The Deschutes

The much anticipated trip to the D didn't quite live up to the unreal expectations I dreamt up in my thick, carp loving skull. I look to fond memories of the D in my mind; intricate holding water, dark colored fish, tiny pheasant tail nymphs and red copper johns. I remember leaping trout, brushing caddis flies off my neck and the moment when you KNOW you have the right drift and you can set the hook with your eyes closed. What I missed in my mind is a calendar. The D in winter is a different place, something that I know of course, but something you tend to be blind to when launching on a return trip. In January...the D is tough. We drove to the river lamenting the fact that the water level had nearly doubled in the past two days, and we found a river cold, fast, and big. Very big. But...we fished, and we cast, and we drifted, and we found a few old friends.



I hooked up with a decent little trout a mere cast or two into the day. Coleman got off to a quick start with a whitefish and in short order chris had a fish to hand as well. With fish to hand the rest of the day seemed easier, though the fishing only got tougher. The river was just too big and fast and we struggled to find water that could be fished without climbing ropes or a safety net. The river was in the grass, and a simple fly cast was nearly impossible. We forged on and found a few more fish here and there, a handful of trout and a bigger handful of whitefish.



Still, it was time on the river with friends. Shocking how easy you fall into the old rhythms of fishing with friends. Conversation flows, gear is shared, runs are divvied up with a nod or a wave and the river flows onward.



We closed the day with some local fare distinguished primarily by the proprietor's spelling, and the fact that when asked (seconds before opening the door) if the food was good Scott responded " Shit no!"

Just another day on the D.