Years ago, my friend Jon Olien and I took our first trip to Oregon’s lower Grand Ronde after our mutual Spey-casting and steelhead guru bestowed his long-standing admiration—nay, adoration—for the storied Snake River tributary and its skyward-looking steelhead.

After the usual stumbling that comes with the arrival to a new landscape, we came across the perfect camp. Equidistant from two A-quality summer steelhead runs, just downstream from a boat ramp that would provide cover from eager guides and their sports, and close enough that the river could lull us to sleep after a few drams, we rushed to set up. As the late September sun beat down, we had just wiped our brows and cracked a couple of beers when a white truck with government plates rolled up.

“What did we do now?” Jon asked.

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