Cold Water Refuge

With an early-season heatwave spiking temps into the uncomfortable range, Jennifer and I started looking for a day-trip option to somewhere slightly cooler over the weekend. My extremely optimistic weather app said Camp Sherman would be somewhat cooler, with a lovely cloud cover that, if one were to care about such things, should produce an impressive Green Drake hatch, or a myriad of other insects that would bring the trout to the surface. Not wanting to waste the last few days of my “chemo off week,” we packed the Subaru and headed over the mountains.

 

Camp Sherman was welcoming under the clear blue sky, and comments about the forecasted cloud cover did not ring with disappointment, as the Metolius River is beautiful under any sky and holds a special place in our hearts. Our first date was in waders on this mythical stream, and many fond memories were made with the river's musical waters as the background soundtrack. There is never a bad day along its banks.

We wadered up and started hiking downriver, choosing fairly easy terrain since I’m still not 100 percent on energy levels. Each step seemed to bring more power to my stride, and soon I forgot about any self-imposed medical limitations.

 

Having missed the morning spinner fall, which didn’t happen, according to friends we encountered, we focused on the wisps of clouds gathering over Mt. Jefferson, hoping they would thicken and cast a shadow over the water to encourage a few Drakes to take flight. Our hopes rose for only a few minutes before the sun burst through, pushing our best chances to the fading light of the day. Still, a few fish rose to miscellaneous insects fluttering on the surface. Jennifer brought a couple of fish to hand while I sought out shady water farther downstream.

 

I’ve always said that the best way to fish this river is with your eyes and not your boots. As I stood on the bank overlooking one of the designer log structures added to the river years ago, I could see a large fish holding on a current seam, sliding closer to the surface when something passed overhead. I watched him hold there for several minutes before reevaluating my fly selection and knotting a very small PMD Spinner to my 6.5x tippet. Holding the size 20 fly in my hand, I considered the silliness of this effort and the unlikely chance of success, noting the power of the current just beyond my target and the endless opportunity for entanglement in the aforementioned logjam. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained; I stepped into the icy waters and silently waded to a position offering a fairly easy cast.

 

My first few casts brought no response but were perfectly placed to fall within the fish’s line of sight. I stretched out a few more feet of line and sent the fly farther upstream. A slight mend, and the fly followed the perfect track without any telltale drag, heading right into the perceived feeding line. My eyes now focused on the fish as he slowly rose, his reddish coloration becoming more evident as he moved from the depths. He continued to the surface, and I could see the white of his mouth for that brief instant as it opened, then abruptly closed as his nose lifted the fly without contact, as he turned and dove into the depths of the pool, the opportunity lost.

 

I checked my watch, realized I had the Grayl water bottle on my pack, and headed back upriver to find Jennifer, knowing she was probably as thirsty as I was. We met up, shared our experiences, had a cool drink, then got lost in the birding along the river as a Pileated Woodpecker, Western Tanagers, Grosbeaks, Water Uzels, and a collection of other feathered creatures flitted through the trees and bushes along the river.

 

Our thirst quenched, hunger now pushed its way into our conversation, and we decided to head to Camp Sherman and grab a bite at Hola, the pseudo-Mexican restaurant that has become a favorite stop when we find it open. We enjoyed a delicious dinner outside, while discussing the profit margins on twenty-one-dollar Margaritas or Pisco Sours as we filled our glasses from the pitcher of spring water.

 

Dinner done, it was time to slip back into our waders to see if the fading light would provide a more target-rich environment. We found ourselves at a popular return eddy, now void of other anglers, but filled with active fish. Jennifer worked the top end of the eddy, while I found a downstream position that, though somewhat treacherous at first, offered a good vantage point to watch her efforts as she made casts to the occasional rising fish.

 

Jennifer is a very determined angler, and I watched as her fly box came out several times, selecting new patterns to try to entice a rise. Finally, her rod bent under the strain of a good fish as it fought in the swirling current. I knew I would be unable to extricate myself from the river in time to take a photograph, so I shot a few distant photos and then watched the action. Soon her net flashed out, and the fish was expertly led into the bag, held safely in the water as she snapped a few photos before releasing it. The day and my energy were fading, so we met back at the car and slipped out of waders before making the long drive home. Our conversation focused on how awesome it was to raise the bar on the new normal. Here’s to many more magical days on the water with my lovely wife.