The Cast (and the crowd) of the season

Last Friday I tried to beat the crowd and go fishing.  As I was driving the just-over-an-hour trip from my house in Meridian to Eastern Oregon through the vast stretches of farmland and wide open country, with the Owyhee range bearing witness in front of me (commonly referred to as "the reason I would never want to live anywhere east of Wyoming"), the thought occurred to me that I actually find it alarming that I should have to beat the crowd at all.  If you are reading this, I would encourage you to navigate all the way back to my first ever post on this blog for some background on the upcoming discussion.

It was 36 degrees and overcast, and the forecast was for a 60 degree day with a 30% chance of rain showers, mostly before noon.  Observations from the windshield of my Toyota indicated this was spot on.  My thoughts drifted from the frustration of the crowd to typical mental ramblings: "Will it rain all day?" "Maybe it will - hey, maybe the rain will keep people off the river", "I wonder if the Blue Wing Olive's will come off today?", "I wonder if I'm going to be a terrible T-ball coach............eh, hopefully not", "I wonder if anyone even remotely thinks I'm a good Commander" and before I knew it, I was entering the canyon stretch of the Owyhee river below the dam.  Self doubt was out the window.

I was instantly energized and began anticipating my arrival at the first of two spots that I have found to be over-productive and under-fished: It was 9:00 A.M.  Then came the shockwave: there were three campers spread out across the stretch of dirt-road generally vacant as I drove past the spot that I had intended to fish first.  I sped up, grab the volume knob, uttered a few "aww shits" and moved on.  I approach the location of my previous encounter with a remarkable fish (spot #2) to find three trucks parked there as well. " DAMN.  Keep moving".

More road, more vehicles, more campers, more people parked in prime spots and sitting in their vehicles to avoid the rain (they are about to embark on a journey that requires them to actually stand in running water mind you).   WTF? Finally, I find a spot to park that is not too close to anyone else.  "Finally - why on earth are so many people here on a rainy Friday morning?  I've never seen this place so crowded".

I suit up, load up my streamer rod since it's pouring rain at this point, and hit the water.  Then it hits me: "What the hell is that floating on that shallow gravel bar................oh, of course".  It's a very nice, very dead wild brown trout of about 22".  Now I'm pissed: I'm pissed because (regardless of what actually happened), I've "decided" that some clown got lucky blind-casting and hooked the fish of his life, kept it out of the water way too long so his buddy could take a few glory shots with his camera, and killed the fish.  I know this because the fish is only discolored in two spots - exactly where two grubby hands were holding him.  There is no evidence to point at anything except angler-induced mortality.  I lament this for several minutes, lament the crowd, bemoan the deplorable fact that these fish might just be over pressured, etc.

I fish in the rain, hook a few fish on the black leech from the previous post, actually land one, and head back to the truck to change rods and light a cheap cigar when the sun comes out.  I walk.  I walk some more.  I watch water. I watch more water.  I see and inadvertently spook countless fish in the low water.  I hook and release a decent fish.  Then I spot a fish holding in a highly improbably lie: he's in a very very shallow spot wedged between the bank and a little muddy/gravely mini-island about 2 feet from the bank, and his back is to me.  He's 50 feet away.  There is no current.  I know I can't move because he will spook like all the others.  I know that if I mess the cast up, I will either land the fly on dry land and break it off, or slap the water and spook the fish.  "I can't make that cast".  "It's too far with this breeze".  "There's no way to get a fly where he can see it without spooking him".  "Damn that fish is big".  "Why not".

I rip some line out, gently place the cast of a lifetime (a cast I could probably get right about 20% of the time on a great day) right on top of the fish's dorsal fin. Damn - too short.  Almost instantly, he moves forward, turns around, and absolutely crushes the tiny dry fly.  Game on!

The rest of my rant on Angler behavior that day, or on over pressured fish in general will have to wait.  It simply illustrates the unfortunate reality of having a world-class brown trout fishery so close to a heavily populated area.  Perhaps it's time for me to find some off-the-beaten-path spots for smaller, less pursued trout.  In the mean time, here's the fish: