StillCreekSam
New member
Hi, Oregon Fishing Forum community. My name is Sam. I want to make a little habit of journaling after fishing trips (partially inspired by bass’ wonderful catalogue of fishing excursions). Thought I’d post an introductory entry about tonight’s coho adventure (better pictures next time):
After finishing up some weekly grading, Tsuga (faithful mutt companion) and I hit the highway, heading east from our little college town in the Willamette Valley. Drove up gorgeous autumn farm country, using the hour to chat with my Denver-based fly-fishing buddy. He’s a father, electrician, and husband; I wanted some relationship advice, but we mainly chatted about the data center he’s wiring for the Department of Defense. Good? Bad? Probably somewhere in the murky in-between, my buddy thinks, as long as the gov’t isn’t using the center to store all the virtual dirt they’ve got on us citizens.
Said goodbye to my pal and hung up at the river. Right as I stepped into my waders, another angler rolled into the lot. It can be hard to not feel territorial, sometimes. I have to tell that lizard part of my brain to chill out; there’s more than enough water for two of us. The fisherman and I chatted about salmon while stringing up our rods. Nice guy. Told me about catching a fungus-ridden chinook the other week, a fish so clouded with impending death he didn’t want to touch it. I shared how, last month, I’d hooked into a fat, still gunmetal springer while nymphing for fingerling mountain trout. I "let that one go," in so many words.
The other fisherman took the honey-hole near the parking lot, leaving my dog and I to fish the lower run. In the hour before dusk, the air filled with caddis, mayflies, and the amazingly adept hunters of those insects. I watched a swallow hover midair to pluck a loop-flying caddis. Other birds dove across the river, threading back and forth like the black tips of sewing needles. A merganser flew by. Tsuga, ever-impressive, did not chase.
My left wader leg slowly filled with river-water as I worked downstream, casting, swinging, and stripping back a pink clouser. Though I saw not a single roller, nearly every wide swing across the river felt ripe for a grab. You ever feel that way? That every cast and retrieve is charged with potential? The fly-line was good radar; all I needed, in my estimation, was to cross paths with a coho.
Some trout rose here and there, splashing after the fat-bellied bugs. I casted, retrieved, stepped. The sun dipped behind the cottonwoods and the moon rose. Good thin autumn moon, color of stained wood. I couldn’t see my fly-line and Tsuga gave me that ears-back look: “You ready, yet?” We turned upstream and saw that the other guy had left. Time to go, I guess. I hooked my fly on an eyelet and headed for the bank. Still waiting on a good rain to push the coho upriver. And a willing jaw. As I climbed up through the willows, a pair of insect wings slapped the back of my neck, got stuck in my collar, and beat until the insect was free.
After finishing up some weekly grading, Tsuga (faithful mutt companion) and I hit the highway, heading east from our little college town in the Willamette Valley. Drove up gorgeous autumn farm country, using the hour to chat with my Denver-based fly-fishing buddy. He’s a father, electrician, and husband; I wanted some relationship advice, but we mainly chatted about the data center he’s wiring for the Department of Defense. Good? Bad? Probably somewhere in the murky in-between, my buddy thinks, as long as the gov’t isn’t using the center to store all the virtual dirt they’ve got on us citizens.
Said goodbye to my pal and hung up at the river. Right as I stepped into my waders, another angler rolled into the lot. It can be hard to not feel territorial, sometimes. I have to tell that lizard part of my brain to chill out; there’s more than enough water for two of us. The fisherman and I chatted about salmon while stringing up our rods. Nice guy. Told me about catching a fungus-ridden chinook the other week, a fish so clouded with impending death he didn’t want to touch it. I shared how, last month, I’d hooked into a fat, still gunmetal springer while nymphing for fingerling mountain trout. I "let that one go," in so many words.
The other fisherman took the honey-hole near the parking lot, leaving my dog and I to fish the lower run. In the hour before dusk, the air filled with caddis, mayflies, and the amazingly adept hunters of those insects. I watched a swallow hover midair to pluck a loop-flying caddis. Other birds dove across the river, threading back and forth like the black tips of sewing needles. A merganser flew by. Tsuga, ever-impressive, did not chase.
My left wader leg slowly filled with river-water as I worked downstream, casting, swinging, and stripping back a pink clouser. Though I saw not a single roller, nearly every wide swing across the river felt ripe for a grab. You ever feel that way? That every cast and retrieve is charged with potential? The fly-line was good radar; all I needed, in my estimation, was to cross paths with a coho.
Some trout rose here and there, splashing after the fat-bellied bugs. I casted, retrieved, stepped. The sun dipped behind the cottonwoods and the moon rose. Good thin autumn moon, color of stained wood. I couldn’t see my fly-line and Tsuga gave me that ears-back look: “You ready, yet?” We turned upstream and saw that the other guy had left. Time to go, I guess. I hooked my fly on an eyelet and headed for the bank. Still waiting on a good rain to push the coho upriver. And a willing jaw. As I climbed up through the willows, a pair of insect wings slapped the back of my neck, got stuck in my collar, and beat until the insect was free.
