So I took the day, just a few hours really. Down the trail through chest-high grass, a bit below mile post 26, to the plunge pools where the elk and deer drink. The river bottom is ancient basalt, carved and sculpted by a thousand winter onslaughts. The pools are deep aquamarine; the banks home to the caddis and mayfly.

Until darkness came, I lost count of the battles. The ride back to reality, a blend of Miles Davis and headlights against a pale blue backdrop, my mind wondered how it all may have started: The Macedonians died bits of wool tied to homemade hooks; they were not net fisherman. They were casters, like me.

As I drove back through the Gorge at night, everyone was shooting off fireworks--citizens gathered on beaches and parks in celebration, restoring the faith. We are pretty lucky to be able to drive a thousand miles and fish remote locations if we choose, without much in the way of hoops or barrels to negotiate. There are others in the world who would gladly give up the use of the left one to do that, amen?

In my regular travels I always cut out a segment and take the side road, the old highway, looking for the next secret spot. An old timer once told me that explorers take the prize, and I did say “for the most part” above. The jewel pictured is just one of those places, somewhere between Nye and Portland and north of the 45th.

So throw a few bucks in the tank, kiss the wifey 'n kids goodbye. There's a thin blue line on that map you've had highlighted for years. Wet a fly, I did.

We are at the end of the 2010 Steelhead Survey conducted on the Salmonberry River, just one of a number of projects I've launched into over the last 8 months. Long 7-8 hour hikes in what seems like impossible conditions are the norm. We count and study redds, collect fish data (couples and singles), track changes in river habitat, take pictures and video, and set temperature monitoring equipment. I don't do this as a steelhead angler--I'm a trout guy. I do this out of the respect I've acquired over the years for all the species I admire, water and air breathers alike.

You would think that people would jump at the chance to be involved in a project like this--the beauty of these backcountry fish in the throws of an age-old ritual in 42-degree, gin-clear water is almost spiritual. Yet we struggle to fill the coffers each week. There is always something else to do: kid's soccer games, parents visiting, lawn and garage sales, the list goes on.

The fish don't care. Each year they see themselves in the river, each year there are less brothers and sisters to look at. Each year we bonk more and more fish, and each year it becomes more and more apparent that there is a problem. I met a friend for a beer last evening. My legs ached after the game trail climb-out, and a good micro-brew always helps. “How did it go out there?” she asked. “We counted 52 redds, saw a number of fish (pairs and singles), scouted two large groups of Elk from a ridge, IDed piles of Bear scat, bugs were hatching all over... it was a great day.”

So, help clean a river, attend some meetings in you area, and make a stand to support fisheries management. Be a good steward of the places you visit, tell your friends and family how important these species are. We could use you. I not asking for you to go out and hug a tree, I wouldn't do that. But a little fish love wouldn't hurt. 

Yet, there’s not a lot of time to fret these past pleasures and pain, no gains in senseless meanderings of the mind, no excuse not to make the coming season one for your personal record books. You are hunters and marksman and your story is being told with every fly that lights upon a riffle—lyrics echoing around the embers of the camp fire.

My reels have new line, leader, and tippet. Fly boxes are in the process of being re-stocked. My mind is being sharpened toward new destinations. I will relish in the first 70 degree days of late spring as the snowmelt passes. I look forward to the aching legs and weathered skin of summer. I’m already transfixed by the blaze of autumn leaves and painted speckled flanks brought to hand.

Stepping out of the loft for a break, I found the night clear and frozen amid the winter stillness—millions of stars setting their course before me. And I thought The End is nothing more than another new beginning.

The hunting grounds have become a much more technical pursuit in winter. Spans of four to six hours with favorable temperatures, light winds, reasonable flows can happen, but like fire sales with limited quantities, they often pass with not more than a late afternoon phone call from a friend saying, “Dude… you missed it.”

Yesterday, was different. I had been watching a high-pressure break for a week, pouring over maps and predictions, hoping it wouldn’t collapse like a Peep in a vise when it reached land. A coffee dispersal stop outside Dufur found downright balmy conditions, countered with somewhat gusty winds out of the south. My thought was that the high walls above the water would disperse the wind, or heighten it. Either way, there was no turning back.

Maupin was a mix of smoke and fog, its rows of houses half lit by a sun that strained through cirrus clouds. The Cascades were draped in first season snow and seemed to hint at next spring’s return. I made my way through the ranch and down the hill. No one was in the lot and no wind blew as I geared up.

And so it went for the next four hours—long casts to swirling eddies, the skip-drift-skip of dries on a multi-patterned surface, fish with spots emerging and dancing, winged predators watching with disdain, t-shirt and jeans, caddis and midges, juniper and stone. Standing on a basalt outcrop as the sun finished its work—throwing long shadows to the water—I gave thanks to Oregon.

And it’s about whole systems, which are made up of smaller systems, which in turn are made up of even smaller systems. Rain, wind, fish, elk, rivers, lakes, snow—none of these things stop at the border of any state, country, or ocean (well, maybe not the elk). This Stewardship thing is not something you have to do. No one is going to hold a gun to your head and say, “Steward… or else!” It is instead a personal commitment, requiring you going out to your particular “place” and saying to all that reside there, “I’m going stand up for you, all you fish and deer and bugs and plants and water…”

My stewardship is part of my work, because I have decided to take it to that level, but I would do it even if it weren’t. Everyone’s particular case is different. Even small commitments have huge impacts.

I found nothing wrong yesterday. Nothing that I could not associate with the natural rhythm of this system. That’s a good thing. Towards the end of my time I was about three miles up a critical tributary—standing in a rain and snow shower on the bank—and witnessed the spawning ritual of chinook salmon at my feet. Sometimes, the work is worth the effort.

So Cal cities by comparison are nothing more than un-checked growth, their legacy back-to-back car dealerships, drained kidney-shaped pools with scratched coping, pastel houses with broken window screens. At the point, a NW swell with molten sterling faces in the six-foot range wrapped its pumped-up tension through the kelp beds for three days before subsiding. Shifting sections were laid to waste, old friendships re-kindled, and new ones forged over beer and tales of woe and triumph. The surfer lifestyle will forever be a hierarchy ruled not by Porsche and pocketbook, but by style and endurance. Watermen and women, gliding with plastic spoons on a liquid stage.

Even though angling wasn’t the primary cause, all travel in and around water, at least for me, brings it to the forefront. So between sessions, when the crew went about their business, I was off scoping bays, causeways, reefs, and anything else that might hold a prize—a reason to return with a 9-weight instead of a nose rider. The day before I left my friend Mike presented me with a box full of feathers. “You might get some use out of these,” he told me. The flies were less a gift, and more like the ocean herself saying with a wink, “Next time, if your good, I’ll let you inside.”

The 70-degree and sunshine ride back turned to 30-degrees in the Siskiyous with a few near whiteouts. On Saturday morning I found myself with a cup of java, jacket, gloves, standing on the Umpqua with an 8-weight. I’ve questioned some parts of my life, but never flyfishing. Everyone needs a thread that holds together the fabric of life—casting bugs continues to be mine.

I’m a trout guy, no surprise there, and I like all versions of this game fish: rainbows, browns, brookies, but far and away, cutthroats are the prized of choice, and Oncorhynchus clarki clarki (coastal cutthroat trout) top that list.

The Canyon is their home. There is a river population—small and hard fighting—but in September their big brothers and sisters begin to show up from the salt, and by October the “harvest trout” are mingling with their salmon cousins in the deep, black pools, rising for dries in the slower out flows, or slashing tippet in the riffles and rock ledges. They’re very aggressive, and I have seen them attack their own young on more than one occasion, biting smolts clean in half, or just leaving them shocked and bleeding on the surface, only to be swallowed whole on the next pass.

You wet wade the Canyon. There’s no room for rubber pants or felt soled boots. The water averages waist to chest deep and you have to approach from down stream, casting from the back of cliff faces or behind large boulders. Stealth is everything if you want to gain the upper hand. There was a trail of sorts years ago when “garden hacklers” would drag the bottom for big fish. That stopped when the regulations changed and then the road closed in a storm. Swimmers sometimes find its cool, shaded waters on those scorching days in August, but all I’ve seen lately are empty beer cans and cigarette butts.

The only other resident I saw was the otter who lives in a crack in the cliff face on the opposite bank. A big male, he grows fat on the Canyon's abundant crayfish. He doesn’t bark at me anymore—just moves inside and closes the door. I lost my sense of time this trip, as I sometimes do, having to remind myself every once in a while of the rich daylight flowing along the walls, the blue fall sky with its hint of mare’s tail and colored trees, the silver flanks and orange slash of the prize pulsing in my hand.

“Susan, I’m leaving for Willoughby,” he called from the side yard just beyond the back door. Terrance waited for an answer. The late August wind had picked up since sunrise, and now small swirls of dust moved across the road. He scanned the cobalt sky, but his mind was already in the canyon. “I need to leave now,” he whispered to himself.

“Susan?” A moment later she appeared at the door. “I’m sorry Terry, what?” She was wiping a dish in her apron. “I’m leaving, the cattleman’s meeting is at 9 a.m., and I’ll be at the ranch the rest of the day. I don’t expect to be back before dinner, and it might very well be after dark.” She had already turned back towards the door. “Drive careful,” she said over her shoulder.

The truck lurched along the dirt road toward Tumalo. Terrance was watching the trees as he drove for any sign of wind, but he saw none. The meeting proved to be the usual hour plus of land, fencing, steer pricing, and stud fee discussions, and mostly a chance for the men to get together and chew the fat more than anything else. As things began to wind down, Terrance shook hands with a few of the old timers, then quietly slipped out the side door. He drove the flat bed across town and down to Whitefall Ranch. The heat of the day was beginning to reveal itself, but still no hint of wind. He pulled the truck up along side the barn and shut down the motor. He grabbed the canvas bag, a change of clothes, and went into the barn.

“Morning Billy, you have a horse ready?” Billy looked up. “Yes sir, Mr. Foley, Jake’s ready outside.” Terrance chose a clean stall in which to change. “You headed down the Crooked sir?” Billy questioned. “No, Deschutes today above the falls, and no one is to know. I don’t want any visitors.” Terrance tried to look Billy in the eye, but the ranch hand was now looking up at the barn roof and had begun to whistle. “Is there something you’d like to say, Billy?”  Billy paused and responded, “I saw Mr. Brown headed that general direction not an hour ago.”

Terrance was out the back door and rode the painted hard through the groves of sage and juniper towards the river, flushing small flocks of dove and quail along the way. He pulled the horse up along the rim and stopped. The river stretched below and showed itself as long and blue as the sky. At the bend he could see a flock of geese floating in the shallows. He guided the horse along the precipice while scanning the shore below for his friend Charles, and found him shortly, casting long arcs into the clear pools of silver and blue.

He waited for the follow through, then called, “Charles, are they biting?” as loud as he could. Charles looked around, nodded and waved him down with his hat. He walked the horse down a narrow trail to the meadow, all the while keeping an eye out for snakes. He tied the horse in the shade near some short grass, pulled the bamboo rod from the canvas bag, and walked towards the river. When Terrance climbed up along the basalt boulders, Charles piped up. “Beat you my friend! Look in the creel!” Below him submerged in the clear water were a woven basket with three large trout, a canvas bag with a bottle of wine, and two tin cups.

“You are a bastard Charles Brown,” Terrance said with a smile. They both laughed. Terrance climbed down and secured the bottle, then after pouring himself a cup, sat back to take in the vista. The post-pile lava spires rose hundreds of feet above his head. A small group of mule deer grazed in the meadow near the horses. The geese had moved to the opposite bank near the spring. Warm sunlight filled the lower canyon.

“Whoa!” Charles blurted out, as he hooked another good-sized trout. “Hold him!” Terrance exclaimed, as he grabbed the net and worked his way down the rocks to the pool. Charles landed the prize with care. Terrance rigged up and the two worked the pools and riffles until late afternoon, landing many more fine specimens. When evening began to fall, they broke out the rest of the wine and cigars, sitting on the rocks while Charles told tales of his recent trips.

The sun retreated when they left the river. Long shadows graced the landscape. When they reached the ranch, trout and fresh vegetables were cooked, followed by whiskey on the porch. “You are the consummate Angler, Foley,” Charles gestured to his friend. Looking out across the pasture towards the mountains and the sunset, Terrance returned, “As you my friend."

Author's note: The middle section of the Deschutes River (Crooked River Ranch) is called Foley Waters. I did some homework and found out that Terrance Hardington Foley was a prominent businessman in the city back in the early 1920s, and was killed in a car accident in 1925. Pilot Butte (a famous Bend landmark) was dedicated to him by a group of close friends, one of whom was Charles Brown.

I go every year—in September, after parents are back at work and kids back in school. The water is lower, the fish a bit hungrier, and the pace more suitable to a five-weight and a box of caddis and stimulators. I'm never disappointed and rarely want to leave for home.

When the storms rolled off the Cascades Saturday night, I watched the lightning silhouette a stand of tall firs from my chair in front of the campfire. "So much good energy," I thought. Another log on the coals; another sip of brew. If there is a Promise Land, then the "Ump" must surely be its sweet back corner.