A "Glamp" on the Klamath

At my mom's funeral, my uncle recalled fishing in a boat with her on the Klamath River, when they were kids. He tried to net a big salmon she was reeling in, but it got away, and she cried. I have to tell you, on my last trip to the Klamath, I found out how she felt. But we'll get to that.
In August, 2023, I got a message from Jake Campbell at Western Rivers Conservancy, an excellent Portland non-profit. They had scheduled a September fly fishing trip on the Klamath. Did I want to join them?
After a rough five seconds of soul-searching, I was in. Fishing on the Klamath is not something to lightly pass up, and Western Rivers Conservancy is one of my favorite non-profits. They were instrumental in preserving Blue Creek, a beautiful stretch of water and a vital "cold water refuge" for the fish. I've experienced firsthand the benefits of that cold-water creek. I believe preserving that water, and, now, keeping it off-limits to anglers, is crucial to the survival of anadromous fish on the Klamath, especially now that the dams have been removed.
I was due at the boat ramp in Klamath Glen at 8:00 am, so I stayed the night in the coastal Oregon town of Gold Beach. Jake Campbell, the trip organizer, was staying there as well, so we got together for a very good seafood dinner at Spinners Restaurant, washed down by some local beer.
The next morning the group assembled at the boat ramp, and took off upriver in jet boats to the camp, a little way upstream. The trip had been advertised as "glamping at its finest". "Glamping", for those not familiar, is a portmanteau of the words "glamorous" and "camping". If you don't know what a portmanteau is, you can probably figure it out. I had to look it up.
A quick inspection of the camping area confirmed the "glamping" claim. We were in tent cabins with the most comfortable cots I have ever slept on. Our meals were cooked by "Chef Francis", an expert practitioner of the culinary arts, and they were magnificent. But the pièce de résistance was the incinerating "loo".
Yes, that's right. The Incinolet Electric Incinerating Toilet, Toiletdom's answer to Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell, actually burns the human waste deposited in it. I confess I was afraid to use it for a day or two ("Portland Man Burns Down Yurok Sacred Tribal Grounds"), and I went with an old-fashioned shovel. But then my curiosity got the best of me. Watching the Incinolet do its thing is not for the faint-hearted, but I watched it, and I must say: Dante would have been proud.
And now to the fishing: our guides, Captain Brian Kohlman and Captain Randy Hamann (they're "captains" because they need a Coast Guard Captain's license to operate their jet boats, not because they'll have you flogged if you lose a fish—lucky for me), were top-notch, and put us on fish immediately.
Jake and I fished the first half-day with Brian and the rest of the time with Randy. They put us on plenty of fish. Unlike my prior times on the Klamath, the proportion of adult steelhead and "half-pounders" was close to equal. A half-pounder, as most of you know, is a steelhead who returns to fresh water after only a few months in the ocean. They are smaller than the adults, but also feistier,
But we were after adults, and we caught at least a few every day. Not bad for the "Fish of a Thousand Casts". Brian and Randy would typically anchor along slow-moving "glides", a little upstream from riffles. Jake and I would fish the glides, catch a half-pounder or two, and figure the next stop would be better.
Then we would approach the tailout of the glide into the riffle, and all Hell would break loose. One fish hit me and ran so hard that I skinned my knuckles on the reel crank as it went around and around at about 1,000 rpm. He kept going, and then got tired and let me reel him in a little. I got him close, and then he realized what was going on and took off again.
This went on several more times, and then I finally had him. I was reeling him in, as smoothly as I could. I hadn't noticed until I put my rig together that the reel, which I'd gotten at some angler's "I've had it with steelheading" sale, was set up for left-hand retrieve. I'm a right-hand retrieve guy (or at least that's my excuse) but there was no time to do anything about it.
The reel didn't seem to matter, until, all at once, it mattered. The fish was there, and then he was gone. In that moment, I knew how my mom felt when she cried over that salmon as a kid. I knew how my uncle felt about losing it, and I understand why it was important enough to him to weave it into her eulogy 8o years later.
Looking back, I enjoy thinking about the fight, and I consider it a nice "long-distance release". But that fish was a freight train, and I never even got a look at him. I have no idea how big he was, or how "chromie".
On the other hand, the trip was fantastic, and we never went very long without a fish. At night we would settle in for a wonderful dinner, drink wine and relax together. I'd brought a bottle of single-malt whisky from my trip to Scotland, and on the last night we sat around and drank it. By the time we went to bed, we had solutions for every problem facing the world today. It's a shame I can't remember any of them.
I'd like to thank my friends at Western Rivers Conservancy and Confluence Outfitters for a great trip. And now the dams are gone!