kingfisher20
07-22-2009, 10:04 PM
My Last Fishing Trip with Nick
Our first fishing trip to the famous Deschutes proved to be a memorable adventure, so we promised a repeat for the following year. During the first expedition, Nick was single, but in the space of a year he managed to find himself a woman. The romance between Nick and Katie is interesting. They share a sort of neurotic dependence on breathing the same air. If you’ve ever seen that T-mobile commercial with the cheerleader chattering away thousands of minutes as researchers observe, you could replace the little pom-pom shaker with Nick and nothing would be lost. In fact, Nick and Katie are so joined at the wireless hip they are somewhat indistinguishable. I am tempted to give them some celebrity conglomerate couple name like Natie or Kick but I don’t think Nick would talk to me anymore if I did. I do like Kick though. Kick talks on the phone a lot.
I met Nick Underwood my freshman year at college and we quickly became friends, laughing and cracking jokes while our parents unknowingly wasted their money on our school. Instead of returning to be Nick’s roommate the following year, I straightened out my priorities and married my high school sweetheart. Not resenting me for this decision, Nick agreed to be one of my groomsmen, and has since come out to the Northwest twice for a couple brief visits. When he decided to venture away from the Midwest to see my growing family, I thought it would be good to take him out into the wild and share with him my favorite pastime: fishing. To be more specific, steelhead fishing. I do fish for other species, yet in my opinion, there is no other fish more exciting. More on that later.
I knew that planning a trip this year might not be the best idea because of New Love’s claim on Nick’s life. Nonetheless, upon his insistence, the second, now annual camping trip was put into production. Nick bought his ticket in July and I drove to the airport in the heat of August. As we sped through the Columbia Gorge Nick began telling me more about his relationship with Katie. The steep cliffs on either side of the river swallowed our little car as city gave way to mountain-scape. Right about the time I was ready to ask a question, his phone rang. Katie.
I didn’t speak for the next 40 minutes. I told myself not to be bothered. Nick was just in love, and he had put 2,000 miles between himself and this girl. I didn’t mind. We climbed the last stretch of highway incline and turned onto my road. After giving my wife a hug and meeting my two girls Nick got settled and began sending Katie messages on his phone. We didn’t do much that night in the way of packing which meant we would be getting a late start the next day.
After breakfast and a trip to the store we drove over to my father-in-law’s house and traded him car for truck. The truck was our VIP ticket to a spot on the Deschutes known as Kloan. In order to get to Kloan, you have to traverse a sizeable canyon cliff road (if you can call it a road), and if you don’t have at least 24 inches of clearance you can forget about it. If you do make it though, Kloan is one of the best places on the lower Deschutes to fly-fish for steelhead. It not only offers miles of beautiful riffle water, but beautiful, private campsites right on the water. We loaded up the truck with groceries and camping gear and punched the highway. I knew that our camp food would leave something to be desired so I decided to treat Nick to my favorite sandwich shop on the way out of town. I asked him how he liked his cheese steak and he responded quickly with another, “I miss you too” text to Katie. I shook my head.
While Nick fumbled with his electric girlfriend, my mind started to wander into more familiar territory… In my opinion, fly fishing is one the most challenging, rewarding, peaceful, and honorable disciplines a man could pursue. I am not a purist, for just like any pursuit, if after many hours you have not acquired that which you are after, in this case fish, you start to go crazy. Thus, when I am having little success on the fly, I will employ other methods. I have a spinning rod on which I’ve caught many steelhead and salmon and I usually bring it along with my fly rod wherever I might fish. I have found that feeling a steelhead bite whatever you are dangling out in the water is the best substitute for a drug addiction I can think of. Set the hook, and then let the fish burn your reel to a pile of mush. After most fights with a game fish, my body, realizing it has been injected with heroin; I mean adrenaline, begins shaking, and continues until I crash. Needless to say fishing holds a special place in my life and I have sacrificed much for the precious knowledge of the Oregon waters I currently possess. You cannot simply go out to a river and catch a steelhead whenever you want like say... picking apples. It takes work, and a determination bordering insanity, to unlock the secrets of the rivers and entice these streamlined torpedoes of muscle and perseverance… but Nick doesn’t know anything about that.
We had a few more false starts at a conversation and I finally gave up trying to find out anything about how Nick had been for the past year. By this time, as much as I wanted our trip to be completely carefree, Nick’s incessant calling and texting was starting to get to me. It was as though he and Katie had on some electronic chain, and whenever one of them moved, the other was jerked into communication. I smiled to myself, remembering that at Kloan there was no cell phone service. Nick would have to face the wild loneliness of the river while Katie’s calls skipped over the canyon walls above. I told myself that it would be good for them. Good to shake things up. Had I been married too long? Did I forget what love, or in some cases infatuation, can do to people. Majestic as it was, the Deschutes river canyon was no match for Nick and his Katie.
Sometime in the afternoon we arrived at the bottom of the cliff and surveyed the scenery. The river was reminiscent of one of those sport fishing shows you see on television. I was astonished. Drift boats were everywhere. Campers lined both sides of the water. I had never seen so many people on the river before, especially not at Kloan. Nevertheless, we found a spot and started hauling our gear down from the truck. After we set up camp I had my waders and boots on, ready to fish in two minutes. Nick told me to go ahead while he kept his third afternoon appointment with Katie. I told him not to bother because there would be no service. I looked at my phone just to make sure, only to see that I had no "bars". Apparently, Nick's phone was special, because up by the truck he had found a direct air-path to Michigan. As I looked back from the trail I saw Nick pick up his respirator, press a couple buttons, and in seconds he was taking deep breaths of Katie.
I wasn't going to waste the opportunity to breathe in my own hobby so I set out for the first section of water. I would fish with or without Kick. I quickly realized that I would not be able to enjoy my time on the river knowing that all Nick wanted to do was glue himself to his long-distance walkie-talkie. I did manage to get Nick out fishing for a short time that evening, but he showed about as much interest in it as he did in tying his shoes. I felt betrayed. I recalled conversations we had planning this trip, Nick had talked as though bagging some steelhead would make his life complete. Nick had asked that I teach him the art of casting a fly rod. I wanted so badly for him to feel the rush of a game fish ripping his arm off. Yet, there he was using the great outdoors as the background noise for his calls to Katie.
We packed up a day early so Nick wouldn't have to hike 200 vertical feet to get reception. Just before we left, Nick decided he wanted to fish for an hour, so I put my spinning rod in his hand and told him I'd be down at the water in a few minutes. Nick sauntered over to the closest section of the river and began flinging the lure out as far as he could and then reeling it back. I looked up from the fly I was tying to my line to see Nick's pole bent in half. He reeled with a fresh ferocity rivaling any die-hard fisherman. Thankfully, I had set the drag light enough so no amount of Nick’s hidden zeal could break the line. All of the built up frustration with Nick evaporated and I let out a shout. As the canyon walls reverberated with our yelps and hollers, and with a fish trying to pull him into the river, Nick had at once entered the wild. Running to where he stood bracing himself against the valiant fish, I continued my coaching. After four or five minutes, Nick proudly held up a wild, chrome steelhead.
"Sorry man, you can't keep this one." I sighed
"What! Why not?"
"It's a native. See the adipose fin." I pointed. "If it's not clipped then you gotta let it go."
I could see the disapproval on Nick's face. I gently placed the glistening fish back in the river and watched it dive into the current. Nick took a few more casts and hiked up to the truck to get some fresh air.
Our first fishing trip to the famous Deschutes proved to be a memorable adventure, so we promised a repeat for the following year. During the first expedition, Nick was single, but in the space of a year he managed to find himself a woman. The romance between Nick and Katie is interesting. They share a sort of neurotic dependence on breathing the same air. If you’ve ever seen that T-mobile commercial with the cheerleader chattering away thousands of minutes as researchers observe, you could replace the little pom-pom shaker with Nick and nothing would be lost. In fact, Nick and Katie are so joined at the wireless hip they are somewhat indistinguishable. I am tempted to give them some celebrity conglomerate couple name like Natie or Kick but I don’t think Nick would talk to me anymore if I did. I do like Kick though. Kick talks on the phone a lot.
I met Nick Underwood my freshman year at college and we quickly became friends, laughing and cracking jokes while our parents unknowingly wasted their money on our school. Instead of returning to be Nick’s roommate the following year, I straightened out my priorities and married my high school sweetheart. Not resenting me for this decision, Nick agreed to be one of my groomsmen, and has since come out to the Northwest twice for a couple brief visits. When he decided to venture away from the Midwest to see my growing family, I thought it would be good to take him out into the wild and share with him my favorite pastime: fishing. To be more specific, steelhead fishing. I do fish for other species, yet in my opinion, there is no other fish more exciting. More on that later.
I knew that planning a trip this year might not be the best idea because of New Love’s claim on Nick’s life. Nonetheless, upon his insistence, the second, now annual camping trip was put into production. Nick bought his ticket in July and I drove to the airport in the heat of August. As we sped through the Columbia Gorge Nick began telling me more about his relationship with Katie. The steep cliffs on either side of the river swallowed our little car as city gave way to mountain-scape. Right about the time I was ready to ask a question, his phone rang. Katie.
I didn’t speak for the next 40 minutes. I told myself not to be bothered. Nick was just in love, and he had put 2,000 miles between himself and this girl. I didn’t mind. We climbed the last stretch of highway incline and turned onto my road. After giving my wife a hug and meeting my two girls Nick got settled and began sending Katie messages on his phone. We didn’t do much that night in the way of packing which meant we would be getting a late start the next day.
After breakfast and a trip to the store we drove over to my father-in-law’s house and traded him car for truck. The truck was our VIP ticket to a spot on the Deschutes known as Kloan. In order to get to Kloan, you have to traverse a sizeable canyon cliff road (if you can call it a road), and if you don’t have at least 24 inches of clearance you can forget about it. If you do make it though, Kloan is one of the best places on the lower Deschutes to fly-fish for steelhead. It not only offers miles of beautiful riffle water, but beautiful, private campsites right on the water. We loaded up the truck with groceries and camping gear and punched the highway. I knew that our camp food would leave something to be desired so I decided to treat Nick to my favorite sandwich shop on the way out of town. I asked him how he liked his cheese steak and he responded quickly with another, “I miss you too” text to Katie. I shook my head.
While Nick fumbled with his electric girlfriend, my mind started to wander into more familiar territory… In my opinion, fly fishing is one the most challenging, rewarding, peaceful, and honorable disciplines a man could pursue. I am not a purist, for just like any pursuit, if after many hours you have not acquired that which you are after, in this case fish, you start to go crazy. Thus, when I am having little success on the fly, I will employ other methods. I have a spinning rod on which I’ve caught many steelhead and salmon and I usually bring it along with my fly rod wherever I might fish. I have found that feeling a steelhead bite whatever you are dangling out in the water is the best substitute for a drug addiction I can think of. Set the hook, and then let the fish burn your reel to a pile of mush. After most fights with a game fish, my body, realizing it has been injected with heroin; I mean adrenaline, begins shaking, and continues until I crash. Needless to say fishing holds a special place in my life and I have sacrificed much for the precious knowledge of the Oregon waters I currently possess. You cannot simply go out to a river and catch a steelhead whenever you want like say... picking apples. It takes work, and a determination bordering insanity, to unlock the secrets of the rivers and entice these streamlined torpedoes of muscle and perseverance… but Nick doesn’t know anything about that.
We had a few more false starts at a conversation and I finally gave up trying to find out anything about how Nick had been for the past year. By this time, as much as I wanted our trip to be completely carefree, Nick’s incessant calling and texting was starting to get to me. It was as though he and Katie had on some electronic chain, and whenever one of them moved, the other was jerked into communication. I smiled to myself, remembering that at Kloan there was no cell phone service. Nick would have to face the wild loneliness of the river while Katie’s calls skipped over the canyon walls above. I told myself that it would be good for them. Good to shake things up. Had I been married too long? Did I forget what love, or in some cases infatuation, can do to people. Majestic as it was, the Deschutes river canyon was no match for Nick and his Katie.
Sometime in the afternoon we arrived at the bottom of the cliff and surveyed the scenery. The river was reminiscent of one of those sport fishing shows you see on television. I was astonished. Drift boats were everywhere. Campers lined both sides of the water. I had never seen so many people on the river before, especially not at Kloan. Nevertheless, we found a spot and started hauling our gear down from the truck. After we set up camp I had my waders and boots on, ready to fish in two minutes. Nick told me to go ahead while he kept his third afternoon appointment with Katie. I told him not to bother because there would be no service. I looked at my phone just to make sure, only to see that I had no "bars". Apparently, Nick's phone was special, because up by the truck he had found a direct air-path to Michigan. As I looked back from the trail I saw Nick pick up his respirator, press a couple buttons, and in seconds he was taking deep breaths of Katie.
I wasn't going to waste the opportunity to breathe in my own hobby so I set out for the first section of water. I would fish with or without Kick. I quickly realized that I would not be able to enjoy my time on the river knowing that all Nick wanted to do was glue himself to his long-distance walkie-talkie. I did manage to get Nick out fishing for a short time that evening, but he showed about as much interest in it as he did in tying his shoes. I felt betrayed. I recalled conversations we had planning this trip, Nick had talked as though bagging some steelhead would make his life complete. Nick had asked that I teach him the art of casting a fly rod. I wanted so badly for him to feel the rush of a game fish ripping his arm off. Yet, there he was using the great outdoors as the background noise for his calls to Katie.
We packed up a day early so Nick wouldn't have to hike 200 vertical feet to get reception. Just before we left, Nick decided he wanted to fish for an hour, so I put my spinning rod in his hand and told him I'd be down at the water in a few minutes. Nick sauntered over to the closest section of the river and began flinging the lure out as far as he could and then reeling it back. I looked up from the fly I was tying to my line to see Nick's pole bent in half. He reeled with a fresh ferocity rivaling any die-hard fisherman. Thankfully, I had set the drag light enough so no amount of Nick’s hidden zeal could break the line. All of the built up frustration with Nick evaporated and I let out a shout. As the canyon walls reverberated with our yelps and hollers, and with a fish trying to pull him into the river, Nick had at once entered the wild. Running to where he stood bracing himself against the valiant fish, I continued my coaching. After four or five minutes, Nick proudly held up a wild, chrome steelhead.
"Sorry man, you can't keep this one." I sighed
"What! Why not?"
"It's a native. See the adipose fin." I pointed. "If it's not clipped then you gotta let it go."
I could see the disapproval on Nick's face. I gently placed the glistening fish back in the river and watched it dive into the current. Nick took a few more casts and hiked up to the truck to get some fresh air.