I've received notes from a few loyal Bespoke-ians regarding the glaring omission of past Tuesday's Flickr set. For that, I will attempt to atone, but I do hope you'll allow me to explain. You see, I found myself away from from Pinch House on a junket well overdue; deep in the Deschutes canyon pursuing resident trout with a dry fly. As many of you know, it's that certain itch of mine that rarely gets the deep tissue scratching it deserves, but this past week made up for previous opportunities missed. Be warned, this post has little to with business communications. That is, unless your business is fly fishing. Or writing about it.
When my good friend, Scott Richmond (creator of Westfly and the author of more than one volume on fishing the Deschutes) suggested that we depart on Tuesday for two nights and three days, it took little to light the proverbial fire within. (The office was significantly slower than I would care to admit and too many previous weeks' end opportunities had delivered unsavory conditions. Besides, both Adam and Lisa knew that I needed out.) We had Scott's fifth wheel trailer, two inflatable boats, a king cab full of fly rods and, between us, enough boxes of tiny hooks wrapped in deer hair, elk hair, peacock, and other creatures to outfit a zookeeper's angling retreat of twenty. As we traveled up and over Mt. Hood and dropped down into the tiny desert hamlet of Maupin, our conversation ranged from the price of fuel, to what we had obviously forgotten to include while apparently covering every possible base (I; a toothbrush, pillow, and life preserver. Scott; some other stuff, I'm sure). It mattered not.
After setting up camp (if one insists on calling 25 ft. of rolling luxury such a thing), we set out along the gravel river road upstream to stumble upon the first of our many accords. I glimpsed the silver-haired man under the straw hat sitting tightly cross-legged, nearly lotus, in a too-small folding camp chair overlooking the busy riffle below. "Well if it isn't Colonel Whitehead," Scott jousted as we stepped away from the truck to make our acquaintance. It was Dave Hughes, the noted entomologist, photographer, editor of Flyfishing and Tying Journal, a columnist for Fly Rod & Reel magazine, and author of twenty or so excellent reference texts such as Trout Flies: The Tier's Reference, and Wet Flies. It took Dave's eyes a moment to adjust to our two ubiquitous Gore-tex figures and to recognize Scott; thanks, as he explained, to heavy dosing of eye drops not but a minute before. "Smurf and Hafele are below, filming a bit for a nymphing video. I'm here to make a cameo, I guess," Hughes motioned as John Smeraglio (Smurf, to his friends), artist, instructor, and owner of Deschutes Canyon Fly Shop drifted his wet fly in the loping swirl of the big back eddy. Just downstream—and positioned more closely to the tripod of the lone cameraman—stood Rick Hafele, also a star of sorts in western fly fishing circles. Hafele himself is a well-known aquatic entomologist, highly-sought speaker, instructor, and author of a good number of superb books, perhaps most notably, The Complete Book of Western Hatches, in my opinion, the defining pocket reference on the topic. When it became clear that Scott might kindly be offering certain verbal instruction from the bank above, the two anglers below reeled in, trudged up the rocky steppe, and the five of us took our rightful positions around the bed of the truck. From his minivan, Jon Covich, (yet another) writer and a rep for flyrod manufacturer R.L. Winston and clothier Patagonia, emerged with his apprentice, leaned in to trade a story or two, pile on a few more lies, and perhaps glean a bit of information in terms of what was happening on (or in) the river. Even before Jon's entrance, I understood that this wasn't the regular assembly of northwest weekenders that I find myself most often competing with for water. It was Tuesday, after all. And the working people were, well, working.
Following apologies from all for keeping us from the river for far too long (and a warning that Mr. Covich would likely be following Scott in a quest for the premium water), we found our most acceptable launch, inflated the boats, and made our way across the river at Nena Creek. Upon setting foot and peering the other side (the one that we weekenders mostly inhabit), I realized now that old yarn about "the grass is always greener on the other side" was, at least in this case, entirely true. This was water, I'll assure you, that upon Scott's second cast produced an eager redside that rose to accept his fly. Stepping away from the pool and facing two searching casts to the boulder field upriver produced yet another. I hadn't even pulled my hook from its stay and there were three more days of this for which to enjoy. No calls. No e-mail. We grinned knowingly that these were indeed good signs; the trout were willing and the sun in the canyon would shine for at least another three hours on this remarkable afternoon in June. We secured the boats and began our short walk up the game trail to survey our next stretch of productive water. In the longer grass, and between the footsteps of the two of us, a small rattler buzzed its tailing greeting, thus confirming that, yes, we were now treading on his side of the river. "Well, that's a fine 'welcome back' to the Deschutes," chuckled Scott.
Indeed it was. And it had been too long.