Never Take It for Granted

In the early hours of dawn, when the world still slumbers beneath a veil of darkness, Josh  the "Oracle" and I embarked on an adventure that promised both challenge and thrill. We left the quiet streets of West Linn at 3:30 a.m., driven by a singular quest: to conquer the legendary Deschutes River. This was no ordinary day of fishing; it was a journey into the heart of one of the finest fly-fishing destinations known.

The conditions awaited us with a blend of promise and adversity. The river roared with a flow of 3800 cubic feet per second, while the wind teased with gusts of 5-10 mph under a sky devoid of clouds. Perfection was not on our side, but we were not deterred. True adventurers embrace the elements, using them to their advantage rather than waiting for ideal conditions.

We were armed with our battle gear: Scandi lines, long leaders, and a selection of wet flies, with an additional rod set up for a Skagit head, a 10-foot T-11, and red/orange marabou tube flies. Our strategy was clear: to exploit the shade, skate some flies if the conditions were favorable, and delve into the river's depths with the precision of skilled anglers.

Our first encounter with the river's heart came at the first run. Here, the Steelhead proved elusive, striking with a force that made us back up and try again, but success remained just out of reach. The river, ever a puzzle, offered us clues in its swift, flat water. Undeterred, we pressed on to the second run, where Josh suggested we test our luck with skating. The thrill of watching a Steelhead boil and then take a fly from the surface was exhilarating, but despite our best efforts and a showcase of our skills, the fish remained indifferent.

A brief respite was needed; Josh, the driving force behind our expedition, deserved a break. I ventured into the depths with a sink tip, casting with hope and determination, seeking that elusive Steelhead. Each failed attempt was met with gritted teeth and silent mutterings, but I knew our skills were not at fault. With the Oracle by my side, we were bound to succeed—his mastery of the Spey cast was unmatched, promising that success was merely a matter of time.

As the sun climbed higher, casting its glow upon the river, we sought refuge in the shade for a much-needed pause. Here, Josh took the reins, his skillful casting weaving a mesmerizing dance with the line. I woke from my nap to the sound of the reel, only to realize it was merely Josh retrieving his line. Doubt crept into my mind. Could the Oracle be bested by a skunked day? The thought seemed almost sacrilegious.

The river, now bustling with fellow adventurers, yielded no further action. We scoured the remaining runs, our hopes undimmed despite the challenges. As the day waned, we threw our last casts into the gathering twilight, pushing ourselves to the very limits of visibility.

In the end, our quest was met with the harsh reality of an empty net. No fish were brought to hand, but this day was not in vain. We had ventured into the Deschutes, one of the world's premier fisheries, alongside one of its most revered anglers. The river’s allure remained undiminished, and I was grateful for the shared experience. Days like these, spent with a friend and mentor, are rare and cherished. As we packed up, I knew that this adventure, though lacking in fish, had enriched my soul. I will never take a day like this for granted.