Washington's own Deschutes River flows over bright, clean gravel -- and through Velcro-like country.
I felt the need to fish this morning, but the tides weren't working for South Puget Sound beaches.
So, sea-run cutthroat trout were out. But a vision of a cool, clear, trout-filled local stream filled my head, and I was off to Washington's own Deschutes River. This Deschutes, unlike the river in Oregon, is small and winds through the countryside for miles before tumbling over falls and eventually flowing into Puget Sound.
The river has good fishing for smallish rainbow and cutthroat trout. In the fall, large sea-run cutthroat roll into the river to eat chinook salmon spawn and flesh peeling off spawned-out carcasses. In the summer, it's a little stream with little wild fish.
And that is good enough for me.
The Deschutes also flows through country that measures yearly rainfall in feet, so the plant life is thick. Come to think of it, the dense, jungle-like growth of streamside blackberry thickets, alder trees, willow trees, underbrush and poison oak is kind of like the Velcro tabs on a rainjacket. It's really easy to get tangled up in the vines and stickers and sharp branches.
I somehow forgot all this Friday morning.
I got to the river -- a favorite section is a short drive from my home -- early.
I wanted to be off the water before the warm-day fleet of tubers wallowed down the river.
Luckily, a nice pale morning dun spinner fall was just starting. Bugs helicoptered over a riffle, and the trout were waiting for them to drop to the water. Bright little fish recklessly ate foam hackle spinners.
Then I came to a stretch with some swimmers and a rollicking Labrador retriever. I wanted to bypass the ruckus, so I started to backtrack to a little trail. But then I stopped. I knew that if I cut through a little bankside thicket -- it didn't look too thick -- I could hit the trail and save about 20 minutes of walking.
So, I started inching through a stand of young willow and alder trees. I pushed through -- and suddenly found myself mired in a mixed buffet of blackberry vines, alder and willow saplings, fallen logs and Who Knows What Else.
I started the slow work of threading through the mess -- but I kept tangling my fly line and leader in the green Velcro. I stubbornly resisted the sensible notion of reeling my line into my reel and breaking down my rod.
I wanted to save time rigging up for the next section of river. I was a genius with a capital J.
Of course, I wasted many minutes repeatedly untangling my line before I realized just how dumb I can be. I reeled in my line and broke down my rod before a Velcro vine broke the rod for me.
I lumbered and blundered through about 50 feet of Green Hell for about 30 minutes. Blackberry thorns stabbed my hands and arms. Tree branches lashed my face. And then I looked down to see poison oak leaves sliding over my bare arms.
Oh, it was fabulous and relaxing -- just as I'd thought before driving to the river.
And, during all this time, the Michael Jackson song "Thriller" was looping endlessly through my brain. I bet most people who have watched the news or listened to the radio this week have had similar invasions to their internal soundtracks.
Just as I broke through the underbrush to the trail -- no muddy track had ever looked so good before -- the inside of my right ear felt strangely cool. I reached up and felt a fat, olive-green caterpillar nestled in my earlobe. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
I finally got to my spot, and I was eager to fish. Just as I finished rigging up my rod and line, three inner tubes carrying happy floaters -- they were pounding beer and it was 10 a.m. -- lurched into the run and all the fish spooked.
I headed back to the car. I took the trail the whole way, even though I know a shortcut.
