Grande Ronde Report: A Relaxing Interlude

It's all about timing. We were hoping to hit the Ronde just right. John had landed a steelhead on Tuesday morning on the Clearwater on the east side of the Snake River, so we thought that boded well for the Ronde on the west.

I arrived Wednesday about Noon. John had already been fishing for about an hour. The river was beautiful and high. The rain had just quit the day before, so the river was dropping. I waded in after John and began to fish with optimism.

The first few little trout always seem like good omens.

We worked over that first run pretty well. No steelhead. A boat stopped while we were there and two anglers worked over the other side, also with no results. We moved on to another promising location.

John and I have different fishing styles. He tends to flit, wanting to cover as much water as he can; I tend to hunker down, wanting to be sure I'm not missing a fish because I didn't take the time to find it. Usually we compromise for each other and strike a happy medium. But sometimes he has to wait for me.

It was good to watch John work the water over with the long rod. This would have been the time to have one. The high water made it impossible to reach some areas with my one-hander that I had reached easily on our previous low water trips.

Still no steelhead, so we headed back downriver to Boggan's Oasis. Yeah, I know, you want to pronounce it BOG-ins, like I do. But the proper pronunciation is bo-GANZ. I'm always amused by that affectation. It reminds me of a W. C. Fields movie in which he pronounces his last name BISS-o-NET, and his overbearing wife is constantly correcting him: "It's biss-o-NAY!"

Believe me, it's not a bo-GANZ kind of place. It's pure BOG-ins, and that's a compliment. It's down home, friendly and comfortable, and you can wear your waders at the table.

On this trip we were staying in one of their little cabins, and the price of the room included three square meals a day, a deal we didn't pass up. It was good food, and a chance to tease Valerie, our server. I have to say she could hold her own in that category. John had met her first when he checked in, and told me that she was "curt." Makes me laugh now to think of it. Truth is, she just wouldn't take any crap off of us. If she can do as well with the young bucks as she did with us, she'll be OK.

So we enjoyed our New York Strip Steak and Chicken Kiev, hung out for awhile with Valerie and the other folks coming in for supper (they hadn't caught any steelhead either), and settled into the cabin for a good night's sleep.

We were up shortly after dawn, and went down for a big breakfast. By now Valerie was calling me "Jimmy" because John told her that was my nickname when I was a kid.

Afterward, while we were waiting for our box lunches, I walked out on the highway bridge and took this shot upriver...

And this one downriver as a raft set out for a day's drift. They were going where we were going, but we would go by car. It promised to be a beautiful day.

We picked up the box lunch--it said "John and Jimmy" on it--went up to the cabin, packed all our gear, and set out.

We started the climb up Rattlesnake Grade, 13 miles of hairpin turns, the only way in or out of the Grande Ronde canyon.

Up top we drove a little north, cut east, then turned back south and started down Shumaker Grade, eight miles of unpaved hairpin turns, the only way down into the heart of the canyon other than by boat.

It's another world down there, one you feel privileged to visit. We started fishing at the place I hooked four and landed two on my very first trip to the Ronde. That was also a "slow" year for most people, so we were hoping this spot would hold some luck for us again.

John let me fish it first, but with the high water I wasn't able to reach the magic slick behind the fast run coming off the outcropping on the far side of the river. Then John went through with his two-hander and turned that run inside out. But to no avail.

So we just settled in and fished a gorgeous canyon for the rest of the morning. The day was beautiful and almost summer-like, the river read like a fascinating novel, and each cast held promise. The morning was gone before we knew it.

We took a break for lunch--it was very good--and caught up on each other's lives and families. We also planned our strategy for the afternoon: keep on keepin' on.

We broke some new ground when we waded back in. We picked our way upstream along a narrow ledge at the base of a house-sized boulder--one false move and our hats are floating over a deep, deep hole--and climbed over the rocks to where the river narrows, creating a fast and complex run that every steelhead coming upriver would have to navigate.

It really looked good, with lots of holding water for tired steelhead, but all we could find were trout.

We picked our way back to the car and drove upriver a short way to one of our favorite spots. There was a guy with Idaho plates just wading out. He told us he had just taken two steelhead out of that run. With a straight face. So of course we got all optimistic again.

Both of us went over that run with a fine-toothed comb, but we didn't find a steelhead. I guess those fish were already in Oregon by then. We also walked upstream a ways and fished our way back down. No go.

So we took a coffee break, fresh coffee brewed up on the spot. Nice one, John.

We watched two eagles soaring high over the canyon rim, and saw when one of them tucked its wings and shot across the sky right over us to intercept another eagle heading into its territory. When they met in a big swoosh of wings and talons they were close enough to see the white on the interloper, and no white on the interceptor. My guess is it was a golden eagle giving that bald eagle what for.

By then a chilly wind was blowing and we were ready to climb out of Shumaker and hit one more stretch over by Boggan's before suppertime.

It was the first place we had fished this trip. It seemed like as good a place as any to be the last. We fished hard, and enjoyed ourselves as the sun climbed the canyon walls into the clouds and disappeared for another day.

And all we caught were those damn beautiful trout.

Back at Boggan's, it was warm and cozy, and it didn't take long for supper to be on the table.

While we ate, one group after another came in for supper--four Frenchmen, a guide and his sport, the two couples who had floated the canyon--and each group was asked how they did. And each one said all they caught all day was little trout.

That leads me to question the veracity of the Idahoan we had met earlier that afternoon. But John pointed out that back when I hooked four and landed two no one else was having much luck. He said the owner of Boggan's, where he and a friend were staying that year, even offered to return their money because the fishing had been so poor. So maybe Idaho was the lucky one this time.

But it's all about timing. Maybe Idaho hit it right, but we didn't. Maybe the folks who were staying on after we left would hit it right tomorrow or the next day. John had hit it right on the Clearwater, and then he'd do it again on the Deschutes, where he went after the Ronde, catching another beautiful steelhead.

So this year, for us, the Ronde was just a relaxing interlude. But you know, that's not so bad.

The Grande Ronde: Making the Most of It

I'm pushing to get a lot of work done today. Plan is to leave very early in the morning and be on the Grande Ronde no later than mid-morning. I'll be meeting my brother John. We've only got two days to fish, but we'll make the most of it.

He's making a big swing through the West right now hitting some prime fishing locations. He was going to be representing HMH at the big fly fishing show in West Yellowstone last weekend anyway, so he decided to make the most of it.

Free Plug

He stopped at the Henry's Fork first, went to our favorite stretch and, in spite of cold and wind, caught a beautiful Rainbow there. For old times' sake.

Today he's sampling the Clearwater for steelhead, and he'll be moving up the Ronde to meet me there tomorrow morning. He'll cap it all off with some time on the Deschutes.

Nice work, if you can get it.

The latest reports on the Ronde are looking good. There are slightly more steelhead than last year, and the recent rains have got them on the move. River levels are up but dropping.

Should be just right. I'm taking--guess what?--plenty of muddlerish dries for skating over those pods of fish hanging in those deep-green chutes.

Or maybe I'm just trying to make the most of it. But that's what we do. Wish us luck.

Cast From the Past: Grande Ronde, September, 2008

I was thinking today about Steelhead I have known, and took the time to look up this trip report from my old blog. I haven't made it back to the local river for awhile, and it was fun to take a whole trip to the Ronde again without ever getting cold.


That was a good trip. Those were special Steelhead. I thought you, too, might enjoy this cast from the past. 


Serendipitous Convergence

I strayed away from home waters for a few days to fish for steelhead in the Grande Ronde, a beautiful little river in the extreme southeast corner of Washington.  My brother John and his co-worker Craig were going to come from the Fly Fishing Show in Denver, where they manned the HMH booth, to try for some western steelhead before heading back to Maine.

I left home early Wednesday morning.  Six hours later I pulled into the parking lot at Boggan’s Oasis, a restaurant and motel right on the river, where I was to check for a message from John.  The name is to be pronounced "bo-GAN’s"–very elegant–though John says the accomodations have a ways to go to achieve anything approaching elegance.  Still, the place has become one of those legendary locations in the fly fishing world because of the September and October steelhead season that draws fishers from all over the country.

I didn’t find a message, but the guy said, "Oh yeah. They’re here. Two guys from Maine?  Yeah, they’ll be down in a minute."  (There are no stairs.  "Down" means down the hill from where the cabins are located.)  So, 15 minutes later we were making a plan.  They had tried a stretch near the motel that morning without any luck, and were ready to try the run at the end of Shumaker Road, one of the few roads that get you to the river.  So they took off in their brand new rented Jeep and I followed in the van.

Now, there are three notable natural wonders between Spokane and the Oregon line.  One is the high rolling grassland now mostly covered with vast acres of wheat.  Another is the Snake River gorge, a massive declivity that takes an hour to drive down one side and up the other.  The third is the Grande Ronde gorge.  The Grande Ronde is a smaller river than the Snake, but it has a gorge that rivals it.  The few roads that descend to the river look like spaghetti on the maps.  The main road in is Hwy 129, and at the brink of the descent a road sign warned: "25 MPH, Next 13 Miles."

So, having just made the descent, I now turned around and ascended with John and Craig.  It wasn’t bad.  Pavement.  Road signs.  Guard rails.  Once on top we cut east on a gravel road, merged with a blacktop road, and then turned south on Shumaker Road.

Shumaker Road starts out as a nicely maintained gravel road.  But then it has to go all the way down to the bottom of this:

No pavement.  No warning signs.  No guard rails.  Just a steep, dusty grade and one hairpin turn after another.  Local lore says you don’t want to be down there when it starts to rain, because you’ll never get out on the slick, muddy road.  Or you’ll die trying.  Of course they may spread that story to keep the outsiders away on those rainy days when the fishing is best.  But, having driven that road, I tend to believe the lore.

Once we got down we were in another world.  Let the pictures speak for themselves.

We all fished, swinging a variety of flies through the riffles and glides and runs.  John got a good take, but no hookup.  At the end of the day the only fish we had caught were little Smallmouths:

I had made the decision by dusk to make my home away from home right there.  I wanted to try those runs again.  And we seemed to be in the pleasant throes of a stalled fair weather system: warm temps and clear skies, with no threat of rain until Saturday.  Meanwhile, John and Craig had decided to head for Idaho and the Clearwater River the next day.  They had heard it was doing well.  So when they had packed up for the climb out and we had said our goodbyes, I set up camp.

There was one other camper a distance downriver from me, but the light in his big tent went out at 8 PM, so it was just me, the river, the canyon, the crickets, the hills, and the stars.  I sat there for a long time and watched the light from the rising moon, hidden behind a mountain at my back, slowly transform the skyscape.

I got up early, made coffee, and got ready to fish.

It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was lighting the world outside the canyon as I waded into the run at 8 AM.

It was cool in the shade, but I was comfortable without a jacket.  I was hoping cooler water temperatures might get the steelhead on the bite.  I had seen many of these stone fly shucks on the rocks along the river:

So I tied on a Sparkle Stone Fly and went to work.  And it is work, compared to float tubing or canoing a lake.  Here you start at the head of a run, wade out into the fast current trying to keep your footing on the rocky bottom, cast across and downstream, let the fly swing in the current, take two steps downstream and do it again.  On the second or third cast I caught a fish, but not what I was after:

I took it as a good sign.  As it turned out to be.  I hooked a steelhead.  It felt at first like the little Smallmouths, just a couple of taps, so I was surprised when it jumped and showed me its slab sides and red stripe.  But by then it was off the hook.  So I waded out of the river, went back to the head of the run, and started again with high hopes.

This time the take was unmistakable.  He jumped, ran, jumped again.  I had waded into the shallows and was gradually working him in.  But the first time he saw me–I swear I could see his eyes get wide–he took a big leap and made his longest run yet.  But eventually I had him in the shallows and then up on the rocks.  Even as I tried to take his picture he thrashed and flopped, stirring up the silt on the rocks.  But ain’t he beautiful?

I went back in and hooked another one.  This one fought much like the first one had, jumps and runs.  By the time I finally got him up on the rocks the sun was on that stretch of water.  Makes an even prettier picture.

I also took a closeup of this one.  I think I tied this fly a long time ago, not knowing when I would ever use it, and certainly never imagining that it would result in this.

So I went out again and hooked another one.  This is where the story gets sad.  What a fish this was.  He was on for a long time.  My hand went to sleep.  My arm shook.  My back ached.  He never jumped, though he came up and swirled and porpoised.  Mostly he ran and shook that fly.  I had him close a couple times, close enough to see the distance between his dorsal and tail, his dorsal and head, close enough to see that tail as big as my hand, close enough to know he would have gone 3 feet at least.  A beautiful fish.  I think I will always have the image in my mind of that long grey-green sunlit shape holding in the current so tantalizingly close.  And also of the fly popping straight out of the water as it somehow came unhooked.

All of that in the space of an hour.

Now I wish I had gone right back for another pass through that run.  But then I was deflated and ready for a break.  I went back to camp, shaking my head every few steps, mumbling to myself, even chuckling in perplexity and admiration.  I made some lunch, sat in my chair in the shade and dozed, and then went back out.

Nothing.  Too hot by then, I suppose.  But lastnight, sitting in the starlight, watching it merge with the moonlight flowing over the mountain, I was hopeful, and eager to see what a new morning would bring.

I got on the water by 6:30 AM and worked hard all morning, but never had a bump.  So I decided to pack up and come on home.  I am very happy with the gift of those two fish, and, I can say, especially with the gift of that beautiful fish that got away.  What a privilege to have been able to have him on my line that long.  As someone has already observed, the fish that are the most memorable are the ones we almost caught.

Maybe that’s because they are the image of perfection just out of reach, and as such have a lasting power to motivate, to shape our desires.  Maybe it’s because they are the image of pure possibility: not this time, but next time…or the next….  I know this: I will go out again to cast my lot with possibility, to seek another connection with these beautiful fish.  And it’s all because of that grey-green shape that swam all the way from the Pacific, up the Columbia, up the Snake, into the Grande Ronde, and by some serendipitous convergence made connection with me; and is still holding in the current, strong and undefeated, somewhere deep within me.