FISHING

from Outdoor Oregon Summer 2021

PARK SESSIONS

Spring Fly Fishing: The Jaws

By Edmund Wadeson

There is a place I have been walking to in the past few months that I used to quite naturally ignore. It exists between stands of tall trees that line both banks of a small bend in a river. One side is private property with houses standing a few feet off the water’s edge; the other side has the narrow dirt trail that the occasional fisherman uses to navigate the bank. At a certain point, where the river widens and slows before making the gentle right hand turn, a dead tree on the trail side angles off the grass bank down into the near side depths of the river. The dead tree, a private property sign, and the end of the path together signify the end of my journey here, so I typically turn around to retrace my steps and meander back up river, scanning the pools and runs for trout.

The first time I went down that way this year, something compelled me to scramble precariously past the tree and continue my steps in the river. Rock ledges rose from the gravel layered on either side of the river bend, and the water sped quickly over dark basalt just under the surface. The normally placid surface was heavily rippled, obscuring the river bottom quite unlike most stretches of this slow moving river. The rock stopped suddenly in front of me in a long series of ragged edges, and dove away into a very deep hole. That next step would have had me floating my hat and enjoying the heart stopping experience of an unexpected full body plunge into the icy flow. The bottom below me appeared flat and sandy and it was hard for me to discern how deep it actually was - about 8 feet is all I could reasonably guess. The pool was a long, narrow slot in the basalt with a fast flow channeling between opposing ledges perhaps 20 feet apart. It appeared to me to be not unlike a gargantuan set of toothless jaws set in a half smile with the river running through them. The sandy bottom held a number of trout, some very large, all holding in place performing the characteristic sinuous side to side dance with the oncoming currents.

A sight like this is likely to induce a kind of cardiac arrhythmia in any dedicated trout fisherman, so I retreated a couple of steps back to consider my options and allow my pulse rate to return to something approaching normal. I decided to con-

tinue slowly downstream and see what else might be found in this new stretch of water. Cautiously making my way along the knee deep, briskly flowing water I peered through the surface, discerning the depths as best I could between the shadows from the bank side trees that stretched towards me. The long slot petered out into a series of holes that joined together to form a patchwork much like Swiss cheese. Each of these holes held one or two resident trout swaying back and forth in the currents swirling down there. Extended shelves held slim forms in dark shadows beneath, one in particular held trout stacked on top of each other all swaying back and forth against a wall that disappeared from view into the depths. There were trout everywhere and I felt like a treasure hunter who had just found the Holy Grail. On the far end of the stretch a narrow one lane road bridge and private property denoted the end of public access, so I turned back to retrace my slow steps.

It was then that I saw what must surely be the king of this water. Deep down, holding tight against a black boulder at the extreme end of a deep pool, rested a submarine of a trout - long, wide and black, slowly moving side to side. I hadn’t seen him on my way down and my presence hadn’t moved him so I stood and just watched him in a kind of awe struck trance. A fish like this is a worthy prize indeed and requires a carefully considered approach. One shot is all you get at a fish like this.

I looked at my rod, 7 ½ feet long, 3 weight – nah, much too light for these fish and this water. I would have to upsize the rod to even have any chance at all. I stooped low and retreated slowly back upstream, under bank side bushes and around the downed tree, and then beat feet back to the truck to see what other rods I had with me.

I suppose anyone watching would have immediately come to the conclusion that this fisherman was some sort of maniac acting out some weird fantasy complete with odd choreography, but I was merely aware of the trout and being extra cautious not to spook them. There is a lot of hunting and stealth behavior in my own particular style of fly fishing. I have crawled beneath logs, inched around trees, tiptoed slowly past pools, slid over boulders, navigated obstructions and performed other strange activities in the quest for an ever so slight advantage in placing my fly successfully in front of unsuspecting fish. I remain unrepentant for this. I also believe it provides me with a reasonably good workout and perhaps free entertainment for the casual observer. As chance had it, I brought an extra 4 weight rod with me, so I strung it in haste, tied on a new section of tippet, about 30 inches of 3x – typically heavier than normal, but hopefully matched well against the bulk of the one submarine trout that at that moment had my full attention and resolve. A large olive Woolly Bugger streamer pattern completed the rig and once tied on, I made my way as stealthily as I could muster down the small path, past the downed tree and slowly along the rock ledge to where I could see the dark monster laying below me.

A cast up stream into the fast flow and a quick mend of the line allowed the heavy Woolly Bugger to drop before being carried along by the current. The fly came to the trout rapidly and I watched as it moved to one side and saw the white of its mouth as it opened and closed. Taking that as my cue I lifted the rod and came tight with the line. The trout surged forward with a tremendous pull and an immediate downward yank of the rod. The next few minutes were a blur of the trout blasting from one side of the deep slot to the other. The other trout scattered like a flock of startled quail as the huge fish charged up and down in the depths, shaking its head and rubbing its nose along the bottom. For my part I gripped the cork of the deeply bent 4 weight rod as it bucked and torqued, keeping the line taut to counter the moves of the alarmed trout below. Finally it bulled its way to the surface and came into the air bending back and forth before landing with a deep spa-loosh. The Woolly Bugger came free and the line sailed majestically behind me and wrapped itself in a series of loops around a bare limb on a nearby bush. I paused and let those mad moments sink in and wash over me for a minute or two. That whole experience was absolutely Fabulous, what a treat it was to hook that fish. Even though I didn’t land it I won’t ever forget it and even as I write these words I see flashes of the scene. I did catch one other nice, albeit much smaller fish from that run a short time later and got a quick picture as I released it back.

A couple of weeks later I returned to see if that large dark trout was back. He wasn’t holding against the black boulder but I did see him against one of the deep walls surrounded by other trout. I cast a bright orange egg pattern into the flow and watched as he grabbed at it as it went by. He was on for about one single second before a head shake pulled the egg free and he returned to his position to deliberately ignore any other offerings I floated past him. After a few more casts I left him with a tip of the hat and walked away.

During the past couple of months I have been down there to the water I have named, ‘The Jaws’ and had 3 chances at that fish. He has shaken me off each time with the result that so far I have no pictures to even prove he exists, thus he remains an enigma prowling the background of my fishing consciousness and occupying a fair amount of pondering time.

There is no way for me to know if I am the only one to know about that huge black trout. Perhaps he has spurned others as readily as he has me, but either way I am better off for knowing about him, for having had my chances so far, and certainly for testing of myself against a genuine trophy.

I will be back to try my skill and flies again sometime this year in the hope I might get a closer look and a picture or two. Should I be lucky enough to land him I won’t be putting him on the wall, I will be putting him back. A fish like that is far too valuable to kill. In the meantime I take great satisfaction in the fact he is there in that untrammeled water, free to live as a trout should, in the peace and beauty of that particular unnoticed and untouched place I now know as The Jaws.

Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces others to fly fishing in Central Oregon. Find him at Edmundwadeson@gmail.com

HELP IAN BROWN JOIN USA CYCLING’S DEVO ACADEMY

As many of you know, Ian Brown is growing up riding bikes in Bend. Ian’s riding progressed to racing mountain bikes and cyclocross throughout Oregon (and has three national titles). Now, he has the opportunity to take his racing to the next level with USA Cycling’s Olympic Development Academy. His dream is to race in Europe. Ian has been accepted to the Olympic Development Academy for Cyclocross. Your donation would help cover, coaching, housing, food, support at races across the US and maybe even Europe. Ian knows racing bikes is a privilege that many don’t have. He is fortunate to have had opportunities and support from so many people and groups along the way. From BEA and Cascadia Junior Cycling, to Speedvagen, and the whole OBRA community. - Neil Korn