Chester Allen's Watery Planet

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 [email protected] 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 little fist and showed me a safety pin with several beads threaded on the thin steel. A little bit of fly-tying thread was wrapped and twisted 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.

Photo contest rules only a formality for some readers -- but we're still having fun!

Dehlan, a veteran of this blog's photo contests, made the error of having human body parts in this nice photo of a beautiful Westslope cutthroat trout caught in an unnamed Central Washington river.

I see that many readers are now sending in photo contest entries, but the rules have evidently gone out the window.

This all reminds me of a senior journalism seminar during my days at the University of Oregon. We students endured a very boring instructor who had the bad taste to assign a giant project to a bunch of Senioritis-plagued students who would graduate -- hopefully -- in about five weeks.

We whined and sniveled as only journalism students can, and the instructor caved and pretty much let us do a much smaller project. I was mightily ticked off, as I had already completed my work and I had suffered through a few sleepless nights.

But I was so happy to know that my degree would be in my hot, jobless hands in a few weeks.

As a review, this contest is supposed to be shots of fish -- with no humans present.

Well, class.... Many of you are ignoring this rule. I'm feeling flush with power at the moment -- and the glow of lucking into a bright, line-peeling coho salmon while fishing for pink salmon at Puget Sound's Dash Point -- that I have a solution.

I will show off all photos, but the fish-only rule still stands. The best rule-breaking photo will get a spool of fly-tying thread. The color? Red, of course.

We've got more rule-breakers here! Cory Dixon sent in this shot of an amazing brown trout caught from an unnamed water. This photo also includes a human -- I suspect it is Cory himself showing off what may have been his best trout of the season.

Cory is not eligible for the photo contest prizes of one dozen, 6 or 3 flies for Oregon's Deschutes River. Cory also is not eligible for the consolation prize of red thread for the rule breakers. Why? Cory should be satisfied with catching one heckuva brown trout. Cory can appeal my ruling -- but only if he tells me the location of this terrific fish.

On we go....

Clifton Molatore, who lives in Portland, Oregon, sent in this great shot of his daughter and her grandfather posing with Diamond Lake rainbow trout. The fish doesn't look as happy as the humans.

Clifton is in the running for red thread! As the father of a fly-fishing daughter who is now away at university, I am a sucker for shots of kids with nice fish.

Now, this is a legal shot!

Michael Thompson, AKA Bad Fish, sent this shot of a cutthroat charging a fly.  Bad Fish gets extra-credit for following the rules.

As for the rest of you, the photo contest -- just one shot that just shows a fish -- is still going through Labor Day.

Send in your shots to [email protected]. I'm also open to suggestions for the next photo contest -- which will probably start in October and run through Thanksgiving.

Hmmm. It seems that I tend to end contests on national holidays.....