The River Guide

Summing up my life for an old friend

2009-03-30T22:08:00.000-07:00

Teachers rule. My wife, her mom and my step-dad are like my favorite people in the world and they deal with weird mini-adult wannabes all day. They rule and I couldn't deal. We used to do middle-school trips to Europe as "chaperones" cuz Lisa (my wife not step-dad) is bestest friends with the french teacher. Free rides to a dozen countries with accomodation and meals comped and it was barely worth it. Wierd when they are as big as me and act like American middle-schoolers... what was I thinking?

I pretty much came home after the Tetons and set up base camp here in Oregon. I fished really hard for the next couple years while still calling myself a student if I needed to. taken a few trips to Alaska, Belize, Australia, but been playing in Idaho and Oregon and feeling like there is so much to explore right here still.

Avery is 7 now. Regan is 4 - (pr. "Reagan" like the pres.) Awesomest little girls I could ever have. They are teaching me to play with dolls and that only a gruff voice is needed in some conflicts. All three make me better as a real person everyday instead of some guy who could just live out of his truck and be "left the hell alone" with a smile.

My wife's idea of camping is room service. And with them it's my idea as well... so I'm not fishing as much I used too. But how can a guy keep up with 300+ days a year on the river and pay a mortgage?
... but they all dig that dad goes out and gets dirty and sleeps on logging roads every other month.

I'm so lucky I actually have the perpetual feeling that I might win the lottery someday.

Price increases in metals overseas, is China putting the fix on us?

2008-04-14T23:33:00.001-07:00

It's as plain as day. If we piss off China just a little they can adjust a small little number in a completely unknown way and turn our country into a downward spiral of financial oblivion. Not only do we allow them to import the cute plastic dinosaurs and stuff that they design and make, but we somewhat rely on them to make most everything for half the businesses that are in the U.S. If you notice how the price of metals went up a years or so ago and shortly thereafter the economics, the debt ratios in all areas seem to really become a factor.

Did we sign some trade agreement about that time? Did we vocally align ourselves with Korea about that time? I am not sure as I write this, but let's say we did do something, maybe they are upset about our global police initiaves of late. A real easy, "untraceable", covert and effective retaliation would be to somehow put a duty on all metals imported into China when used for American export. There are a number of ways for a government to jump into the mix on these things. I am not making a conspiracy theory of any magnitude, I am just trying to decipher things by dreaming up a possible scenario. Man, if we piss them off royally I bet they could really put us in a pinch. I wonder if a good supply of CNC machines and textile mills could be considered a natural resource like, say... . . oil for instance... and the global economy should have an equal right to them because they are so plentiful. Sounds like grounds for police action.

I manage some video cards being purchased by our company and the price just went up about 6%... which is no big deal unless you sit in our position as a distributor and the margin is slim to begin with. We buy them from what was a Canadian company but got taken over about a year ago by a larger US corporation. About that time when I was still in the process of getting the first batch of emblems made I was told by my manufacturer in China that the price of metals was going up but that he would stick to the agreed upon price for my finished product out of aluminum. Trickling through the system a few months after I learned this from China, I was told by the video card vendor that in a few months from us speaking the price of the video cards would be going up due to higher manufacturing costs. A few other vendors mentioned the same things. In the last two months of that year most of those increases had caught up to my vendors and a handful of product lines have increased all the way to the end user.

Building a drift boat trailer from scratch here in the states requires a butt-pot of metal yet the impact to that operation of the business was barely felt.

River of Industry

2008-03-30T16:12:00.000-07:00

1. Recap the past. Introduce the president. The eagle represents a great and powerful nation. It seems to be grounded from flight though. The freedom to create, invent, invest, produce and secure our families is the reason behind our wars. And our restful peaceful times when freedom really flourished seem too distant now. Take the 80's, for example, when Reaganomics ruled. We were so free that the only bad decisions made were somewhere in the dichotomy of fashion trends between Don Johnson and Depeche Mode.

Ahh, if those were our only troubles now.

As one who was able to formulate an idea for industry and start an empire from some odds and ends of tools and material in my garage, and now sit back and document it, I can only say thank you to the eagle and let others know that anything is still possible in this nation.

The Presidency is not a job I would request- making a few of the coolest driftboats on earth at a premium dollar, and fishing with interesting people is a fine way to make a living I must say. But if I were the Commander in Chief I would assume that my State of the Union address would take place live from the campfire along a riverbank and the gist of it would be "Americans, thank you for working so hard. I will continue to make sure you have a nice place to do so." And then I would have to discuss a few of the potent topics like healthcare, crime, etc. and talk about some accomplishments and some things in the pipe. But for the most part it would be a speech commending the Americans making our nation great... the people like me who have spent time in their garage or office fixing, rebuilding and dreaming a better future for themselves.

Since the Oval Office is not mine I have this book in your hands as a reason and as a way to thank the stars of the Discovery documentary "Ax Men". Forestry is such a controversial topic in my homewaters of the Pacific NorthWest. But even the hippies use paper. We have to get over ourselves. It's a renewable resource - for crying in the rain. As President, I would just make sure we didn't cut the good places- the watersheds et al.- leave the riverbanks alone. Start aways away from the edge of the stream and then just thin accordingly. It's not that difficult, people.

Exploiting natural resources for monetary gain is always a difficult task to manage. I think it was for that reason that I have always had a problem being a fishing guide. The Natural Resource is my passion for the flyfishing, but as soon as I took money, I realized I was putting a price on that passion. So I figured out other means to make money and still get plenty of river-time in... build drift-boats and produce the first ever "entertaining" fishing show- something that intelligent people would want to watch even if another show that was good was on as well. It was a tall order, and not many believed it could be accomplished. Even I had my doubts several times. But the premise wasn't fishing at all and that was the saving grace. The show became a Cross between David Letterman and Larry King, but instead of sitting at a desk the show took place on a river bank or traveling to it. The start-up was a covert operation of sorts. and I knew I had to go to the top to get the money that I didn't have. Luckily, it was a time when the left-hand of our country was flooding increased tax dollars into anything green in an effort to stimulate jobs. Of course that caused cutbacks in the not-so-green areas. Give money to windmill makers and the power needs are taken away from coal, nuclear, and hydro-electric. Jobs were lost in those areas. But it did set up a foundation for the future and brought down a few dams in the process.

Anyway, I wrote to a somewhat conservative Senator in a state that wasn't my own (since there arent any conservatives elected in Oregon) and told him that I wanted to generate an outdoor pulpit for him and others like him through the medium of flyfishing and use a Vegetable oil diesel truck to do it. I asked him to locate the money that is being dished out so lavishly in wacky places and well, it wasn't hard to do.

2.

3. Much of this book was written before the show was even syndicated.

Night Two

2006-10-20T01:17:00.000-07:00

Night two: the next set of notes. They have come in sets of three so far. Front and back for three pages on Legal lined paper. I have been carrying these around for almost 10 years now. They are in somewhat of a timeline, but you can definitely tell one days writing to the next. I have some of the best penmanship of any man. But most of the time I am just frantically scribbling thoughts because they are coming faster than I can write. These pages have been from place to place with me for more than ten years. Some were written while sitting in the back seat on the way to fish for something. Some entries were written in a notebook while pretending to take notes in a class. Some were written on pocket-sized notebooks… most of those have the “solid, curled edge” from getting wet at some point. Often, these smaller ones are harder to put into context… they are such quick ramblings. I will include them no matter how random they might be. This is for my wife and children so that they may better understand me. My children already think I am pretty cool so the least I can do is try to show them how someone ends up as cool as me, and maybe they too can make life more of an adventure than most people.
ASIDE:There is some dry humor in that last sentence, and the many that follow this one.

I am not going to change the grammar in these notes, but I may throw in a few stars during those bleak transgressions when the only descriptors I could come up with happen to be offensive to me now. I am not going to change my run-on sentences, or dangling half-sentences. I knew my grammar was wrong. The irony is that most of the writing was done during my three years at Oregon State as an English/writing major. But sometimes I just needed to get the thought down on the paper. I may run across lists, at times, of ideas that still may need to be explored. Who knows what I was really thinking back then? However, some of it might be useful.

Well here I am, almost to the top of Ranger Rock again. Yesterday on my way back down the canyon to greet the Frei’s, I lost my mind (among other things) at this very spot on the steep slope.
I was descending the canyon in a downward lateral run along the striated shelves that occur as the slope settles. Some become worn and somewhat wider than others as game and cattle traverse the canyon walls. I bounded down these trails, hopping from one down to another if the opportunity lent itself. I was full of that “mountain high” energy one often gets from sitting atop a cliffrock that shakes with the wind of an incoming thunderstorm. Almost a maniacal run that begs for, at least, a twisted ankle, if not a torn ACL. The rustling and jingling of my fannypack combined with the clomp of my boots was more noise than any self-righteous, solitary, nature-lover would ever think to make. I’m sure Emerson, Thoreau and even the rational ol’ Johnny Muir were turning in their graves with every clomp of my boots. I hopped from rock to rock to grass to rock again, stopping suddenly on a rock large enough for a landing pad. I figured I better put my shirt back on as I came into view of the campground. It was a little over an quarter-of-a-mile away but all you have to do is look up to see some shirtless freak with wild hair and dirty blue jeans running wildly down the barren canyon wall. The campers didn’t need that.

Here is a tell tale sign of who I am. I wrote “an quarter-of-a-mile”. I will bet your college fund (I haven’t started it yet) that I paused when I was originally scribbling that down. I was about to say “an eighth-of-a-mile” but I stopped and really wanted to make sure I didn’t embellish it because I will probably take you there and I don’t want to over estimate the truth when my intent is to teach you something about me as well as yourself; embellishing (even fishing stories) doesn’t get you anywhere in this world. When I really looked at it, as I was writing it back then, it seemed safe to say that the distance I ran was more like a quarter of a mile.
Knowing the spot and feeling that I am a better judge of distance, I will say that it is at least a mile to the top of Ranger Rock to Tout Creek campground.

I turned my fanny pack around to pull out the shirt when I noticed the small pocket in front was completely unzipped, and completely empty.
What was there when I started out my crazy run was this “Skilcraft” Fine pen that wrote in blue ink and fit my nubbly hands real well. A great pen. No doubt, one of my favorite kinds. The real kicker, however, was a Clip-Kat key ring made by the makers of Kat-Straps. The straps that hold your glasses on. Well the key ring is actually two in one. Two rings are bound together by braided nylon and a heavy-duty interlocking clip joint. They’re great. One half I use for personal keys- my truck, my house, lock boxes, etc. The other half has a plastic caribeaner- type clip for a belt loop or such. Well my truck keys are safely locked in the trailer down in the campground. But the key to that trailer was somewhere in the last 1500 yards of steppe canyon trails that I had haphazardly been bounding over.

Okay so I spelled Karabiner wrong, or carabiner. But now that I read this I wonder if the area surrounding the Deschutes canyon is actually considered “steppe”. My final years of schooling were in biological sciences at Portland State, which is by far my favorite of all the educational institutions I stopped by in my “4-in-9” years of schooling. I just felt like I learned so much more there. I was “a number” so it forced me to stand out in the area of grades and it took a little work. The professors would rarely know anything about me.
Linfield was the exact opposite. With only about 400 students in my junior class, even a guy like me could pass accounting. The teacher liked motorcycles and served in the Vietnam War so we had a lot in common. No, I was never in war, but I have a tremendous amount of respect and gratitude for anyone who has served to protect freedoms. Wartime or peacetime, here or abroad, right or wrong. Because I know they didn’t make the initial decisions… they were just there to do their job. I am always drawn to talk to people who have served, just to get under their skin and find their motivation. If they were there to help people I can tell right away and it says a ton to me about their character.
I think I am the only Sprague who hasn’t served in an “Armed Force”- outside of walking a field for pheasant. My time spent serving the public in the legislative branch of government was grueling but i never feared for my life. Maybe I didn't make enough change despite my mostly unnoticed efforts. In my first two years of college as a Political Science major I made the assumption that decisions weren't made due to right and wrong, everything was grey and money made the decisions.

Every one of the other Sprague men was in a major war. My Grandpa Orville, served during General Macarthur's reign. When asked about the war he just said he “was a cook” and didn’t see any action. It is a shame that I learned more about him on the day of his funeral than I did in a dozen summers in Nebraska with him.
He was buried at the Veteran’s cemetery. The 21-gun salute, “On behalf of a grateful nation…”, and the folding of the flag was completely powerful and made me feel like our nation really noticed his life and service and the loss of a well-liked man. Even though my dad was alive, I received the flag from the commander-dude in the ceremony. (I really don’t know what his rank was and I am not trying to make this ceremony sound like a huge deal for our nation, I am just trying to give you my perspective. He could have been a commander just by the way he carried himself.) When the guy handed me the flag he leaned over and looked me in the eyes and said, softly and powerfully, “your grandpa was a real soldier”. After I returned home I studied his discharge papers and looked up some of the places he had been and medals and honors received. There was about 6 or 8 of each. Midway stands out, as well as a bronze star and some medal of bravery. But it did say that he was enlisted as a cook and discharged as one. Man, he was a cool guy. I don’t know if I have ever looked up to anyone in my family as much as him. He, somehow, crammed so much character into his few, barely active, “activities”. In the years I knew him, he had three places he would sit- his dinette table the brick ledge on teh proch and this one chair closest to the TV; three things to ingest- black coffee cigarette smoke, and snack foods; and the only time he was standing was to water his lawn by hand while a cigarette dangled out of his jowls. I miss him greatly but at least my wife got to meet him. Briefly.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Along with that trailer key, were keys to wareyards in three surrounding counties, half a dozen ranger stations all over the Deschutes, a couple other BLM resident trailers and depot houses, a key for BLM offices and guard stations, the ’96 Ford (which was our rafting truck), and the big red Dodge that Todd and I share between Mecca and Trout Creek. (We have two cars between us but we both favor the Dodge and kinda wish there were two of these old Dodge pickups.
It was sometime in midafternoon when I realized the void in my pack. I tried retracing my steps and leaps. Once in a while I would recognize a rock that I hit or a burnt stick I passed, but other than random markers I really had no clue where I had been. By the time early evening rolled around I was in a daze randomly looking at the base of a sage bush or sifting through clumps of grass with my boot sole.
I wasn’t worried about the BLM: I may get some sort of scorn but things happen & keys could be replaced. It’s not like they would fall into the hands of criminals. Even if they did it wouldn’t be easy to figure out what locks they went to, around Central Oregon. I knew in my heart they could be found so I just kept on searching, back and forth, trail after trail. Retracing my steps seemed to become easier. “But is it familiar because I was searching for my trail and searched through here?” Everything looked familiar. Everything looked the same. Hour after hour I didn’t become pessimistic in the least. It actually was fun trying to track myself. I started at the very beginning of my run where I crossed a downed fenceline and tried to run it again in the most logical way I would have run it to get to where I stopped to put my shirt on. Things began to look more and more familiar and I knew that now all I needed was a miracle of sorts. The nylon braid, in grey, tan dark brown and white, that held the dull black clip wasn’t even going to stand out in the dry grasses and dirt.
I whole-heartedly spoke out loud to the Creator of the River for some sort of Divine intervention. I talked out loud, but I forget what I really said. I began to question the events of the world and who was in charge of the cosmos, coincidental occurrences, and Clip-Kat keys. In my mind I started to say a sentence or two of prayer in the routine manner I was accustomed to as a child. But quickly stopped myself. Not because I wish to disobey and demean the faith that my family believes in. That isn’t the case at all.
It was great that the phrase or prayer or whatever you want to call it was a reflex on my part. Although, I personally can’t apply what they believe to my life because I just don’t know if they are right or wrong. It became an insurance man. I turned to him when I needed help finding my keys or something, which made me a lukewarm believer and I couldn’t live my life like that. So I talked from my heart to the Creator of the River, whoever he/she may be. The river gets life from the watershed of the mountains and the mountains wring life from the clouds, and the clouds pull moisture from the oceans. The river gives me life and whatever made that system gets my praise. I thank it daily and worship it with a scepter made from graphite.

That is the end of those three wrinkly pages. As I transcribe this story I am trying to remember whether I found them or not. I know I have one half of that key ring in the garage jammed in my perfectly-organized and labeled, pull-out bins of screws, molly’s, extra Christmas bulbs, weird little useless transistors, etc. etc. But the half that is in there doesn’t have the clip part on it. I glanced at the next set of pages. And from the start it seems like it is going to be the stuff I had written just before bounding down the hill with my pack open. This had to be about the first week or so. Hopefully the thinking and writing is a bit clearer because this transcribing is taking forever and this is only my second night of doing it.

The river seems so small from this view. Today is the first time I have ever observed a river from the top of its canyon walls. The Deschutes seems so slow from up here. The driftboats barely move in time. The Deschutes, not a torrent of a river compared to many but no sleeper from the boatman’s perspective. Its few technical rapids have claimed many boats, and at least a dozen lives, in recent history.
River. An amazing metaphor of life that has not been overlooked in centuries of prose. So much water moving so consistently. Where does it really come from? What keeps generating such a flow of energy. It boggles my mind. I’ve learned so much from River, about life and myself in general.
As I look over the vast meandering miles of River from the top of this volcanic rock atoll amidst the endless expanse of grasses and fields I realize my view of River has been so minuscule. I can see about five of the nine miles of heavily trodden footpath that follows the Deschutes from Mecca to Trout Creek. I know the path well. Never have I seen it from this angle. Although I am adept at casting a flyrod, I could not pinpoint the rises from this distance some 700 ft above the bank.

I will admit that in that last sentence, I am probably alluding to the fact that no one has made a 700 ft fly line yet and I am silently using that as my excuse for why I haven’t fished from that altitude.

“if they had a rod and line big enough, I could make the cast” is what I think I was trying to say.

To the North and downstream I can see Trout Creek Campground and recognize almost every tree that lines the bank towards me along the trail. A significant seam in the river barley breaks the rivers glass from this height. I spent the better part of yesterday focusing on three large redsides under the tree that marks the break in the flow. Accidentally I focused on about 5 square yards of water, presenting at least a dozen flies to those occasional rises, never hooking one of the trio. I lost all of my best patterns to that tree and most of my patience to a lack of character control.

In the original journal I had discussed fly-fishing gear from rod to line to fly and explained them all in terms of one’s character- connection to a fish alongside a relationship with someone else. The rod represented “forgiveness” and with out it the relationship between the fish and the fisherman would break rather quickly. Each knot in the line is a point of weakness – from line to butt section, to leader, to tippet and especially the knot that holds the fly itself. We all have weaknesses in our character. One must take precautions and expend great effort to manage these weaknesses or they will definitely break under the pressure of connection with others. Some people obviously have more knots.
For the most part, I hand tie my own leaders instead of buying tapered leaders from the store. My character has at least a half a dozen points of weakness, but if I spend the necessary time it takes to deal with them, then connections are rarely lost.

I told myself I would spend today at the tying vise replacing my fly assortment. I woke up this morning, and upon smelling myself, opted for a drive into town and a “real” shower at the Busy Bee truck stop. Tonight I would have two different parties of guests over for some fishing, and although we will need the flies I don’t know them well enough to display my savage odor comfortably.

I think this was the day that one of my professors said she was coming out to visit me, as well as a group of my friends from Corvallis. Not a good combination really. The professor was cool but the intentions of the two groups regarding how to spend time would have clashed. She was making a three-hour drive to see Trout Creek because I wrote about the place in one of her classes. Actually, Craig Lesley wrote about it in The Sky Fisherman and we studied what he wrote. Of course I interpreted his book, The Sky Fisherman, differently than every one else in my little huddle of pompous acolytes that signed up for her Literature class. I had already begun my job for the summer and made arrangements to attend class on Monday and Wednesday only, since I worked Thursday through Sunday. She had worked in Mammoth or white bear or someplace and talked about portaging her canoe a lot and stuff in Minnesota where she went to school so it seemed we had a fair amount in common. However, when she pulled up I remember how I instantly realized that she didn’t drive out to see a campground. And I remember how uncomfortable I was the whole time because of it. Of course that could have had a lot to do with my feelings for her. I still wanted to be able to take classes from her. She really understood literature and she liked my writing.
Well, looking back on it I would like to think that she liked my writing because it was good, but maybe she only drove out because I was the single masculine student in any of her classes. All right, I will admit that my writing might have had no bearing on our relationship outside of class whatsoever. Whether she was attracted to my mind or my body first I will never know. All I know is that my buddies were showing up in a few hours and this chick couldn’t be around for that. Some could, but not this one- I liked her too much.

Even from this height I can still hear the hush of the river far below. It’s the same “sh-Shshshssh” that puts me to sleep each night at Trout Creek. The distance between the river and I is so unnatural. This location is almost dizzying. My boots are resting half-a-foot from the edge of the rock outcrop, which drops some seventy feet straight down to a pile of huge black-gray rocks, some shaped like, perfectly carved octagonal pillars. I peer over the edge and almost get a sickening feeling as gusty winds kick up and I feel the cracked basalt rock sway ever so slightly. It’s probably just my own mind. I know that, for the next few hours at least, this rock isn’t going to shard off. But I’m sitting on its progress and it’s evident by the piles below us. Nevertheless I have seated myself back a foot or two now, and redone the rubber band that holds my hair back. In doing so, I look up just as a turkey vulture glides over my head not twenty feet away and circles me. His head stays focused on me as if to say “what are you doing up here? You don’t really belong”. He tilted his wings and the wind swept him across the river before I could let him know I agreed with him. But what’s ironic is that I don’t believe I should be fishing at this moment, either. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a day off and felt like that.
The expanse between that bird and the ground right now is amazing and he acts like it’s no big deal. He hasn’t lost any altitude so I don’t believe he is hunting. I bet he is doing it just because he can. Effortless flight. In an instant he’s so far away I can’t see him for the other side of the canyon. Down in the campground, there is a new trailer parked by the Ranger Station. I think it’s the new camp hosts that we’re expecting today. I’m supposed to go help them settle in but I’m in no hurry to leave this rock and my view of the world. Yeah, this rock is moving with the wind but not really enough… yeah, I’m going to move back a couple more feet.
I just caught eyes with a rock-chuck about 15 ft behind me on a rock similar to mine. He’s laid his belly flat on the warm ledge and I’m sure he is not as uneasy as I am. I think he’s a rock-chuck. I’ve never seen one before but heard a great deal of talk about them in the sporting goods stores I have worked in, especially in Boise. It was a big summer thing to go out and shoot them. The way he looks is almost regal. About a foot and a half long, dark brown body, way oversized for its head. A rusty red neck and shoulder collar like the fluff of Santa’s jacket that he’s nestled his head upon as he sits upon his warm throne overlooking his empire, the Deschutes. I looked up and he’s gone. Without moving my eyes scan the rock crevasses and then notice two big turkey vultures circling close above us. I guess he isn’t supreme ruler after all. They glide away and I figure I better do the same. I think I’ll make my way along the ridge and drop down just above the campground following the foot trail. The newness of this altitude above the river I want to hold on to as long as I can today. Most certainly I will return, but not that often.
* * * * * * * * * * *

Harvesting of irregular or fluctuating resources is subject to a ratchet effect: during relatively stable periods, harvesting rates tend to stabilize at positions predicted by steady-state bioeconomic theory. Such levels are often excessive. Then a sequence of good years encourages additional investment in vessels or processing capacity. When conditions return to normal or below normal, the industry appeals to the government for help; often, substantial investments and many jobs are at stake. The governmental response typically is direct or indirect subsidies. These may be thought of initially as temporary, but their effect is to encourage overharvesting. The ratchet effect is caused by the lack of inhibitions on investments during good periods, but strong pressure not to disinvest during poor periods. The long-term outcome is a heavily subsidized industry that overharvests the resource.

-Donald Ludwig, Ray Hilborn, Carl Walters. Science 260:17, 36 92 April 1993)

This excerpt is just a random, reprinted handout I received in some Science class at PSU. The title is missing the first few letters of the first word but it reads like this, "…ainty, Resource Exploitation, and Conservation: Lessons from History“.
I drew a big box around that one paragraph and starred the last sentence. I am glad I held onto it. It’s good to be reminded of the "ratchet effect".
I just got our tax returns back and it basically doubled our savings. So we feel pretty flush right now. It is perfect timing since the drift boat business is just about to need another surge of capital from the Sprague’s nest egg. Of all the places one wouldn't expect to find a great drift boat seat bench, I found the ultimate one way out in the Midwest, through Cabela’s. I have always figured that they really didn’t have the goods to fill my specialty sports needs. It just so happens they have the most unbelievable boat seat I have ever seen for a bench in a driftboat.

This seat alone retails for $400.00 that is already half of what the big glass boat maker pays to have a complete boat made. Competition regarding my boat sales to thiers is really just a loose term as far as I am concerned. They own the market by selling over 300 boats per year. I don’t want to take their market away from them, I just want to build a few really high end boats for people who know what they are doing and know what they want, and therefore know what they are missing by going with the mass-produced drifters. Those are my customers.
Anyway, I have a custom trailer being made next week, and I am finalizing the paperwork on purchasing on account through Cabela’s. But when I feel flush I also feel the need to look for opportunities to throw it around. I am not real sure why I bought a 1971 Suzuki TS 185 Enduro last week for $160 but I better ratchet that thing the heck out of the garage before it sucks the life out of my pocket book. At least it was a good deal, and I could turn it for a bit more.

A little creek you could spit across
Well me and Jimmy each took one more toss
So our spinners glide in the evening air
People always said „there ain’t no fish in there“
Well, grown-ups they ain’t always right.

I have about 3 pages dedicated to writing the lyrics out from one of Greg Brown’s songs. I remember the night I sat down to do this. I was looking after the Mecca Flats campground while Todd was away one weekend. He had a nice newer trailer. My old Wilderness from the 70’s was pretty “disco” compared to this one. The federal government takes care of their things; there are tons of rules for every action and item and process and job, etc. I bet they had an ordinance about what wasn’t allowed to make the grueling journey down the miles of gravel road to the Trout Creek Campground. Anyway, my trailer was in a much better place but Todd’s rig had a real nice stereo. I sat there rewinding the tape player back and playing it forth to get all the lyrics to this song.
Yeah this was in the mid 90’s when one could have a tape deck and consider it really nice. I don’t know what I would do with out my iPod. I am even kicking around the idea of wiring every drift boat I sell with a small deep-cycle battery, an amp and two really nice midsized speakers, just so I can sell every boat with an iPod mini and a submersible case from H2OAudio. You could go swimming with your iPod and still have fully functioning control of the mini while you are doing a frog kick on the bottom of the pool. Even the earphones that come with it are fully submersible.
I broached the “musical drifter” about two weeks ago to two fishing buddies from church. One of them I knew would be a hard sell. He is the kind of guy that really looks the part of „fly-fisherman“. He has the funky, wide-brimmed, modern-cowboy-hat-thing. All of his clothes are always olive or tan or something like that. And, of course he drinks only the popular micro-brews. He is real nice but I probably wouldn’t have hung out with him outside of the church or river. I wanted to get his opinion even though I knew what it was going to be. His first reaction was based on how all the other guys on the river would be pissed.
As if I am going to go blasting my music down the canyon as I wave to some guy standing in the Clubhouse Hole. I would keep it low while we were drifting. However, if the mood strikes somewhere in a three-day drift in early fall, I might need to rock a bit. Certainly at night it will be necessary, sleeping on that rad bench seat in the boat and having a nice plastic cup of wine and a playlist with every thing from Radiohead to Johnny Cash, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club to Brahms. I mean, really, why not?

Eliot: „Peter Fisher..“
Pete: „Elwad“
E:“What’s up, brother? You sound tired.“
P: „Why’s that?“
E:“I could hear you stretch and yawn when you answered the phone“
P: „I’m relaxing on the deck watching a beautiful sunset.“
E:“I’m glad you take the time to watch sunsets, that’s all I need to hear to know you aren’t losing yourself in work.“
P:“Yeah I’m looking over my lawn I put in & sitting on my deck I just finished and I am so thankful for what I have. Just when I think things can’t get better for us we get a raise. That goes to show the rewards are great when you put in the extra work.
E:“Well, that is definitely good news.“
P:“Yeah, we’ve got our house and yard, which isn’t anything extravagant. We’re living within our means and pretty soon I’ll be able to do what you’re doing. How’s the fishing?“
E:“Excellent. I mean I am living on the Deschutes. The only thing needed to make this heaven is get rid of everybody else.“
P:“Do you fish every day?“
E:“Yeah, pretty much. But I only fish the last few hours of evening mostly. No matter what you‘re doing it can burn you out if it is to the extreme.“
P:“You catching any fatties?“
E:“Last night I finally got one of the big dogs to take. I’ve been fishing these few „arbuckles“ that roll on the outside seam of „George’s Hole“. But they see flies everyday all year so they’re pretty wise. But like you said, ‚hard work pays off‘. Yeah, hard work. I’m serious, every few days I’ve got to strain some water and really focus on what they want. If my caddis emerger or PMD isn’t perfect they won’t take it. For the most part it’s the drift, not the pattern so much, on the Deschutes. But these couple fish are different.“
P:“How big are you talking?“
E:“Well I didn’t land him, he came unbuttoned, but he’s well over a two-foot redside.“
P:“Are you liking your job?“
E:“yeah, but I’m going back to school.“

A little creek you could spit across
Well me and Jimmy each took one more toss
So our spinners ride in the evening air
People always said „there ain’t no fish in there“

I lived a while without you
darned near half my life
I no longer see our unborn children run to you my unwed wife
But yesterday I had a vision
beneath the tree where we once talked
Of an old couple burning their love letters
So their children won’t be shocked.

All my friends are getting older
So I guess I must be too
Without their loving kindness
I don’t know what I’d do
The wine bottle’s half empty
The money is all spent
We’re a cross between our parents
and hippies in a tent

Love calls like the wild birds
It’s another day.
A spring wind blew my list of
Things to do… away

In a mucked up lovely river,
I cast my little fly.
I look at that river and smell it
and it makes me wanna cry.
Oh to clean our dirty planet,
now there's a noble wish,
and I'm puttin my shoulder to the wheel
'cause I wanna catch some fish.

Children go to sleep now--
you know it's gettin' late.
I know you don't like to miss nothin'
and school ain't that great.
Oh, I'll dance with you when you're happy,
and hold you when you're sad,
and hope you know how glad I am,
just to be you're Dad.

Darlin' it's been a hard go
but I think we'll be okay.
I know I say that all the time
like everything else I say.
Oh, I've been gone so often,
but every time I miss you,
and I don't really know nothin',
Except I like to kiss you.

A little creek you could spit across
Jimmy and me each took one more toss
our spinners bright in the evening air
People always said, there ain't no fish in there
Well grownups they ain't always right
Jimmy and me walked home slow that night
right down Main Street in our P.F. Fliers
with two 5 lb. bass making grown men liars

I'm goin away,
'cause I gotta busted heart.
I'm leavin' today,
if my TravelAll will start.
And I reckon where I'm headed,
I might need me different clothes--
way up in Michigan,
where the Laughing River flows.

I jut ran across my to do list for my first driftboat. I got it for 350 dollars and I never realized it but I did a lot to get that thing even halfway decent and it still wasn’t perfect. It was a massive, 18’5” ft, wooden, Rogue style boat with a heavy fiberglass overlay. It was a barge, a battle tank. I remember when I let Scott row through “Windy Flat”. There is nothing in the river for miles and he manages to smack it into the only rock in sight. I had calmly mentioned something to him when I saw that we were going to hit it. But I knew the boat could take it and there was never a better time than now to teach him to always be paying attention. We hit that thing so hard we could have needed a chiropractor. I laughed it off, and it really was no big deal. The boat that I have in my garage now is made out of the most advanced materials and lay-up techniques around, I will probably throttle the first person to scratch it.
Well, I should probably call it a night. The next paper in the stack is another handout titled “Endpoints and thresholds in Ecotoxicology”. Right now I am wondering why I saved this piece because it surely doesn’t sound that interesting.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Endpoints that are measured are adversely affecting human health – adversely effecting ecosystems (more on this class).

I have a class hand-out with the above sentence scribbled in it on the 'Results' page of a study concerning the hazardous effects of certain pesticides. I am noting that the indicators of adverse effects are only in terms of what happens to humans. Never mind the adverse effects on something else in a particular ecosystem. In this ssame class I read about DDT killing all the fish-eating bird population around some big lake in Wisconsin in the 70’s or something. What a trigger that was. I really can’t remember the state that it was finally noticed in, or actually the decade. (You see, if I wanted to sound smart in my writing to you I would google it and in about 2 minutes … instead I just tell things the way I remember and as long as it gets the point across that’s all I am worried about. And sometimes the real point is that I am just not that smart.)
Anyway, the chemicals of the pesticides in this one study were tested and found to not be harmful to fish (since they all knew it was going to wash to the river, they tested fish). What they didn’t realize is that, although the "health" of the fish was "acceptable", the small fish acted like a filter filter for the river and carried extremely high concentrations of the poly-phosphates (or whatever it was that was bad). The birds that then ate the (non)toxic fish were also unaffected by the extremely high amount of the "whatever" compound. But, actually, the effect was to the following generations of those birds off-spring. The high level of the compound in the test sample adult weakened the eggshells of its offspring, and that messed up the development of the hatchlings and future generations of the bird.

It’s a heck of a deal how easy it is for kids to get messed up because the parents choose to ingest something- be it too much alcohol, or DDT.
Well I saved that whole handout for that one last sentence. I wonder if it was worth it.

There are two more handouts along with this one: Sounding Out Science, and Aqueous Solubilities of Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons. Neither have notes in them that allude to something I wanted to say to my children. I think I just kept these packets to make them think I always took those kinds of classes.
There is one more handout: Pacific Salmon at the Crossroads: Stocks at Risk from California, Oregon, Idaho, and Washington. It is probably a halfway interesting handout. There are no notes so I probably kept it for its literary value.
...Yes, anadromous fish stocks have declined but pieces of science like this (aka-media) are always skewed one way or the other just a bit. This is also true about anything else a person may write or say. I guess it is called perspective. My perspective is that the fish that are left are the smartest fish; because the fish that don’t have the brain and good instincts are all dead… their strain is the first to go. So that means I have to work even harder to catch the fish that are left.
The next handout was the one I was talking about earlier with the predaceous bird study and DDD (actually not DDT). The study took place in Clear Lake, California, 1964. So I was off a bit, but my point still stands- be aware of what you are bringing upon yourself because it will definitely make a difference in one way or another to your future generations.

Hiesenberg to Einstein: “Al, you don’t understand the problem. Knowledge depends upon your point of view because it is derived from the questions you ask, and if you ask no questions you learn nothing.”

What did Rougherty mean by that? A:There is no such thing as a privileged position anywhere in the cosmos.

Abraham’s Sojourn- Not Mine or Yours
Abraham is asked to sacrifice Isaac. What does it mean? A:Complete Obedience. Is God supposed to do that to us simple humans?

Real Test: Will we be seduced by our rationality? Leap of Faith does not mean you have to turn your back on science, history, or your own rationality.

I hope I will never be asked to turn my back on my children for a leap of faith like Abraham’s. I am not sure what my thoughts were when I wrote this. It was probably much different than they are today. This is what college is for, to force you to think for yourself, and, for many of us, for the first time. But what ends up happening most often in the first half of higher education is that one absorbs and regurgitates what the professor says, however the student is believing that they are thinking for themselves. Hopefully, sometime during the last half of college this student will realize that many professing teachers have such limited specialized knowledge that their take on things in the broad scope of the world carry very little weight since they have to mesh with a thousand different variables- and this is when the mind really expands. Then, and only then, is the student asked to think on their own. This is what makes college so valuable, educationally speaking.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I just iChatted my cousin at Stanford. She has a full ride scholarship for gymnastics and I am sure her GPA is still above a 3.8; I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a 4.0. (And they say the middle child has a harder time in life.) Well she is a middle child. Her older sister has both a softball and academic scholarship to UC Davis and she majors in Biology, and is leaning towards Pre-Med as I last heard. Her younger brother is all boy- as far as one can get anyways, in the heart of the Bay Area. He only lacks the kind of knowledge that comes from actually witnessing your friend take a whiz on an electric fence, like those of us who grew up in Nebraska have.
I have been trying to talk him into applying to Portland State, but I think the distance from his parents makes his decision difficult. He also has a high school girl friend. Both of these things make me sad because of what he will likely miss out on if his decisions are based on these major criteria. But everyone has thier own path in life, which is what makes us different, I guess. If my children don’t want to go too far from home because they like me so much, then I guess there are worse problems to deal with.
The next piece of paper is just a sticky note referencing books I should read. I hesitate to put them in here because I haven’t read them, yet. They could be complete garbage for all I know.

Karen Armstrong- A history of God
Borg, Marcus- The God we never knew
Julian Jaynes- “The rise of consciousness and the breakdown of the bicameral mind.”
Plato- Symposium

5:30 Movie- As good as it gets
Obsessive Compulsive parallel
“Legends of the Fall” Three Part Man

I am not sure what the obsessive compulsive “parallel” is referring to. It seems like a comparison but I am not sure what I am comparing it to. The “three part man” in Legend of the Fall is particularly obvious to me, however.
The ultimate man that one should strive to be consists of three parts in relatively equal strength. There, of course, is Pitt: representing the manly side of a man- attractive, powerful, mysterious, brave, reclusive, and full of adventure. Then there is the eldest brother, who went on to a career in politics because he represents the mind of a man. His knowledge and ability with “the sale”, referring to both people and business, gives him the attraction of the bread-winner. He can be called “Security” as far as his mate is concerned. And then there is the heart of a man represented by the youngest brother. He can’t do anything with out the others, except love. He loved his country so much that he was going to war for it. That was the only action he carried out. Of course he found a woman, but he couldn’t keep her. His piano-accompanied solos and poetry recitals will grab a woman’s attention but they are easily distracted by “adventure” and manly sexuality. Security is what keeps them around. And, I guess it is the fear of God that keeps them loyal.

There was one major reason that I wrote down regarding how a man like me can stay so involved in a movie such as As Good As It Gets.

I was waiting for Jack to get real pissed and go into brutal psycho. It kept me on the edge, waiting the entire movie,

The rest are random notes that I debated whether I should, or could, expound on.

Cleaned Flies, ==>Bils, organize for them.
“Take out loan- get denied, so I can get a loan”

This basically sums up my thoughts concerning how I was going to pay for college. I am so glad my kids won’t have to even think about it. My two girls are so beautiful and smart that we won’t have to worry about college. Given their own time they would make it big in their athletic/modeling/singing/acting/elected official/writing careers. I am just trying to do get them started early so I can do some financial planning for their college tuition, and a couple weddings- possibly in the same summer. (In pragmatic reality, I would rather have their weddings in the same summer. Every one could research all their stuff together and I may get some bulk discounts with the different vendors. And, since it will be chaos anyway, I would like to reduce the amount of time I am away from the river.) There is no doubt that I plan to “gravy-train” them for all their potential- Earl Woods got to, I’ll just be a bit more laid back about it. When you walk in my home the shrine will be all about their “firsts”; not an Oscar on the shelf, but the picture of the high school play they were in.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The following note was written on a tattered manila envelope that is flush to the gills with what seems to be mostly old letters and cards and stuff. I think I see some journaled pages in there as well but we won’t get to that yet.

Eliot & Chance,
Thank you so much for everything- food, shelter, and security☺. Anyway, we really appreciate everything you have done. It has been a wonderful time here at The Big Breast LodgeΦ. You two are wonderful hosts. It’s been great seeing you + hopefully we will see you soon! Our new number is 1-97#-5#7-1##3. Chris sends his love + I love you too! It’s really been great!
Love, Lori Jo + Christian
P.S. Come by or call soon! Please keep an eye out for the ^(one of a kind) Jack Daniel’s Lighter!

Boy, she really loved that lighter… and us and everything. Chris was the other bartender at my last job in Corvallis and we happened to live about 3 houses away from each other, coincidentally. They were straight-up, 90’s era hippies. They even looked like Jesus and Mary as far as the white man’s grade-school type Bible depicts them- if you can imagine Jesus in a tie-dye sarong on occasion.
I remember the Saturday morning that they showed up at my door in the Tetons. I was in a complete daze when they rousted me out of bed to get the door. But there they stood with huge grins. It took me about 5 minutes to realize that I was in Wyoming and I was seeing friends from 900 miles away standing at my door on a random Tuesday morning. It seemed like it was 7 am, but now I am not real sure. They stayed for about 3 days and I took them up to “Whiskey-and” Lake. (I am changing the name for the sake of this writing. It is a special place and I will only take my friends and family there personally.) They had never fished with a fly rod until I took them here- and now they are ruined. This lake is small but deep, it seems more like a tree-lined, gravel pit. But every fish I have seen in that lake was over 18” and the average is probably 24, and it makes me wonder where the juveniles go (but I don’t ponder too long on it). There is a sign before you get to the lake that says “ATTENTION FISHERMAN: TROPHY WATERS ALL FISH OVER 24” MUST BE RELEASED.” After our weekend I told them not to bother picking up a fly rod ever again. I’ll bet they still have no idea how truly amazing that kind of fishing was. But that doesn’t really matter. I just told them that they can never to that lake unless I am with them. (I sure do try to take ownership of everything, don’t I? I just now realized that. Journaling like this is really good for one’s own growth, especially if you actually go back and relive it a bit every ten or fifteen years.) The fact is that they probably wouldn’t find it. Getting to the place is half of the battle, even if you can read a map.
Toby and Chance tried once to make it to that lake the summer after my time in the Tetons. Just a little bit of moisture makes the 20-odd miles of clay road almost impassable in a dozen spots. They ended up camping at their truck and having to pull it out the next day, or something like that; we’ll have to have Toby fill in the details sometime. During my 9 months I only went up to that lake maybe three times- once on my own and twice with guests from out of town. It was almost too easy to catch these monsters. Again, too much of a good thing can burn a guy like me out. I fly fish because it is a challenge. Anyone can throw on a worm and sit somewhere and get lucky with a record breaker. That would be fun for me for that day, but when I catch one on a fly- especially something I tied myself, and using a rod I have built, the memories last… well… forever, so far.
* * * * * * * * * * *

Language- “The higher up you go in a certain career you will find that there will be some linguistic rules that will be followed, whether the rules are congruent with a textbook or not. Even a certain accent will be passed on for promotion throughout a career.
I came from Indiana, and I learned very quickly that you don’t say ya’ll and you don’t draw anything out whatsoever. You know I moved here in high school and the last thing you want is people laughing at you.”
-I never experienced that coming from Nebraska. In high school I wore cowboy boots, even a hat once in a while, I wore blue jeans + whatnot when every other kid had polo shirts and whatever “in” logo on their clothes. I had some of that stuff, but I didn’t ever go out of my way to pick it out. At the same time I didn’t go out of my way to look like a “shit-kicker”. I just liked boots and jeans and a button up shirt so that’s what I wore. In fact as I sit here in a college classroom I’m wearing some Skecher’s- black, thick-soled boots, decent jeans, actually from Gap since they are cheaper than Levi’s, and button up Docker’s shirt from Mervyn’s I bought for $15.
But I don’t believe there has ever been a time when I was speaking with a Midwest accent. I started spending time back there when I was four, but the way they speak never sounded okay to me. Later in my junior years I realized that the language never sounded right because oftentimes the content was dead wrong. The ignorance in much of the speech that I heard was shown in racial or sexist joking, and sometimes seriousness. It was at this time that I was “seeing”, in that Jr. High way, a young girl who was Thai back home in Oregon. It was that summer when the ignorance of that side of the family became too much for me to handle. You show me an audible ignorance every time jokes are made involving racism or sexism and it is exactly the reason I have stopped visiting.

This excerpt was written during some writing class at Oregon State. It was encouraged by my teacher’s lecture on the variations of English around our Nation. I look at it now and it sounds like I just called the whoel state of Nebraska racists and bigots. I know that was not my intention. I was venting my frustration with the members of my family and some of their friends. Though, I am not accusing them of having inferior intelligence, I am making note of how easy it is to say derogatory statements about people whom you never meet. I don’t know if there is a person of Native African heritage in the town of North Platte. And probably the only Asians the town ever saw were those who were brought over to work on the railroad line in the late 1800’s and removed shortly after completion. The next group of Asians to come to town were basically slave laborers who picked sugar beets and other major crops before technology replaced them with machinery.
For fun I just went to the North Platte Chamber of Commerce and looked at the restaurants registered with them. There were only three listings even though the town probably has at least 50 places to eat. I am sure there is a Chinese food joint there, but I would not be surprised if it was called “Don’s House of Kung Pao”. North Platte is a great little town, but it is very sheltered. I am sure that some members of my family are going to read this and they are going to think that I am judging them for their closed minded ways of thinking. They are right. What is even more ironic though, is that I make some of those jokes every now and then, but it is only when it is so obvious that I can’t actually be serious. I especially have a tendency to make sexist remarks to a few women at work, for instance if I am out of coffee and they walk by my desk. But it isn’t in front of others so it can only be construed as humor for the benefit of the two of us, and it is only after I know they can understand my sarcasm. I am sure I can still be fired for it if they wanted to, but I just let them know I have dirt on them and that way we can all laugh it off and lighten the atmosphere of a dry office in the technology industry.

Is there always a choice in life- ALWAYS- even if you’re at rock bottom and won’t allow your pride to back down and receive a hand up (or out, however you choose to look at it). Even then you can rob a bank or mug someone.

PASSIVE RESISTANCE- Ghandi says “lay on the tracks” and the trains stop. I wonder what history would have been changed had the Jews laid on the tracks in Hitler’s Germany. Probably not much- the trains would have been on time. Passive resistance is not always a guarantor of success. What an unbeleivably horrid event in history. It is absolutely unfathomable for me to comprehend how a nation could go about decimating a people because of the family they were born into. And when I bring it down to a one-on-one scenario between a soldier and a civilian, I have even less understanding of how one person could treat another like that.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Each, thinking a key, confirms a prison
-T.S. Eliot
Like I said before, these are random writings. I am looking through a half-legal spiral notebook. Its dark blue cover is severely tattered at the edges, and something spilled on it. At the bottom of every page is verying heights and intensity of light blue watermarks that kind of creep up the side of each page as well.. That must be where they got the term. Even though I can still read the words in blue ink, the light blue lines that they sit on seem to be made of the same stuff that makes watercolor paints. Each one travels forthrightly across the page and ends in a sea of blue from the water spilled on it. It looks like a map of a lake’s shoreline. Actually, it is so detailed that it seems more “continental”- like a globe. Maybe that is just a premonition for how much impact my written ramblings are going to have.
This blue notebook alone might have more writing in it than any other. It is what I used for several Literature/Writing classes when that was my major at Oregon State. I am not going to transcribe my scribblings about every book I had to read… most of them were not that great which made me begin to believe that, as in most pursuits in life, politics and connections are what is going to ultimately take a person worldwide in writing. Let us take a look at David James Duncan, have you ever heard of him? Even though he has award-winning writing, you probably haven’t. He writes a book every decade, and you might see his name pop up in an environmental magazine once in a while. He wrote The River Why, easily one of the best fictional stories ever put to ink, next to his other The Brothers K. The first using fishing as the medium to tell and the other uses baseball. The River Why is much shorter so that is why I recommend it for people as early as middle school. But it will never get there because eit makes you think outside of the box too much in a positive way. We have to keep Catcher in the Rye in the system just in case someone in class is struggling like Holden and feel like they can finally be understood. It is a great novel as well, but there are better pieces out there that show both the good and the bad and define ways to choose the good.
* * * * * * * * * * *
It was tough to get started tonight. There is my best kept notebook in front of me. Most of it is comprised of notes from actual classes. I am going to keep those to a minimum, but where should I start. Of course it was important at the time, but now not so much. There are a few interesting tangents amongst them. I would bet though that it wasn’t during class that they were taken. It seems like stuff I would have written while watching TV or something- interesting morsels of life that I didn’t want to forget.

FRED HAMPTON – BLACK PANTHERS – police fired over a thousand rounds into him + his sleeping girlfriend. Claiming he fired on them, a newspaper photo showed a cop pointing @ a hole in the wall of where Fred had fired. Investigated (years) later he said it was a knothole in the wood paneling.

After ditching her on Saturday (she was waiting for Scott and I at the coffee shop) I lied to her about my traumatic weekend.
“Well, after I know you are okay with your situation, I’ll come back and let you know you owe me Big Time” (Shit happens: told her story of Chad Brown)
Our friend, Chad did get into a horrible crash one weekend. He drifted lanes late at night on the way up to the mountain to ski. He landed head on into probably only one of a dozen cars on 200 miles of highway at that hour. He had the cruise on at a bit above 55 and the opposing force was probably doing the same, except it was an Tractor Trailer or some sort of very large panel Van at the least. It took his F-350 four door and tested every crumple zone. Chad ended up in the hospital. He is all right, but it changed most of us forever. Now, if I am tired, I pull over and sleep. It is not a tough decision. Since then I have become the king of late night driving, though. Several solo trips to the dreaded Bay area, numerous trips from Jackson to Portland (weddings, chicken pox, etc. made me leave that perfect summer destination a few days apiece), When I lived in Corvallis, I tended bar and I would be so “amped” after closing that the most productive thing to do was drive us to the river- we were going fishing the next day anyway. We would catch a few hours before sunrise and wake up in the best spot in the state at the time. Most of the time this was my roommate, Al. Easily the best fishing partner I have ever had. If there was one guy that had most of his own gear and flies and knew what he was doing it was he. However, once in a while he would ask my opinion, only enough to let me feel good about myself as oine who might know more, but not too much that I got overzealous. He is the craziest, toughest, guy I know, as well as the kindest most sensitive heart of anyone I have ever met. He is a mixed bag and most people hardly know what to expect. I know to expect nothing and he always exceeds my expectations. I remember my wedding, everyone was really stressed out about him, and he was the last guy we hadn’t heard from. He even missed the rehearsal and stuff. But there he was ready to go at the wedding, and man, he was Johnny-on-the-spot whenever (he thought) I needed another Jack and Coke at the reception. Maybe it is because I expect so little from him, and therefore he has the ability to over-achieve, but I really consider him to be one of my best friends of all time regardless. He will always have a place to stay in my house.
Here is an unbelievably embarrassing conversation between Scott and I at OSU on the way to class. What is most embarrassing is that I wrote it down. But as I transcribe, I figure the editor can remove it if she wants. It is in there because I said everything besides notes on actual books will go in. You need to read the books yourselves and then make your own opinions on them. We can discuss if you’d like, but I am not going to give you the “Sprague’s-Notes” on things that you need to read yourself. What I promise to give is honet, accurate portraits of myself and my friends discussing things like…, ,oh I don’t know,… the best place on campus to sit and meditate for a bit.

“Oh, I found the best sh!**er on campus,” he continued. “Whenever I’m walking through campus and feel the need I carefully map out my route and predetermine the best place to stop.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh I don’t know,” – HIGHER PITCH VOICE teasing me as if I might not really be able to handle the knowledge he was about to divulge.
“You’ve got to tell me.”
“okay. You know the Liberal Arts building? You go upstairs and all the way to the other end. There’s four stalls- use the one that is closest to the sink and kinda hard to get in. It’s near the Women’s Studies area. No guy is ever up there.”
“Oh, nice.”
“I’ve used the one downstairs and it’s a little old-school + musty, but I am talking about traffic. The seat is always up so you know no one had been in there yet. Never use the first floor crappers, always the second- never the third floor either.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” just to see more madness behind his methods.
“Other people think like that and go straight to the top floor thinking they are smart- they are. But the real geniuses crap on 2.-Dumbassses on 1. Smart people on three, but brilliant people use two.” He smirked as if he had just spoken a key to success in life but also knowing that this little bit of information about the way the world works really doesn’t give you anything but another simple pleasure knowing that you have figured out a small system within this complex environment.

Lawyer==> “prudence”-“method”
What would you rather have on a referral from someone? Wouldn’t we rather be creative, imaginative and, if we are lucky, have the ability to conquer obstacles.
2 walls, one white, one black. Which do you want as your office? To Melville they are both blank walls.

Well, that was harkening back to Herman Melville’s drama, Bartleby- anyone with an office job should be asked to read it just as a precursor to employment. It would push people to reach beyond their comfort zone and accomplish their real goals in life. I am not saying that there is something wrong with having the goal of working in an office doing some random thing at a desk. I am talking about the others who think there is something else they were born for, but neither person is better or worse. You may feel that you are to take a job in an office, working for yourself or someone else, selling something or fixing something, or inputting data of some kind. That is great. But if your heart says go down some other road then you have to do it. If it doesn’t work out the first time then regroup and give it another go later. Then, if you must, try again a few years after that. The key is to never stop listening to your inmost desires. It may well be after you retire from that office job that you finally bust through (or just get the key) to the door of the room that your heart has been telling you to enter. The most important thing is to know where you eventually need to finish and embrace the good people you run across along the way.
* * * * * * * * * *
So it has been a few days since I have been able to write. In order to find the right font for the driftboat company’s letterhead I imported about 1000 foints from a burned copy from a friend at work. Anyway, with duplicates and old outdated fonts and such, it took a while to filter through them all and get Microisoft Word to work again on my Apple G5… interestingly it is the only program that had trouble dealing with the fonts. Even adobe photoshop handled all of them perfectly well, and it’s not even a word processing program. This is the kind of evidence that leads me to believe that Bill Gates just lucked out and in reality his company still isn’t that adept at actually writing software and it definitely hasn’t figured out how to make their copy of the Apple operating system from 1984, called Windows, and make it work.
Anyway, the real point of starting out tonight straight from the heart instead of from the old notebooks is ironic. As I have stated earlier, the reason for writing this stuff is so that my children will always have a piece of me in case I get taken away from them. I started the journal stuff ten years ago with this in mind. I actually started compiling it into the computer about 5 weeks ago when we found out we were pregnant with our third. This newest baby inspired me to get it done, but today we found out that things aren’t right with him. There was no heartbeat at the routine check-up. The doctors say the conclusion is concrete and that there is no way they can be wrong. I always believe that anything can happen- and stranger things have even in my lifetime. But at the same time I can comfort my wife, as well as myself, pretty swiftly by reminding us that Nature has a way of knowing when things aren’t right. We weren’t trying to get pregnant by any means.
Regan was just 9 months old when we weaned her from needing Lisa to feed. My wife was heading out for the annual trip to France with the middle-schoolers and we knew it should be done before the trip. Anyway, against all odds, we conceived this baby about 11 weeks ago. Today we learned that he has died about a week ago. So here I sit wondering what to do with the writing- wondering if I can put it off. I am now questioning myself. Do I have the ability to finish the daunting task contained in the pages at my feet? And where is the point to all of this? Is there an overlying theme? How about an underlying one?
Maybe, the theme for my writing can be summed up by the Tao Te Ching, by Lao-Tzu:
“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving.”

I have always been a good traveler according to Lao-Tzu. Obviously our little zygote was a chip off the old block- not real intent upon arriving. I would have liked him to; even though it started out as the most unplanned event in my life to date.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you one more time again”
-James Taylor
It has been a week since I have written anything. It can be two things that have kept me away from writing to you. The first problem is that I came to a weird part in the journals. It is going to be tough for you to read it. The content isn’t much but its inference is rough as I look back and remember. Do I want to type it out and relive some of it? Not really. My life is good now because I choose focus on the good and much more easily forgive the past now. If I write it out I will just have to conjure up those feelings again and it really isn’t that fun for me. It has been a week since we found out about losing a pregnancy. A stir of emotions have gone through our home these past few days. Upon finding out we were pregnant with a surprise third I finally became fired up enough to start this compilation of thoughts into a solid form instead of making my kids read through dozens of scribbled ramblings if they ever so desired. I want to make myself known fully by my children, mistakes and all, so that they may not have to choose a wrong path in life. I don’t feel like I got to know my father until I was in my twenties. I caught glimpses that I realize now, were often out of context and always overshadowed by hear-say from other members of extended family. If, for some reason I am taken away from my children I want them to have access to who I was, and who I am. So, whatever my motives and through whatever hindrances, I will push on through this because my heart tells me to. My heart tells me to do quite a few things. Even though some have made things more difficult in the long run I am glad I listened to my heart and went on so many adventures. I am more pleased to being following through with this one.
Outside of becoming so financially free that I can choose to fish everyday and spend time with my family, there are two things my heart has been telling me to do for the last ten years straight. One is to write this book- which, in essence, I have been all along. The other is called FinChasers, and it has three independent and, at the same time, dependant parts. The first is happening now with driftboats. The best fiberglass driftboats in the world are being produced with the FinChasers emblem on them. The next piece of the plan is a fly shop-public house-coffee shop-fishing peripherals distribution center with the FinChasers emblem on it as well. And of course it will act as the driftboat headquarters. It will be a place to hang out, the way the best fly shops ultimately end up becoming, but this one will make money from it’s covert food and drink. Only the people who have been there before will know what is behind the counter for them. I still haven’t figured out how to hide the smell of my Gyro shop, leg-o-lamb on a spit. And finally, when those two ventures are operating well, I will invest time and money to produce the first-ever, entertaining fishing show. That is correct, I believe it can actually be done. More poignantly, I feel it needs to be given to the World. I am appalled at the amount of airtime, man-power and money is being thrown away right now to these half-hour yawners. (And don’t get me started on the numerous broadcasts of the “strong-man” competition circuit). Who wants to watch two guys fish? I envision a program, which, by offering so many angles, a viewer doesn’t even have to be interested in fishing for it to warrant their attention. However, the show, of course, is titled FinChasers. Think of a variety show hosted by a few guys that together encompass a cross David Letterman and Larry King. Interesting guests of media, entertainment, politics, etc would be given the opportunity to be as honest as they would like in a relaxed setting. Whether the guests are learning to fish or seasoned veterans, it makes no difference since the fishing is just something that is happening in the background half of the time. I had this vision starting in 1994 which was several years before the first Survivor treatment had been written. Even though tape would be rolling at every second of every day, the guests would have a clear understanding that nothing gets aired that isn’t specifically consented to by them. Even with the massive editing I think there could be real glimpses of people’s greatness accompanied by their failures that would make them more real and inspire viewers. In the same respect our sponsors would have actual footage of their products being utilized in memorable ways. If all viewers knew I couldn’t be “purchased”, they would gain trust in the things they see me using. If cameras are rolling and I stop at a Chevron or Texaco for gas who knows what kind of event could be caught on tape. Brand loyalty could be attained without making a mockery of our sponsors. There will be no “staged” video shot of anyone telling people to use only this brand of line, or anything else, but it will come up in normal conversation. I don’t think there are too many of us out there that could make this work. I will start it and gladly pass the baton to others... besides, I am already writing off all of my fishing expenses from the other two parts of the FinChasers enterprise. In turn, it will become the first fishing show to ever turn a profit for its investors- with a worker as well as allow a few guys to fish as much as they care to and write it off on their taxes.

However, I have two other beautiful daughters and this is as much for them as it was for this last baby. Now that the idea is lost for the time being it gives me a reason to procrastinate a bit.

Well here I am about 3 weeks from last writing. I just dropped off the boat trailer and had some thoughts about how things are going to be for this company.

We aren’t doing things by the book. In fact it almost feels like we are going against everything that safe businesses are applauded for. Potential customers will want to know the price of these boats. Well being the best in the world they aren’t cheap. But the real kicker is that each one is better than the one before. So the price may go up as each boat is built. So instead of trying to hook people by telling them some outrageously low number for the “base model” I am just going to say that the best boat in the world costs 13,000 dollars, or whatever it is. But give the customer the option of removing things to make it affordable and not exactly the coolest boat in the world. So I give them the highest price I can think of and they can bring the price down to what suits them. It’s totally asinine from a marketing perspective, but at least its honest.
My boat isn’t for every body. You don’t have to be a rock star to want, or afford, the boat I make. But the person who buys a FinChasers boat is a rare person nonetheless. I am not selling to everybody and I don’t need to chase my customer down and convince him to buy a boat from us. They will find the company after countless hours of browsing the web and looking at boat launches- they know what they want in their boat and they can’t find it from anyone else. And when they finally come across our company elation soon follows and they realize that they aren’t alone- that someone else also felt there could be more than what the mass drifting population settles with.

Well it has been quite a while since I have sat down to write you. So much has happened. We went to a family reunion- my side. Painful, it is. That is Yoda-talk. I told a few that I want to do the Grand Canyon with the boat I build and they looked at me as if I am silly. It reallt is no matter, those that think that way can stay in their double-wide trailers. My mother, and a few other readers will definitely be upsetr about the comment in the last sentence- but I don’t really give a rats butt-hole. If the “shoe fits, wear it.” My motto has always been “if you don’t like the way the shoe fits, kick the s#!t out of it.”

Thanks

To yellowtail- although my wife didn’t like it (she was pregnant for that part, anyway)
Especially Crane Lake Cabernet, and the Chrondog.
The lidded woody, filtered water from my fridge- “the good water”.
Air, Brahms, The Velvet Underground, Chemical Brothers and a KINK Lights out CD.
Thick Socks and Champion Sweat pants.
(what the frick was his name) who left a really warm, corduroy jacket in my wife’s closet after a date…Scott Twardowski. (They dated before my wife and I remet, of course).

To Toby for always believing in “the Show”.
To Al, for understanding my writing.
To Scott, for always having a good take on life.
To Chance, for wanting to know how to fly-fish and taking only a few years to completely give yourself to it and become the Master. (I always feel like Obi-Wan to his Darth Vader, now.)
To Baehler for giving me my first dose of positive feedback on this project. You are a solid brother in Christ, I know laughter because of you.
To my wife for loving me despite the addictions – fly-fishing, staying up late, every other seasonal hobby that takes me away from our family, etc., patches, etc.- thanks for not letting me get away with addictions. But more importantly, for being the best partner I could ask for- the Yin of my Yang- (no hidden meaning… really), and for making some beautiful children.
To Prentice for giving me a stable job and paying me more than I was worth even though I felt like I was worth more. You loved the family entity and understood my respect for it.
- Thanks to everyone at the Bott who put up with my interestingly-sour demeanor as I handled your problems… and especially Reynolds for always taking the time to answer every computer question I have ever had.
Thanks to Steve Jobs for furthering a company that intuitively goes against the grain to build machines that are far superior- even if the “big brother” world doesn’t recognize it. I would be lost without my iPod.
Thanks to my Bro-in-law, Brent. You gave me fuel for writing.
To Douglas Adams for writing in a way that revolutionized literature- Rest in peace, Brit-Bro. You are my “Beatles”.
To Justin and Carol, for accepting me, at least, because your daughter does. You love her so much that I will never know how you really feel about me… and I am thankful. You are an amazing couple and have modeled well for us. I hope my children like me as much as yours like you.
To Richard Sprague- you were a thousand miles away yet you were able to make at least one decision to keep my life on track. “The Distinguished Gentleman” at the Firing Line, I will admire you for the way you carry yourself… forever.
Grandpa, I don’t know if I will ever see you again, and it makes me sad, more than you will ever know.

The River Guide

2006-10-20T01:15:00.000-07:00

I would like to give you an intriguing background story on your author. One that instantly seals the deal with you, the reader. David James Duncan is the pro at that. But this isn't fiction and I don't know what the truth is. Sometimes I have heard it said I was a C-section baby with hours of excruciating labor and other times I was almost born on the way from my Dad's house on Lake Maloney to North Platte General. Sometimes my dad was driving, other times I think I have heard that he wasn't there. It is an event that I can gather as much data as possible on, but in the end the conclusion comes ultimately in faith about like The Big Bang theory, or evolution vs creationism... I wasn't really there so I'm not going to fight anyone about it or go to the extreme and place a bumper sticker on my car.

Things to consider as you read:
1 . Italics represent the actual notebooks (scraps of paper, etc.) that had my interminable thoughts jotted down. They are typed exactly how they were written originally. Should I change the grammar in them or is it readable in original form?
2 . As I transcribed these ramblings I would stop once in awhile, change the font and fill in the details in present tense. Does it work, or does it make it choppy?
3 . I am just starting at a random handful of papers and working my way through. Should I group like pieces together and try to manipulate the natural flow into something cohesive, or do I just let it ride in random fashion? Does it feel like the truth? In reality the handful I grabbed first had a beginning entry for me. But does that seem believable? Aww, who cares if it is believable or not? It is what it is and I can’t change it.
4 . In the journal I use a lot of fishing jargon. Should I stop right there and instantly explain or can you follow along interested enough anyway? I don’t intend for this to be instruction on how to fish- although, inevitably, it will end up giving you snippets of the way I do things.
5 . The asterisks in a line indicate the next session of compiling notes. This is done most nights after my family has gone to bed. Does it matter? (Most nights I have actually forgotten to put them in, yet where they are, it seems like it makes sense.)

In all of my experiences, the hardest thing I have ever undertaken is to write this all down. I am at the point in life where I have all the time I've ever dreamed of to wade in rivers and ride motorcycles as if my childhood has come back around. And with the added means it is difficult not to take advantage of the opportunity to do so. My health isn't even fading as I push past the "golden years". As I look back, though, all the years were golden. And since I still live a bit reckless I often wake up and wonder if the day directly ahead will be when the river takes me off my feet for the last time. All my life I have wanted to do something unequivocal. I thought making the most technologically advanced drift boat in the world would fit the bill. But after making it I realized that anyone could do that. So then I moved to the other life-long dream of having a fishing show that transcended fishing as the element for viewers but without ruining "fishing" in the process. But really there are plenty of astute fisherman who can hold a conversation with the CEO of Coke as well as they can with the guy filling my gas tank. After realizing these dreams to their fullest and learning that they aren't the defining moments of my history I realized that the only thing that I can do in my life that no one else can do is write about the myriad of intricacies, lessons, mistakes, embarassments and hurdles that had to be overcome in the process. It's at this point that I have decided that I am going to kill the bear- to take on the daunting task that is the summation of this little life I was given. My hope is that someone could learn from it, be inspired by it, or be steered from making the poor choices in their life as they stumble through attempting to achieve something for themselves. Yes. To kill the bear armed with only your wits that may be at the core the most unequivocal event in human history, because it is so much easier to just fish. I guess that is why most have chosen the latter for sustenance both physically and spiritually. Knowing that if one man can do it, so can I has been in the back of my own mind since childhood. So many others have written books that teach or entertain or waste the readers time. My goal is not to feed everyone great tasting bear meat and make them enjoy every bite. I just want to finish. I need to kill it. This book is the bear and by it's end I will have impaled it with some sort of rudimentary tool fashioned from uneducated prose while repressing the fear that even after doing so, maybe no one will ever know but me and my family. If my children gain one understanding from the death of this bear then that will a bonus. Through all of my "jobs" one I have never quit and that is to do all I can for my children to prepare them for their own adventures.

Man, I’ve tried to start this book at least a dozen times now. The others are in the journal and each one of them is thwarted by the fact that so much has happened on the day I actually try to begin. There is so much to put down on paper for you, so many lessons learned, hardly any of them are that vital, but once in a while I have something of import.
Time is of the essence. But, as a fisherman I tend to negate time unless it’s a Hex season. So much is constantly changing I just can’t keep up, As I finally start journaling for you, people on the outside probably wonder how I keep from getting bored with my lifestyle. I live in a 5th-wheel across from the boat launch of a small campground. And when I say across from the boat launch I mean there is a gravel road between my bed and the river, and that is it. It’s hard to want to take the time to write when there is so much more to absorb, I can’t stop to write it down. My favorite times of the day are the empty hours before I fall asleep.

The journal that I mention here was a wonderfully large, spiral notebook that I accidentally left in an auditorium on the last day of "Fire Training" school at Central Oregon Community College. Today I feel that this notebook had some of my best stuff in it. I started it a little bit before my time in Jackson, Wyoming. This represented the beginning of the "walkabout" period of my life. The BLM required all field employees in our area to take the class as part of our training. I went for the education of it and I did enjoy taking the course. However, I told my boss not to call me if anything caught fire. Although I said it with a smile, I remember following it up with something like “If there is a fire I will be down by the river bank with my shovel making sure the Deschutes doesn’t boil.” More injuries in that job result from some punk kid swinging a tool and sticking the guy next to him than people actually getting burned. They told us this in class, and by adding that to my argument I sealed the deal.
I was provided a Wilderness travel trailer from the 70’s by the BLM and it had an odd, short-door in the back, on the side. It separated my bed from the sound of the river so, I would lay there with the door kicked open looking at a million stars so clearly that I could actually see their three dimensional relationship to each other in the galaxy. Or is it the Universe I am seeing? I don’t know. I haven’t studied astronomy enough to understand what I see; I just know the terms from smallest to greatest – solar system, galaxy, and universe. There are probably more terms, but no one has reported trout on any other planet so I haven’t bothered to read much about it.

I work four days and have three off but I am busier now than when I am mid-term at Oregon State and working 30 hours per week. There are just not enough hours in my day anymore.
My friend Pete is a broker at Merrill Lynch. He works 65 hours a week I am sure of it. He also paints houses or builds on his own on the weekends. We may still be friends by the time you read this. He always amazes me. He still has time set aside in his day-planner to keep his marriage alive. There is no way I would have enough time for even a girlfriend right now. I’ve got small cream caddis before the sun hits the water until about 8:00 am, rusty mayfly nymphs until about 9. Then breakfast, and it takes a while to do it right.
Once I get some water boiling, I crush some coffee beans in a liquid measuring cup with an empty beer bottle and run them through the French press. After the bean crushing, and before the water reaches a boil, I have a few minutes to start two or three eggs (over real easy). I have solar electricity to run the toaster for the open face egg sandwiches I make every morning.

Breakfast is just one of the many delicate systems that came together with out a hitch back then. If I had shared my time and space with someone else my eggs would have probably gotten overdone- and - and that ruins my whole day. I could take my time with breakfast and coffee since the Pale Morning Dun mayflies don’t come off until 10:30 at the earliest. That hatch can last a good hour; on some days it is off-and-on for three hours, if you pay attention. By the end of the first week or so I had quit fishing the PMDs or any other hatch in the middle of the day. There is just something about the heat of the canyon and ruckus of people by that time of the day that turns me off. If I did fish the mid-day hours, I was using an emerger pattern of some sort to match the next surface activity of the river.
By the end of summer I was almost burnt out on fishing. It was a strange feeling that I am, to this day, having trouble describing. By mid-summer I remember managing my obsession more closely and fishing only the most opportune, 20-minute intervals of the day. It could have been a nice cloud cover, relieving us all from the heat, which would call me to take out the fly rods. I knew I had to set priorities and give myself parameters or else I would go overboard and possibly ruin myself. The priority fishing took place in the evening. It was that small window when everyone, who happened to be camping on a random Wednesday, was making dinner and futzing around their campgrounds. In reality the best time of the day on the Deschutes is the last half-hour of sunset into about an hour after legal time. At this late hour the smallest black caddis was almost always my fly of choice. I am not sure if it is the only bug I saw, or the first one I found active in the evenings. I usually pushed pretty far past the legal time and fished to those rises that were heard more than seen. I learned quickly where each feeding lie was for these fish; it was so familiar that I seemed to recognize the same fish in the same spots each night.
I remember hearing a rise and being able to nail it down to a particular 6 or 8-foot area. I would crane my neck around in various positions just to put the reflection of that brightest part of the remaining sunset within that area and light it up for me. It wasn’t very long, however, before I really didn’t need any light at all. I could fish by the palest moon. Fishing under theses circumstances really sky rockets one’s ability. I had to have the line near finger-tight so that I could time the sound of the strike (amidst the other rises) with a set of the hook. Keep in mind that this is the Deschutes, so my drift had to be flawless- in a dead drift straight down river with no swing across the current what so ever. Normally the best way to fish a caddis is by skating it across the top of the water; but these fish knew the difference between a randomly fluttering caddis and the “quarter-inch ski boat on a perfect arc toward shore”.

I have one spot I fish at this time, and I can barely reach the bruisers that are rolling in the river. The biggest Deschutes fish are smart and they know that we aren’t supposed to fish from a boat or any floating device so they are out in the middle of the river, most of them. The big kids come in to the shallower water at night, at least here, and probably only a small portion of them. They start porpoise feeding at the end of legal fishing time and I just can’t help myself but to keep after them. What can I say? I guess I am a work-a-holic like Pete.
After I call it a day and head back to the trailer I usually end up tying more of these black caddis imitations. A Griffith’s gnat won’t work. These fish can somehow see the difference. And by small, I mean the naturals are 20’s so I am tying on 22’sφ. I start by using some flex-coat on a turkey feather and gluing its small quills together into a piece of cloth of sorts which I cut and fold to make the tent. Sometimes I take the time to administer a hackle, but usually not. The flies don’t really last that long in the trout’s mouth. They aren’t made for durability, I get about 2 or 3 fish out of each one and that translates to about 6 casts with how well I know this spot I cast from.
I call it “the Parapet” and it is the “pole position”. It is one little solid clump of grass that stands about 4 ft tall and offers excellent concealment as well as great proximity to George’s Hole.

I call this “George’s Hole” because I met a guy there early in the summer when I first began feeling like this spot was mine every evening. The old retired guy was a heck of a conversationalist- real loud, casting spinners and wearing nothing but a white T-shirt, red gym shorts, and a side arm of some kind. He had waded out into the middle of the run with his glowing outfit. Maybe he knew he was standing where the fish like to hang out and that is why he had no problem speaking to me so loudly. I sat on the bank and tried to delicately educate him to where the fish lie, but he never really got the hint. I must have sat there for a good 40 minutes before he finally left without a fish so much as giving him the bird with a rise next to him. I remember staying just because he was so intriguing.
It boggles my mind how someone so clueless can live past 40, but I rather enjoy having playful discussions with them. I tend to throw out sly remarks, which can be taken about 4 different ways, and then I wait patiently to see which way their reactions turn them. Like they say in poker, “If you don’t know who the mark is in the first five minutes, then it’ s you”. Well, it is a good idea to keep your wits about you, especially when some wacko brings his revolver to the family campground on a Tuesday.
I doubt I even bothered to fish after he left… I could imagine that I just sat there and quietly apologized to those fish while they slowly made their way back to their nightly bug party- guaranteed to be raging now that he had kicked up all the stuff from the bottom of the river.

When someone comes to visit me I always give one of my flies and first shot on the parapet to my guest. I tell them to keep casting out at the saddle rock but most people always end up casting to the smaller fish that are closer in. I can’t blame them I guess. When you see this many fish rising in such low light its just natural to take the easiest ones first. But no matter how much I tell them where the big dogs are they just make one cast out there and as soon as I go back to fishing 30 yards away I see them casting in to the 8 inch risers at their feet. After I give them about a half hour of fun in the daycare I usually have to kick them out to take one of the fish over 16” that lie a bit farther out, just to make a point.

And don’t let anyone fool you- when most people say they caught an 18-inch fish on the Deschutes the reality is more likely that it was 13-and-a-half inch redside and it just impressed the hell out of them. The Deschutes Redsides are an unbelievable fighter and I don’t blame any fisherman for their embellishments. I have to believe that most tales from this river aren’t said with the intent to lie; these fish are just an impressive specimen of rainbow trout. But then, again, maybe I am justifying my own fishing reports. Who knows?
These fish are definitely worth chasing for a summer. When I first started my job I had to drive back and forth from Corvallis to Gateway for the last three weeks of spring term and take the whole fall term off. These “inconveniences” were no sweat off my back, really. In the end, my four-year education spanned 9 years and 5 schools. I got decent grades in all of them. I was never kicked out. I just kept following my fly rod to new places. I have no regrets.
Only one incident brings back a sick feeling in my stomach. I think every one of my summer jobs has a moment that still seems to haunt me. Looking back, they really aren’t a big deal now since nothing is permanently damaged - except my record of employment with the Federal Government, however, it isn’t anything that would keep me out of office. I am real glad I am about to write it down, that way I ensure the ability to relive it with friends, family and everyone else… over and over.
It was the last day of my workweek. I was going to head down to Reno with Todd, another ranger who worked up at Mecca. He and I were friends back in school at Oregon State so we were just going to head down and party in his hometown. Here is a rough draft of the memo I turned into the Prineville BLM Office:

Regarding the possible confiscation of the BLM driftboat on 8-6-97 this memo will include all incidents leading up to it’s temporary moorage at Trout Creek Campground.
The boat was used as part of a maintenance project involving the easement and trail leading to the Luelling Ranch- an unfinished project, which required the use of a weed eater, shovel, and a pelaskey. There is no public road, thus the driftboat served as the best method of transport for the tools. After finishing that days work the boat was then rowed to Trout Creek Campground, where it was to be trailered, and returned to the chain and lock attached to the BLM “5th wheel” trailer.
As it was being winched onto the trailer I noticed an old weld on the trailer, about 3 ft from the tongue, that was splitting further and further apart as the boats weight was drawn forward. Before the weight of the boat completely split the seam, it was returned to the water and fastened from the bow to the trunk of the first tree to the east of the launch site and the Ranger Station.
The trailer was then taken to Richmond’s Service Station in Maupin to have the weld reinforced with steel plating and welded again. Richmond’s couldn’t have the trailer ready that day. Upon returning to Trout Creek and seeing that the chain and lock were too short for locking the driftboat to the trunk of the tree, it was tied securely and left.
It could not…

And my BS ends there. I am sure I was about to say how it couldn’t have just come untied. That was neither here nor there. I left the boat in the watchful care of the volunteer hosts until we returned. Over the weekend someone had thought it would be funny to take the boat for a drift on his, or her, way out of camp. I guess I trust, too easily, the kind of people who enjoy rivers like the Deschutes. The best part is that the guy who ran the shuttle for our float-trip work-project (the husband of the retired couple which made up our volunteer hosts) admittedly turned too sharp when he was bringing the trailer back to camp and ran it into the rock cliff on the side of the road to Trout Creek- I am sure it was the part of the road right under the train trestle. This little mishap was most likely what caused the weld to break in the first place. I remember leaving this bit of information out of my report. Maybe I was being nice at the time, or maybe he wasn’t supposed to be driving the trucks in the first place. I can’t remember now. The boat was found about 2 miles down river in an eddy. No dents, or scratches even though it went through White Horse rapid unmanned. People freak out about the three rapids on the Deschutes. Although, they change with the flow of the river out of the dam, I have never gone through Whitehorse, or any other upper class rapid, and feared death. Oh wait, once… no make that, twice.
The first time occurred that summer working for the BLM. I didn’t fear for my life, but I did see the life of a black lab puppy flash before my eyes. Todd had just gotten Bela (pronounced, “bayuh”, Italian for beautiful). I had just adopted Cora from the Bend Humane Society while volunteering my assistance to his “dog shopping”. Our buddy, Blake, had come up for the weekend “patrol” with Todd, the three hippie chick rangers from Maupin, and myself. Even though the girl to guy ratio was 3 to 3 this was not a triple date of any sorts. The trip was just for the river of it. I ran the gear boat while the rest of them kayaked. I threw on my spray skirt and hopped in a kayak once in a while to try my hand at surfing or something. However, I ran the raft, with all of our camping gear and the two dogs, through the rapids. As we approached White Horse, and the sound of white water started to muffle everything else in the world around us, I noticed Bela getting real jittery. The kayakers were all through safely before I started my run so they were able witness the pending fiasco from below. In no time, we were starting the slalom course of small peaking boulders on the upper half of the rapid. By the time the dogs and I started the second half, toward “Oh Shit Rock”, Bela was about six inches from the back half of her body carrying her out of the raft, which was her uninformed intention. With an explosive, Yoga-type move (since I couldn’t drop the oars) I threw my left leg around her neck to lasso her back into the boat . I managed to get her neck locked in the back of my knee, but in so doing, I kicked my upstream oar out of its lock. (Secure your oarlocks with a clip or something, btw.) We were now sideways at the pinnacle of White Horse and I was basically sitting on a 7-month-old black lab while holding on to a loose oar, dragging it uselessly in my left hand. However, the downstream oar was still in this battle and I knew we could win. My only fear was, in trying to use that one oar, having some rock catch it and slam it into my face, or worse, it could just clean the boat-deck of Bela and myself in one quick sweep. This one rock, the hairiest part of the rapid, got it’s name well before I went through it, but on that day I re-proclaimed it’s name at the top of my lungs. That rock pulled us in the way the rapid was designed to. It was like a tractor beam and I was piloting the Millennium Falcon. Like Han, I decided to “shut ‘er down” and oblige its wish. I made one last swish of the blade to get us in the best position to absorb the impact and spin off. I shipped the one oar in a split second before we landed on that base station. Luckily, the frame was secure or we would have folded like a blue taco. The raft just slipped its way up the face of the rock and we spun off. It was over as fast as I shipped my oar. I remember holding that poor dog so tight as we floated slowly by the rest of our group.
Although I feel I could take any flat craft through any stretch of turbulence, I also have a healthy fear of all water- you see, you can’t get oxygen into human or canine lungs by breathing it in. One could drown in a glass of water if they didn’t know what they were doing.

If I am not fishing I am tying a fly. Every night is spent tying flies for the next day just to keep up. And while I am waiting for water to boil I sit down to the table where everything is set up and whip another one out real quick. If I am driving I am usually stuck thinking about a new material to add to an old pattern or some other funky cripple pattern to tie. I’ve got no time for anything else. My friends say they wish they had the time to do what I do. Bullsh*t. We’ve all got the same amount of time in a day; it’s just that we choose to spend it differently.
It’s taken a lot of work to get where I am. Nothing comes easy, not even for a fisherman anymore. Maybe that’s why fly-fishing was invented. A type of fishing that can look so difficult it gives an excuse for an empty creel. When in reality, fish numbers are down so much compared to what they were in the past. Ironic how the numbers are down just in the obvious places where every body lives and the easiest “getaways” for the weekend.
At any rate there’s a fishing hole about 100 yards upstream from one of the most popular campgrounds on the river. I mean it is popular for the weekend warrior fly fisherman. This hole is about 30 yards long and about 20 yards off the bank. It offers enough room for 2-3 polite fishermen to fish from different structure- since concealment is as important on the Deschutes as any of the rivers I have fished. In this particularly popular hole, are some of the smartest fish in the river. They are large native Redsides and they see flies from fisherman at least 6 days a week. I am one of the fishermen who cast relentlessly for them. I recognize the same fish rises 2 and half feet upstream and quartering away from a rock in the middle of the hole. There is another that sits 3 ft upstream and a foot to the right of the metal stake that collects debris at the end of the run. These same fish have been there for years it seems. They are the large ones that are burned into memory. They rise the same almost every time and they are the smart ones. In fact, I have never caught a fish over 10 inches here before sunset. I swear these fish know what time it is according to the regulations. It is always the biggest fish that can lie on the bottom all day long and refuse any insect until it is a little past legal time. He’s been hooked too often to eat anything during the day.
I live at this campground now, for the summer, anyway. I am a River Ranger on the Deschutes. I don’t recall the technical name for it according to the BLM, but that’s the affectionate term we use. Pretty much a dream job for a fisherman in his early twenties who is trying to put himself through school just so he can get out of school and fish even more.
* * * * * * * * * * *

I don't know

2006-10-20T01:13:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of building a deck for our house and felt like I needed to take a break. I'm just moving so fast I barely have time to go wade in a river or run in the woods chasing animals like I was created to do. Even that isn't taking a break and relaxing. As much as I am in my element with a flyrod in my hand, I still don't allow myself to relax. If I was wanting to relax I would buy a bag of Chee-tos and nightcrawlers. I used to think whoever said fly-fishing is how they relax had a screw loose. Now I understand the personality that gravitates toward it; the guy who can't stand to feel unproductive. I have that characteristic flaw and gift. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I don't know what the second step is but I would guess it involves wanting to change. And that is the part of the problem I am trying to reconcile. It is a beneficial flaw. My noticeably consistent work ethic (as of late) remodels our house, holds down a not-so-easy desk job, plays and prays with our children, not to mention maintaining enough sanity through the rest of life so that I can effectively discipline with love and not anger. Aside from all that, being moderately available so my wife can focus on her new photography business. Buying her a new camera was the best financial move outside of our houses- on top of that I feel she was created to do this. She shares my personality and we have just been slowly feeding off of each others motivation for living life to the fullest, or at least our schedule is lived to the fullest. I don't think it's out of control yet but I could see how families deteriorate when they aren't taking time for each other. Oh how I would really enjoy an Icy BB Porter while resting my arms on some dark, mahogany bar and laughing with the guys about the latest album release from Dustin or Mike. Those guys are genius.

Just taking the time to sit and journal feels somewhat unproductive to me. I have a problem by the way. I'll always be working on something. Taking an hour out of the week to sit and watch TV with my wife is the only priority my wife and I are hit and miss on. We still spend quality time with each other it's just not as much as either of us would like. Which is good and bad. We get a date with just each other about once every two weeks. The good thing about it is we still miss each other. I think many couples start going their own ways and if either is spending more time with friends than their spouse then they are surely doomed. Right now it's bow season so friends that don't hunt are only seen at work. It's not easy to deny the invitations time after time week after week but it is a matter of priority.

Just to make sure I have no free time I decided I should write a book as well. The only real problem I am seeing with that though is my subject matter. The intention is to write down everything I know for my kids just in case I forget to tell them. The other problem therefore is finding an end, or even a beginning. I didn't mean to sound cerebrally self-inflating- just the opposite. I don't know everything, which lends itself to constantly learning things. So basically instead of a book it will be a 12 volume set which will read about as fast as an encyclopedia and have about as much conclusion as one would get from reading C, J, M, K from the aforementioned encyclopedia set (in any order). Don't worry, our drudgery should end a few minutes before my death about 40 years from now.

I should probably take time to sleep.
Nah, I can do that 40 years from now. Even though some may diagnose me with "work-aholism". I guess this blog is a way to at least let the people who care about me know that I do take time to square my head.