moved, I almost stepped onto a purplish sunflower sea star -- and then I noticed dozens of the hubcab-sized creatures moving around on the rocky, barnacled bottom. I have never see so many sea stars in one spot.

A couple of the sunflower stars were moving around. These creatures seem slow -- they seem to ooze over the bottom -- but they are actually pretty fast. I would watch one for a few seconds and then make a few casts. They had moved quite a distance -- sometimes almost two or three feet -- when I found them again.

A few of the sunflower stars were a bright, glowing orange. 

A short distance away, a cluster of spiny pink sea stars moved at a more stately pace. 

There were dozens of sea stars in a very small area, and I wondered what had attracted so many to one spot.  Was this a spot for sea star romance? I know that some sea stars don't need partners to make new sea stars.

Or maybe some kind of sea star migration was happening. 

I do know that I had to carefully pick my way among the sea stars as I cast into the rip, which grew and shrank as the falling tide flowed over different bottom depths and ledges.

Dozens of sea stars -- in shades of pink, brown, purple, magenta and orange -- glowed through the clear, shallow water. I kind of felt like I was in a "Star Trek" episode crammed with new life forms.

But I didn't want anyone to beam me up to the ship. 

Rain showers spattered my hat -- then slid away. A few sea-run cutthroat trout hit my fly -- and many others moved in and out of the ever-changing rip. I couldn't see any other anglers -- and I didn't see any big coho salmon. I'll take solitude and nice, wild sea-run cutthroat trout over crowds and big coho salmon any day.

I didn't catch any big sea-run cutts, which, to me,  is a fish longer than 16 inches.

That may make me a small-time slacker. If so, I'll happily live with my lot in life. Few mornings on this planet beat standing in clear, flowing Puget Sound saltwater and casting to bright, eager trout -- especially when countless sea stars dot the bottom.

I used to fish with a great guy who loved fishing in saltwater.

"You never know what you're going to catch or see," he would say.

I've fished these inlets for years, and each trip onto this big, seething Puget Sound brings new sights and sounds and feelings. I never get tired of it.

A perfect trifecta chucks a fall day on the Deschutes River out three doors

This Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout hooked Monday evening was a nice consolation prize for missing out on a planned Deschutes River steelhead trip Sunday morning.

HOOD RIVER, ORE. -- It's hard to wreak havoc with  three different, valuable  doors in the same mishap, but I managed to do just that -- and lose a day's fishing over the best run of Deschutes River steelhead in years -- in the space of about 10 seconds Saturday afternoon.

We were all getting ready for a family wedding across the Columbia River, and I had a few minutes to spare while the female members of the party were making critical final adjustments to their outfits. I was tempted to turn on the University of Oregon football game against heavily favored Cal, but I decided to do the right thing -- which was getting the Volvo station wagon out of the garage.

Sometimes doing the right thing is the wrong thing to do.

I should have turned on the television and watched Oregon rampage all over a very good Cal Bears football team. But I did not.

 I bopped downstairs to the garage, got in the Volvo, turned on the engine, pulled the driver's door closed -- but did not latch it -- and then peered over my shoulder to back out of the garage. I didn't notice that my left elbow had bumped the driver's side door just enough to nudge it halfway open.

I started to ease the car out of the garage.

The halfway-open door was open enough for disaster.

The car door struck the solid wood door that connects the garage to the house. That wooden door hit the metal track that guides the wheels to one side of the overhead garage door. The metal track bent and twisted under the impact. So did the metal on the Volvo's driver-side door.

A big, hollow boom echoed throughout the house, and Heather -- my partner -- her kids Malcolm and Miga, and my daughter Courtney rocketed into the garage. Courtney's boyfriend, Michael, also showed up for the shambles.

The wood garage door was split and splintered, the metal track to the overhead door was twisted and bent -- and a dent marred the Volvo's driver-side door.

We were due at a wedding in 20 minutes.

Heather gazed at the wreckage with the wide-eyed, silent stare of someone who has seen too much in too short of a time. The next few minutes are a blur, but we all managed to get the garage door down and off to the wedding.

It's a short drive from Hood River to White Salmon, Washington, and Heather broke her shocked silence as the Volvo -- dented but still perfectly functional -- hummed over the steel-grate deck of the Hood River Bridge that stretches over the Columbia River to the little towns of  Bingen and White Salmon.

"Well, you got the perfect door destruction trifecta," Heather said.

Everyone in the car laughed, and we all kind of realized that all the damage could be repaired.

I was still feeling a little shaky during the wedding ceremony -- a beautiful moment the united Heather's cousin with the man of her dreams -- and I wondered why. Then I remembered all my careful plans to rocket off to Oregon's Deschutes River the next morning.

The Deschutes is a short hour's drive from Hood River, and I so wanted to be there on Sunday morning.

One of the biggest, best runs of summer steelhead in years is jamming into the Deschutes River right now, and these fish are world-famous for their aggressive nature -- and willingness to wallop a fly near the surface of the stream. These steelhead even whack skated floating flies, and seeing 8 pounds of ocean-tempered steelhead explode on a fly cutting a wake across the smooth surface of a riffle tailout sends dizzying jolts of adrenaline through my body.

This is an epic, epic run of big, silvery steelhead.

All that was out the door -- actually three doors.

I had to stay home on Sunday and repair the broken overhead door track and mend the cracked and splintered wood garage door. I also had to stare at the fairly minor dent in the Volvo door and wonder how much that would cost.

By the way, the estimate for the Volvo door is $850. That is roughly equal to a pretty good fly rod, machined reel and new line. 

All of this -- this perfect trifecta of three broken doors -- stole my Sunday of fishing. I'm sure that anglers on the water as the sun came up hooked steelhead after steelhead. I'm sure the diehard trout anglers hooked plenty of big redside rainbow trout during the midday hours -- when the sun blasting onto the river sends the steelhead sulking into deeper water.

And I'm sure that the steelhead went on another rampage that evening.

I'm dumb enough to have not latched the Volvo's door on Saturday afternoon, but I'm smart enough to not whine about the loss of a day's fishing. And, by dusk on Sunday, the overhead garage door was obediently humming up and down and the wooden door was glued and clamped back together.

Our home, which we love, was getting back to normal. 

Mondays find me back in Olympia, Washington. After work -- a day of writing and reporting for the newspaper -- I looked at the rain drizzling from the sky. I was worn out from my door trifecta, a long drive and work, but the rainy weather set the stage so well for an hour or two of pestering Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout.

My tackle was in the back of the Subaru, and I was soon at a local beach.

The cutts were on the prowl, and I hooked a nice fish on the fourth cast into a little rip. I ended up releasing three fish in about an hour.

Another trifecta -- but a happier one.

Poppers at dusk, a Labrador retriever, "Carmina Burana" and boiling, booming largemouth bass

A nice bass that couldn't resist a chugged popper right at dusk. Berkeley the lab is looking for more fish.

The whole deal started to make sense the next day.

We were rocketing down the highway -- Heather was at the wheel, which meant we were edging over the speed limit -- and talking about the weirdness of casting floating poppers for largemouth bass.

"Hey, give me the "Carmina Burana" CD," Heather said. 

I sighed -- just a little bit -- inside my head. Heather is from a family of opera lovers, and she loves that cultured music -- yeah, the kind where most of the singing is in German, Italian or French.   I like the music well enough, but it's hard to figure out what's going on when someone -- usually a woman with leather lungs -- is hitting high notes in a language I don't understand.

Heather grew up in a family of opera addicts, and she is therefore comfortable with of having only a faint notion of what the singer is actually singing. I also suspect that Heather is trying to ram some more musical culture into my jazz-clouded head.

My position is simple: why listen to opera when you can listen to Ella Fitzgerald gliding over some fine jazz?

I guess we're both musical nerds. 

Anyway, "Carmina Burana" -- which is mostly sung in Latin -- began swelling through the stereo speakers, and I couldn't help but notice the pattern of many of the songs. They'd kind of start out quiet -- and then erupt into a booming, pounding section.  

"We are Oompaa Loompas, and you can't understand what we're singing," I sang over the music. 

Heather smiled -- in the tolerant, semi-grim way adults use when an older child is misbehaving -- and told me to be quiet.

And, suddenly, the music settled back into a quiet section -- but I knew tranquility wouldn't last long.

I realized -- at that moment --that casting poppers for largemouth bass was kind of like "Carmina Burana." There are periods of tranquility -- even happy boredom and beauty. But boiling, booming music -- in the form of a bass hammering a popper quietly gurgling on the surface -- will happen sooner rather than later.

Sometimes, usually just before dark, the bass whack poppers in a flurry of boils. And that's kind of like the climax of a "Carmina Burana" piece -- where instruments, choirs and vocal soloists all erupt together into a surging, boiling piece of music.

I told Heather that "Carmina Burana" explains why we'll happily go out onto a bass pond on a late summer evening and fling cast after cast onto the tranquil water. Our poppers land with gentle plops on the still water, and they gurgle and burp quietly as we strip them back in. I strongly suspect that bass like a 4/4 beat on the retrieve, but a 3/4 beat sometimes works well.

We don't know exactly where the bass are -- although they're often along the shoreline weedbeds and willow-shaded banks -- but we know that, sooner or later, the gentle music of our poppers will vanish in the booming, swirling, splashing rise of a hungry bass.

Strangely, Berkeley the black Labrabor retriever -- who always joins us in the boat -- always seems to know when the bass are about to tune up and make a ruckus. Berkeley will stand up and peer at the water right before the fish start whacking the poppers.  I have never known a dog that was so interested in fish.

So, when Berkeley stands up, I often think of a orchestra conductor's dramatic pause before the bombast rocks the opera hall -- and sometimes shakes me out of a gentle, hazy doze.

Then, each cast has drama -- as I expect a boiling rise at every chug of the popper -- and I'm hoping for 20 minutes of bass after bass after bass.  I suspect I'll hear kettle drums rumble, massed voices roar and cymbals bash -- if only in my head -- the next time a bass wallops a popper.

I guess that's a kind of natural music -- to my ears, anyway.  

Shot of leopard-spotted cutthroat trout wins photo contest, massive Westslope cutthroat trout brings home the red thread

Well, after some delay -- yeah, I was fishing -- here are the winners of the Fish-Only Photo Contest:

Jason Wells wins one dozen Dechutes River trout flies for this amazing shot of a leopard-spotted cutthroat in a Clackamas River tributary stream.

Nice, nice shot! It looks like the fish is floating on air, and check out those spots -- especially on the tail -- and the white-tipped fins of a wild trout.  Jason, send your address to dryflyguy2001@yahoo.com so I can get those flies into your hands!

Here's the second-place winner:

John from Portland will get six Deschutes River flies for this shot. I really liked that the fish wasn't huge, but it was beautiful. I have a soft spot for small, colorful wild trout, as I do catch a few of them myself. This fish is from Oregon's Deschutes River, and you can see the clear water, greenish rocks and Elk Hair Caddis that fooled this fish.

 John will get six more flies to show Deschutes River trout -- as soon as he sends in his mailing address.

Third place goes to Mike Timberman, who sent in this shot:

What a nice grayling! Mike hooked this fish on a self-guided trip to Alaska's Alagnak River. I can't imagine how fun it would be take a float trip down an Alaskan river. Mike clearly caught this fish on an egg fly.

I've never hooked a grayling on an egg fly, but I had the pleasure of hiking into a lake during my one and only trip to Alaska -- so far -- and hooking countless grayling on Griffith Gnat dry flies. Grayling actually act just like I've read in angling articles. They do jump into the air and eat a dry fly on the way down. It's kind of weird to see this, but I never got tired of the stunt. I have to figure out a way to get back to Alaska for a two-week-long Fishathon.

Mike, send me your address, as Deschutes River trout flies work in Alaska -- and lots of other waters.

Wait -- we're not done yet!

This photo contest -- the blog's second -- had a record number of rule-breaking entries. The biggest rule for the contest was that the photo had to show a fish -- but no humans. Of course, plenty of shots came in with human hands, humans holding up massive brown trout -- yeah, I'm talking about you, Cory -- and other illegal shots.

This gaudy disregard for the rules prompted me -- through admiration -- to create a prize for best shot that included humans in the shot. The prize? Why, it's one spool of red fly-tying thread, as this category is all about my own red tape.

Paul Huffman is the winner of the tape, and here's his shot of a big, stunning Westslope cutthroat trout caught somewhere in Washington:

Paul knows what to do to get his prize, but we all know the real prize was finding, hooking and releasing such a handsome fish. I still get a little envious whenever I see this shot. The photo also reminds me that some exceptional wild trout live in the Pacific Northwest.

I'll cook up another photo contest during the next month or so -- and maybe it will start around Halloween. I'd love to hear suggestions for themes or rules -- not that most of us pay attention to those silly details.....

Oregon's Crooked River easing -- and hopping -- toward the wonderful days of fall fishing

PRINEVILLE, ORE. --- Years ago, I went to a Central Oregon Flyfishers meeting and heard noted photographer Brian O'Keefe say that Crooked River rainbow trout were some of the prettiest fish on the planet.

I agreed then -- I was living in Bend at the time -- and I still do, especially after spending an afternoon on the river Saturday. 

Trout after trout came to my flies -- in the best tradition of the Crooked River, which has always been known as The Spot for lots of pretty wild trout. Check out this fish, which came to a dead-drifted Lightning Bug:

I'm not sure whether I could find a prettier fish.

Anyway, I love the Crooked from September through November, and I'm really fond of the river in December, January and February -- when it may be the best winter river in the Northwest.  The Crooked flows out of the bottom of Bowman Dam, which means the water is cold in the summer and stays pretty warm in the winter.

The Crooked doesn't have the sheer, Trout-O-Rama numbers of the early part of this decade, when there were more than 7,000 trout per mile in the section between mile markers 11 and 18. High water a few years ago blew out the trout population. But Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife biologists say there are about 900 or so trout per mile right now, and the river is coming back nicely.

I can live with 900 trout per mile on any river, but it's easy to make me happy on a wild river that flows through a rocky basalt canyon. Rain showers blew in and out of the canyon, and the scent of wet sagebrush wafted through the air.

Even better: some of the river's  fish are getting pretty big. I managed to land one fish that barely made 16 inches Saturday, and I bungled one that was bigger. Why is it that the trout I want to photograph most always, always, always come off the hook?

Anway, the river rocks -- rounded basalt with a few jagged, sharp ones for variety -- are still more slippery than a corporate CEO. I fell in twice, which is about average for me.

I did luck into a nice Pale Morning Dun hatch, and the trout -- as always -- ignored the river's silty, cloudy flow and rose steadily to the golden bugs. It's cool to see the trout loom out of the murk -- they look so sharp and clear against the cloudy water -- and sip in the fly. 

I also noticed trout whacking grasshoppers that were falling into a deeper slot near the bank. I often wish I had someone -- a sort of caddy -- carrying two or three rigged rods for me whenever I fish this river. I always end up drifting scuds and mayfly nymphs, casting a dry fly and tying on hoppers or beetles.

I tied a little foam hopper onto the line and had the pleasure of watching a nice redband rainbow come up and hit that fly -- and then slip the hook. The Crooked is one underrated hopper river -- especially in September and early October.

Most of my fish came to flies that imitated the billions of scuds -- small, shrimp-like crustaceans that set up shop in the many huge weedbeds. Scuds are what the fish eat all year long, and that is one rich diet.

And the Crooked is one special river -- especially from now through next spring.

I have fished the river for more than 20 years now, and I guess I'm old enough to carry lots of memories of this small, intimate, generous stream. I thought of old fishing friends the entire afternoon, and I left the water knowing that I need to fish this river more often -- and fish with old friends more often.

Pebbles, sticks, clay figures and artsy flies fill a special pocket in my fishing vest

Years and years ago, I was packing for a weekend fishing trip on Oregon's Deschutes River, and my daughter started rummaging around in my duffle bag.

She was only 5 years old at the time -- she's 19 now -- and I asked her what she was looking for.

"Nothing, dad," she said as she pulled out my vest.

"So, what are you doing?" I said.

Courtney opened one damp litt fist and showed me a safety pin with several beads threaded on the thin steel. A little bit of fly-tying thread was also tied onto the bend of the pin.

"This is for you dad," she said. "It is for good luck -- and for you to be safe."

I picked up my little girl -- and held her while the lump in my throat slowly melted. 

I thanked Courtney -- and really didn't want to go fishing at that moment. But I left the next day -- after dropping her off at her mom's house. We lived in Corvallis, Oregon in those days, and I thought about Courtney's present during the long drive to my favorite river.

Once I was on the river, I put the safety pin in the back pocket of my vest -- where I keep my license, first-aid kit, pocket knife and extra leaders. From time to time, I stopped fishing, pulled off my vest and looked at that little gift.

Love isn't linked to material things, but some things become powerful symbols of love. I recalled reading about humans in tribes all over the world often carry meaningful things -- talismans -- in little pouches hung around their necks.

I have never been a person who needed  or wanted lots of stuff, but that little safety pin still lives in my vest. And Courtney has, from time to time, given me other little gifts. A year or two later, I took Courtney along on a one-night float on the Warm Springs to Trout Creek drift on the Deschutes.  I didn't expect to fish much, but it was a wonderful trip of bobbing down the river, setting up camp, eating chili dogs, watching for shooting stars and searching for fairies in the bankside grass.

Late in the afternoon, I was fishing to rising fish in the slow water just a few steps from our tent near Frog Springs, and Courtney was sitting cross-legged in the angler's path along the river.

The setting sun glinted on her hair -- and grubby face -- as she sat motionless. Then I noticed the swarm of blue butterflies flitting around her. I wished for a camera, but that golden, golden moment is still alive in my mind -- and will be for the rest of my days.

I quietly waded out of the river and sat nearby.

"The butterflies are drinking water from the mud," Courtney said. "We learned that at Diedra's this week."

Diedra, a wonderful, caring woman,  was Courtney's preschool teacher.

We sat and talked about butterflies and why water sometimes runs right out the ground and makes sticky mud on the trail. We poked around under riverbed rocks and looked at stonefly, mayfly and caddisfly nymphs. 

"It is beautiful here, dad" Courtney said. And then she smiled at me.

That night, I found a quarter-sized basalt pebble on my pillow. The rock is glass-smooth, gray and looks like a tiny Frisbee. That rock also has lived in my vest for years.

Truth is, I'm sitting right now in my home office, and I'm surrounded by Courtney's art, found objects and even the very first flies she tied. A braided bit of yarn hangs off my fly-tying vise, and a marabou streamer tied with hot pink and orange feathers -- it looks like a tropical Popsicle -- hangs off my desk lamp.

I now have other little talismans from Courtney's active mind and busy fingers -- tiny clay figures, sticks and more pebbles -- in two vests and the chest pack I use while flyfishing Puget Sound beaches. I'm surprised that I don't clank when I walk around in my fishing gear. 

For my last birthday, Courtney created an elaborate comic book, and one of the pages was dedicated to our many fishing and surfing trips over the years. 

I started thinking about all this the other night, as I was walking up the beach after surfing the last hours of the day at Westhaven State Park in Westport, Washington. The surf was glassy and about four feet high -- just how Courtney loves it -- and I wished we could have shared the water that evening.

But Courtney has her own life at university now, and I'm so proud of her.

As I walked out of the water, the backwash from a dying wave rolled down the beach -- and exposed a perfect, egg-shaped, pure white agate. Courtney has adored agates for years, and the setting sun made this one glow against the gray, wet sand.

I imagined her happy gasp at spotting such a small treasure.

I picked up the rock and slipped it into the sleeve of my wetsuit.  I'm going to give it to Courtney in a week or so. It's for luck -- and paying back some of the love she has infused into tiny, natural things she slipped into my fishing vest or onto my pillow over these many, wonderful years.