Heather sets up on a nice Crooked River rainbow trout that couldn't resist a Sparkle Dun.
There comes a time in every angler's life when it seems entirely reasonable to drive three hours -- one way -- on a day trip to a great trout stream.
It's easier if you lie -- as I did -- and tell your partner that the trip is just two hours -- one way. I did tell Heather the truth when I said we were going to a great trout stream.
I worried a little bit about that half-truth as we drove right over the Deschutes River bridge at Warm Springs. I watched on of the greatest trout streams on the planet get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror as the Subaru climbed the grade out of the Deschutes River canyon. The Crooked River -- tributary to the Deschutes River and famous for swarms of beautiful, wild rainbow trout -- was another 45 minutes down the road.
We love the Deschutes, and it felt weird to drive away without wetting a line.
But the drive through the Crooked River National Grassland -- green and lush during the wettest Northwest spring in memory -- was gorgeous. Gray clouds massed over the dark basalt outcroppings and blue-green sagebrush.
And then, suddenly, we saw the Crooked River. The Crooked flows through a small, basalt canyon, and the country is usually arid, brown grass, sagebrush and juniper trees. The weeks of rain changed all that. Tall, green grass grew along the road and along the riverside paths. Wildflowers bloomed on the canyon slopes and along the stream.
The Crooked River is an old friend to me, but it was Heather's first trip to this stream.
"This is beautiful," Heather said. "And look at that water."
The Crooked usually runs with a slight, dingy tint -- thanks to some combination of water and soil chemistry. But the water is also full of beautiful, wild trout. Heather likes to fish smaller rivers with lots of flat, glassy runs. The Crooked is full of glassy runs.
Heather eased the Subaru along the road that parallels the river from the little town of Prineville upstream to Bowman Dam. Heather pulled the car over near a nice spot. A small, bouncing riffle fed into a long, glassy stretch of river sprinkled with huge basalt rocks.
"The rocks look like hippos, don't they?" Heather said as we rigged rods and kept an eye on Berkeley the Labrador retriever.
Those big boulders did look like hippos basking in an African river. But I couldn't help noticing that not one trout dimpled the glassy water that flowed among the hippo rocks. I kept quiet about all this. After all, Heather hadn't mentioned the longer-than-promised drive, and she also picks water with more than fish in mind.
Heather is a good angler, but she would rather fish water that suits her artistic mood of the moment than water that boils with feeding trout. Heather likes pretty, glassy water with interesting sights, wildlife and easy wading. And she likes her trout to rise to a dry fly.
This run fit all of Heather's vision of What a Trout Stream Should Look Like, but there were no rising fish.
Berkeley, the Labrador retriever wiggled out of the car and loped along the river. Heather marched upstream for her traditional practice casts. Heather doesn't like me to watch her first casts, and that's OK.
I rigged up with a scud nymph -- this weedy river swarms with the small, shrimp-like crustaceans, and the trout grow fat on the rich food. I didn't get any bites. I saw a few rises here and there, but Trout-O-Rama seemed far away.
Yet, the cloudy, warm day screamed for a big hatch of mayflies. Heather ambled back downstream to me and made a few casts to a spot where a fish rose every now and then. Rain spattered us every now and then. I suggested that we go downstream to a faster, rockier spot, where I've seen big mayfly hatches in similar weather.
We started hiking to the other spot -- and Heather stopped in her tracks.
"Big fish," she said. "Another big fish."
Mayflies had started popping to the surface, and the small bugs with upright wings looked like a tiny sailboat regatta. The hatch was a mix of grayish, size 18 Blue Winged Olives and yellowish, size 18 Pale Morning Duns. We tied on size 18 yellow Sparkle Duns.
The glassy water -- so barren a few minutes before -- was coming alive with the rings and swirls of feeding trout.
Heather dropped her fly just upstream of a rising fish, and she hooked up right away.
Berkeley and Heather admire a pretty fish on the line.
Berkeley doesn't wade into the river unless he is invited, but he loves to examine trout. Heather showed her darling dog her fish. Berkeley waded back to dry land after the trout darted away.
Suddenly, it was Trout-O-Rama. Fish rose and dimpled everywhere -- and they happily ate our flies. I counted 15 trout rising within an easy cast. Dozens of other fish rose up and down the run. Misty rain fell every now and then, but we hardly noticed anything but the next rising fish. The Crooked is often a generous river, but the gifts kept on coming.
Heather lost of couple of nice fish, and I managed to fool a few fish as well. A bigger fish caught me by surprise.
I had noticed the big head poking out of the smooth currents and sucking down luckless mayflies. It took a few casts to figure out the trout's rhythm, and then the fish peeled line across the stream.
Berkeley waded over to check out the fish as Heather took a couple of photos. Soon afterwards, the mayflies vanished -- and the trout stopped rising. We walked back to the car with smiles on our faces.
We talked quietly as we stowed rods, took off waders and ate a quick snack. We had fished for about four hours, and it was time to go home.
We saw a yearling deer -- big-eyed and as clueless as a high-school freshman -- on the drive out of the canyon. The wind picked up, and clouds scudded along the horizon like giant ships.
The drive home seemed faster than the drive to the river -- as it so often does. The sun broke through the clouds as we got back to Hood River. There was still plenty of light left in the evening. A long road trip to a great trout stream for a few hours of fishing turned out to be a good idea.
"So, did you notice that the drive is more like three hours than two hours?" Heather said later that evening. We laughed. A long drive really isn't long when you see pretty country, enjoy good talks -- and catch a lot of trout.
The clouds broke up as the sun set.
The first day of summer was the next day. It rained.
