Grandpa's Tackle Box

Grandpa Herb's arsenal of fishing gear

Without question, anyone who knew my Grandpa Herb would recall his love of the outdoors and especially for fishing.  Grandpa was raised in Chico, California where his grandfather, William B., was a pioneer resident and worked for John Bidwell - Learn more about John Bidwell HERE.  Grandpa Herb was tall, strong and, though exhibiting a stubborn temperament much of the time, was known to have a "heart of gold" to people who really knew and understood him.  He served in the US Army in World War II, stationed in the Philippines.  

Grandpa Herb (middle) ready for another fishing adventure

Grandpa Herb was the senior citizen you might occasionally see at a restaurant who has to stop and try to make every child he saw smile.  His hands wore many scars and were as hard as the wood he spent most of his life working with to build homes and casinos in Reno, Nevada.  One of his thumbs was disfigured from a table saw accident.  I rarely saw him wear anything but tan "Dickie" brand worker pants, shirt and slip-on leather boots.  His shirt always had a plastic pen holder in one pocket and his leather prescription glasses case in the other.  My Grandpa always smelled like black coffee and was never without a package of Rolaids.  He drove a blue 1970-something Chevy Truck with a 454 horsepower engine and white steel canopy.  

General store in Chico - 1930's

When not fishing, his daily routine during his retired years consisted of a morning bowl of Bran Buds, an hour of solitaire games followed by a drive to the "Gold and Silver Restaurant" for an early lunch with friends.  Until his death in 1988, he fished from a 16 foot aluminum "open" boat with an old Johnson outboard that likely dated back to the 1940's.  I recently acquired two fishing tackle boxes that Grandpa Herb hauled in this boat.  The smaller, plastic tackle box contained mostly incidental fishing gear to include swivels, leaders, spreaders, etc.  

Many fishing "treasures" found in Grandpa's tackle box

The larger tackle box is green and made of aluminum.  By today's fishing standards, the box is huge with over 50 compartments with black plastic liners.  The box has 4 fold-out trays and a large bottom space and weighed about 30 pounds before I completed an inventory.  

When I first opened Grandpa's tackle box I saw an old toothpick with dull points.  Holding it brought back memories of him always finishing dinner by grabbing a toothpick from a brass container on Grandma's dining table.  Grandpa would store toothpicks for later use in the visor of his old Chevy truck.  

Grandpa Herb was prepared for many types of fishing

Grandpa's tackle box contained an old "Garcia" fishing reel and two old sets of scissors.  When opening the trays of the box I saw a colorful display of what amounted to over 100 fishing lures, spoons, spinners, Kwik Fish and various rigs for fishing trout and salmon.  Some were new in their boxes yet most all were unusable due to weak and rusted treble hooks.  There were several rubber baits and bobber set-ups likely designed to catch the occasional warm water fish located in Pyramid Lake.   There was an old extra spark plug and screwdriver, likely stored in Grandpa's anticipation of outboard motor troubles and a couple of boxes of matches (though he quit smoking years before he passed away).  Many of the fishing rigs had cut-off-knots which made me imagine him tying and changing after unsuccessful casts to stubborn fish.

Fishing with Grandpa Herb on the Truckee River in the mid 1970's

After my recent boat purchase, I needed a good tackle box and decided to use Grandpas.  Though it's a bit large for my boat and the contemporary fisherman's choice for high-tech equipment, just fishing along side the box makes the day feel more special.  The tackle box was definitely well used as its latches are squeaky and worn.  I spent an evening carefully removing and placing much of Grandpa's tackle into plastic freezer bags.  There are a couple of tackle items that I will use, albeit with apprehension of losing. 

As a child, I remember making many family road trips to Reno to visit Grandpa and Grandma.  Upon arriving and after a big bear hug from Grandpa, I would immediately ask to see "the fish picture".  He would immediately retrieve his wallet from his back pocket and slowly thumb through the thick assortment of receipts, notes and currency.  He would then hand me a small black and white photograph of him holding what he said was the largest Salmon he'd ever caught.  As I remember, he had caught the fish in the 1950's on the Sacramento River near Chico and he said it weighed 75 pounds!

Grandpa Herb loved to take his only grandson fishing.  He would take me to a large pond in east Reno to catch planted trout.  If I was lucky, we would head north of town to Pyramid Lake and the home of large German Brown and Lahontan trout.

John Hemingway's classic novel "The Old Man and the Sea" recounts the story of Santiago, a man who sets out to sea in order to find himself and change the bad luck that has enveloped his life.  His luck does change as he hooks into an 18 foot Marlin which subsequently tows him around the sea for a few days.

The story ends with Santiago, after experiencing more bad luck with the loss of his great fish at the jaws of a school of sharks, entering a very contented deep sleep and dreaming of his youth where he explored African beaches.  I've had similar dreams of exploration, only mine involve me and Grandpa Herb fishing and talking while searching his tackle box for that special lure to catch our next big fish.

Grandpa Herb with a Marlin caught in Baja in the early 1980's

Fall Running in the Country

Help - I need a Fall and Winter Running Goal!

Country living, and running, in the Fall.  I declare this to be the finest time of year...the finest place to run...and have come to understand and appreciate that Fall is really a season of transition for not only trees, flowers, birds and daylight hours - it represents a major change in our options for "play".  

After spending the past two summers balancing running with other priorities, I've hit a wall after the marathons.  True, my body needs some time to recuperate, but I think I'm there - almost a month now with very little running. 

Without question, I've become as restless as the dangling maple leaf, trying to delay its inevitable fall by clinging tightly to a vine who is ready to call it a year.  The vine and its tree are ready for a nap.

Me? No napping....Not this year. I am definitely goal-oriented when it comes to running.  Give me a goal - a trail race, a marathon, something organized and I'm all over it.  Leave me to just schedule weekly runs for the pure joy of running and I begin to flounder, "ho-humming" and initiate a mental adjustment to the likes of a grizzly bear preparing for the slow crawl into his cozy den for the winter.   In my den there are two warm fire places (one is natural gas...), evening Duck, Trail Blazer and Monopoly games with J and the girls.  A terrific place to be.  However, there's still time to trek many miles before the end of the year.

The past two weeks of out-of-town job training left me with very little running (only a 5 miler around Bear Creek) and a whole lot of high calorie cafeteria food which included rather delightful double chocolate chip cookies with caramel glaze (aided in digestion by a chaser glass of chocolate milk).  However, I was fortunate to have a 4 hour class on health and fitness.  The class reinforced what I already knew about running and aerobic exercise - it's really, really good for you.  You know the benefits - most all relate to increased quality of life. I'm more determined now to find a goal for the Fall and Winter season.   Last year, I tried to maintain some weekly runs - but with tomorrow night's "fall back" time adjustment, I'll be leaving and returning home from work in darkness.

When I lived in the city, running at night was something to look forward to.  Street lights, people (Journey!  Could Steve Perry have been a runner?) made evening runs through the city interesting and preoccupied my thoughts, making the runs seemingly go by quickly.  

A Harvest Moon to light Bear Creek's trails.

Nighttime running in the country is a bit scary with the only sources of light, aside from a runner or cyclist's headlamp, is from the occasionally passing car or truck's headlight high beams or those lights emitted from houses separated by many acres of now dormant raspberry, black berry and apple orchards.  Granted, as day begins to break, the fog and cool temperatures bring a renewed sense of play and running in perhaps the world's finest setting - the country.

2010 Portland Marathon

In 2009 I finished the Portland Marathon with a time of 3:54:25.  My goal during that race was to survive the experience, run without stopping and finish with a sub-4 hour mark.  Afterward, I remember feeling that I could have pushed myself a bit to reduce my time - but mostly, I was just glad for the experience and for achieving a goal that had been lingering for about 20 years.
 

My gear included Asics Gel Kayano shoes and Nike Fit shorts and dry fit shirt

Today was about running the race...not merely surviving.


My experience really began on June 19 when I began my 16 week training program.  I basically used the same training schedule as I did last year - only I followed it this time to include speed workouts and running a 10k trail race that got my mind and body more prepared for this competition.  This year, I stayed relatively steady and injury free with my running since the beginning of the year.  I logged 108 runs totaling 713 miles and now weigh a 20 year low of 177 pounds losing about 15 since beginning the training.

The 2010 Portland Marathon was run in Oregon's "liquid sunshine"

My training included running progressively more miles as the training schedule moved closer toward the marathon.  I ran most of my training runs around Bear Creek but this year also included some track work at Mt. Hood Community College.  I completed most of my long runs on the Springwater Trail which is an old railroad track-turned recreation trail that begins in Boring and finishes near downtown Portland.  My longest "long" run was 22 miles which I completed three weeks ago.  Last week, I got distracted with the purchase of the boat for my 43rd birthday (thanks to J and the girls) - I lost the battle of eagerness to welcome the Alumaweld Intruder during a maiden voyage along with a rare weekend alone with J and the prospect of catching Chinook Salmon on the Columbia River.

My last week of training was diverted with fishing in the Columbia River Gorge

The Portland Marathon event began this past Friday when I attended the marathon expo at the downtown Portland Hilton.  Similar to last year's event, the expo provided some good opportunities to sample a lot of great food and clothing products.  I received a goody-bag with a neat commemorative coin, pendant and training dry fit shirt along with my bib number 4799.  Yesterday, rather than run the few miles that was in my schedule, I opted for a couple of hours trying to land a Coho Salmon on the banks of the Sandy River.  I managed to have a fish on for a few seconds using a Blue Fox number 4 green spinner, but with a wiggle and determined push up-stream, the fish returned to his pursuit of reaching Cedar Creek spawning beds.


I woke up this morning at 4:30 AM to the sounds of thundering rain of which I haven't heard since last Winter.  Since the first Portland Marathon race in 1970, it's only rained on three occasions.  J and the girls woke up at about 5 AM.  I had all of my gear ready and had a bowl of cereal, cup of Hagan's instant coffee and finished my pre-race meal with a couple of glasses of water.  Like last year's meal, I also cooked up an egg to add some protein to the carbo-focused diet that I've eaten this week and downed a couple of Aleve caplets.

We arrived in downtown Portland at about 6:00 AM and stopped at a Starbucks where a dozen of Portland Police's finest were preparing for their traffic control duties. We then headed to the starting area at 4th and Salmon Street where J and the girls gave me hugs and kisses for good luck.  The rain was insistent and steady while I made my way to a long waiting line at a port-a-potty.

Supporters cheer during the Portland Marathon

About 5 minutes before the 7:00 AM start I huddled with a few thousand runners under some limited cover provided by eaves from a large building near the starting line.  I decided during the past few months to set a goal of running the race in under 3 hours and 40 minutes.  While at the expo, I grabbed a pace bracelet for a 3:35 finish time so this morning I decided to start with the 3:30 group.

The race began with Portland's Mayor giving us a 5 second countdown.  I knew that in order for me to break the 3:40 time I would have to run nearly a perfect race in terms of pace, hill strategy and fluid replenishment.  I knew that most of my pace times hovered around the 8:10 mark.  Similar to last year, I started a bit too fast with a couple of sub-8 minute mile times.  At the 5 mile mark I was a couple of minutes ahead of pace but felt comfortable so decided to keep the 8 minute pace in mind as the industrial area "out and back" miles approached.

The "out and back" miles came and went as I maintained about an 8 minute per mile pace.  It was great to complete this flat section and then head to the St. Helens Highway stretch of the course which passed by Montgomery Park, near the site of where I ran the 10k trail race in August.  My halfway mark time was about 1:45 which got me thinking that I had a chance at not only breaking the 3:40 mark, but also a slim opportunity to run  a sub 3:30.  I maintained that thought until I came upon the infamous St. John's Bridge at mile 17.  From last year's recollection, this bridge, that sits atop a steep grade of asphalt and connects North Portland to the West Hills via crossing the Willamette River, comes at a time in the race where a nice downhill descent would be most appreciative.  This hill really made the earlier faster miles bring me back to reality in terms of running a sub-3:30.

After tackling the St. John's Bridge I made some catch-up time in the several downhill miles that followed.  J and the girls found their way along Willamette Boulevard to greet me at about mile 18.  It was a special moment to high-five them as I prepared for the most difficult part of the race.  At mile 22 it became evident that I was in for a glycogen battle of great magnitude!  My legs were losing strength so I focused on shortening my stride and proper form.  This helped as I reached a moderate downhill near the Rose Quarter and then over the Broadway Bridge. 

I experienced pain like no other during the final two miles of the race.  My pace waned to, though I haven't verified, around an 8:30 pace and this was achieved with every last vapor of energy I could squeeze out of my legs.  I was thankful to round the final corner to see the finish line and to hear the screams of encouragement from thousands of gatherers.  

I finished the 2010 Portland Marathon with a time of 3:33:28 for which I am both grateful and humbled by what is required to run 26.2 miles.

2010 Portland Marathon Finisher's Medal

A question that has lingered since this morning's race is 'where do I go from here?'  In order for me to qualify for the famous Boston Marathon, I need to run a 3:20 marathon - 13 minutes and 28 seconds faster than this morning's time. 

I'm not sure if I'm ready to pursue a Boston Marathon qualifying time.  Mostly, I'm just thankful today for the opportunity to run, to play and to call myself a marathoner. 

Why I run

"Fishing the Oregon Country"

I'll bet most of you have books collecting dust in the attic, on old bookshelves or even stashed away in the garage not seen for many years.  During a recent shop clean-out, I came across a book that I wish would have been on my short list of reads many years ago.  The title is Fishing the Oregon Country by Francis H. Ames.  It was published in 1966 (Caxton Printers, Caldwell, Idaho) and was purchased at a garage sale.  After discovering the book again, I decided to at least place the book in a noticeable location - the living room coffee table.  It sat until this evening...

Tonight, after a 5 mile run around Bear Creek, I picked up this book and then, believing that it contained only "dated" information practical to successful fishing techniques in my neighborhood, spontaneously turned to page 317 and read chapter 20 titled "How to Enjoy the Outdoors" which I will transcribe here.  Ames' description of his thoughts and observations struck a chord with me to a degree that I'd like to share with you.  They came after spending a rare and precious day fishing for Coho Salmon with my Mom on the Sandy River near where I live.  Though we were were fishless, we made many eager casts, saw many fish rolling and were entertained by a family of resident river otters playing mid-river - reflective of the words shared here by Ames.

From the book Fishing the Oregon Country, Chapter 20, "How to Enjoy the Outdoors", 1966, Caxton Printers:

The Title to this chapter may take too much for granted, for I may not be able to select the proper words to clarify what I have in mind.  It is a fact that some fisherfolk get a great deal more of enjoyment, of peace and health, out of an outdoor trip than do others.  The mountains, the lakes and streams, places of solitude, have a great deal to offer the human race in these days when modern civilization jangles the nerves.  To achieve the greatest benefits out of a trip afield, I would say, to put what I mean into the simplest formula, and this is not a simple subject, one must for the time being forget civilization and put oneself into tune with nature.  Only the Indian of pioneer times, and a few most fortunate white folks who were born with the knack, have the native ability to shut out everything else and let nature come into the restless soul.  If this be trite, make the most of it.

Definitions such as the above do not penetrate the subject in any great measure, but merely serve, perhaps, to present a hint of what I am trying to explain.  There is more to be gained here than mere escape from the heat of a particular day, the drudgery of the job.  Nor are the fish we seek particularly important.  There is more to escape on a trip afield than in the daily newspaper:  the nerve-wracking news of civilization; the doings of Russia; the dangers inherent in the atom bomb; the sins and transgressions of the race to which we belong.  When in the field we must try to put ourselves in tune with the squirrel in the trees and the deer in the covert, with the son of the river.  To do this we must let nature in, not keep her out.

Keeping nature out is brought about by dragging along with you into the field the things you came here to escape, whether you realize that you came here to escape them or not.  Perhaps realizing this is what causes some folks to be able to get the most out of an outing, while others do not.  Some of the things that are taken into the outdoors are actual, and some are merely mental.  I can tell within a matter of minutes after I meet a fellow human being streamside if he is able to enjoy nature to the fullest or if he is not able.  I can tell by the way he acts.  Again, trying to tack down the subject through definition, I would say that you simply do not act the same in church as you would at a shivaree.  This definition I like, for it begins to get very close to the subject.

Defining further, some folks I meet about my camps have come here to listen to the river; to the whisper of the breeze in the pines; to admire the sunsets and sunrises; to thrill sleepily to the rise of a fish as it feeds at night; to listen when there are no sounds to the silence itself.  Others, in contrast, do not listen.  Some speak with low voices in certain places and under certain conditions, where low voices might seem to be fitting, while others shout.  To me there seems to be a distinct cleavage between these two sets of persons, one coming into the outdoors to get away from home, and the other coming to be with the mountains and the forest.  More power to both, but I do feel that some are missing something of great value of which they are not even aware.


To illustrate further:  I have a friend with whom I frequently undertake trips into the back country to fish.  One evening we were driving down the North -Santiam highway toward Marion Forks as dusk came down.  The highway was a straight ribbon before us, ruled into distance by twin columns of magnificent fir trees, and beyond towered a snow-capped peak.  The motor ran soundlessly.  The whole world seemed hushed with awaiting the falling of darkness.  The evening gripped me.  I sat there entranced with it.  My companion leaned over to turn on the radio full blast.  He thought nothing of this, yet it shocked me as much as it would have if he had suddenly begun to curse in a church.  Who do you think was enjoying the evening the most?  If you feel that I was, I will begin to feel that perhaps I am finding some of the right words.

I have never had any trouble in letting nature in, and not because I was wiser than most, but because I was placed in a position in youth where I could not keep her out.  In the early days in Montana when my father moved onto a homestead there, when the rails first came west from Mobridge, we were unable to fence our land at once.  We didn't have a horse to spare from harness for me to ride.  So I became, when nine years of age, the only cowboy in Montana without a horse.  Every morning I went out on the open range with our cattle to see that they didn't stray, and stayed with them until I brought them in at night.  Out there on the prairie I was really alone, in a way that one cannot be alone except on a prairie.  There was nothing for me to do during the long days, weeks, and months, but look and listen.  This was a sort of enforced communing with nature that I resented then, but have been thankful for ever since.  I became accustomed to letting nature knock on the door of my subconscious.

Subconscious is the correct word, and the key to the subject, for it is only by taking the conscious mind out of gear and letting subconscious mind take over that you are able to be as one with nature.  My premise is easily proven.  Go out alone where there are no sounds of civilization to distract you.  Sit silent and motionless as you force your conscious mind into a state of complete blankness.  It will try to trick you, but be severe with it.  As time goes on you will begin to sense everything going on about you , and in a way you have never sensed them before.  You will become aware of things that you have not noticed before, the whisper of the forest, the thrush balanced delicately on the bush, the murmur of the river, the way the air blues with distance.  You will be letting nature come into you, rather than moving about in nature in a blind sort of way, still more conscious of the things you left at home than you are of the environment about you.  After a time you will mentally shake yourself awake, feelings as though you had enjoyed a restful sleep.  But you will not have been asleep.  You will have been more alert than you have ever been before.  Had a deer flapped an ear in the covert or a mouse rustled a leaf, you would have been aware of it.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  But it is worth a try.

If this works out for you it is but the first lesson.  Since the experience was pleasurable you will want to try it again.  If you persist you may discover that nature will becoming in to you, not only when you sit quietly and force conscious thoughts and worries from your mind, but also during your active moments.  She will be reaching out to you as you fish, and simply because you have learned to blank your conscious mind to all the worries and problems you came here to escape.  You won't actually think about the sights, sounds, and scents about you when you are engrossed in fishing or some other outdoor activity (running....), but you will be keenly aware of them and they will form a pleasing background for your pleasure.  You will find that when you return to the daily grind and talk to your friends about your outing that you will no longer speak only of the big fish you caught but also of the more important things, the sweet scent of the forest, the song of the river, the call of the loon at night, the way the air blued with distance over the ridges of the Cascades.  This is the finest prescription for stomach ulcers and frazzled nerves in existence.

Now, if you wish to reach the ultimate in outdoor pleasure, try to build up over the years a careful selection of outdoor-minded friends who also have learned to enjoy nature as you do.  A fishing friend who reacts to the outdoors as you do is a most valuable asset.  A fish hog, the litterbug, the fence cutter, the highway sign shooter, the blazing campfire leaver, the blasting radio player in the sacred silence of majestic, God-given places, is not the person you seek to take into the outdoors with you.   Nothing brings as much pleasure to the outdoor trip as do sociable friends who obey the rules of good sportsmanship, who can sit around the campfire with you as dusk comes down and hear and see the scent the same things that you do, and with a like keening of appreciation.

I trust that I have been in some measure able to make myself clear, and that whether I have or not the readers of this volume will be more able to enjoy fishing the Oregon country than they might have been had they not read it.   -  Francis H. Ames

Sunn Nee Boy and Tallulah

Sunn Nee Boy and Tallulah enjoying their first day on the farm.

The arrival of Sunn Nee Boy and Tallulah this week was exciting.  As posted earlier, the girls have taken riding lessons now for several months and J and I waited for the right horses for the family.  J did a lot of research, spoke with many owners and trainers before finding these two from an owner in Beaverton.

We wanted older horses as they are considered better for inexperienced riders.  Sunn Nee Boy is 23 years old.  For horses (and I suppose with humans) with age comes a calmer demeanor and better "manners".  I was a bit cautious about Sun Nee because of his 16 hands size and being described as full of energy.  J also found out that his age would be considered old for most breeds but that Arabians are known to live up to about 10 years longer.  Years ago, Sunn Nee was a race horse and has been involved in competitive show. 

Tallulah is beautiful and has also been a show horse.   She's 16 and has a calm demeanor.  She will be the one that the girls ride mostly until they are ready for Sunn Nee.  

Sunn Nee Boy and Emma

We spent the previous week cleaning and upgrading the barn.  We moved rabbits, tractors, implements and various items to make the barn feels more like a home for the horses.  I hung dry erase boards, pressure washed the concrete floors, horse stalls, and installed hay feeders and salt block holders.  I made a cedar "Tallulah" sign by burning-in the letters which the girls placed on her stall.

I've spoken to many about the pros and cons of owning horses.  Those that have had poor experiences usually point to the cost of maintaining the animal.  We calculated the cost to be around $200.00 per animal per month (hay, shots, hooves, teeth, bedding) but this amount would be much more had we not 5 acres of pasture and a good facility.   One memorable quote from a friend who had a poor experience  - "The two best days of owning horses are the first day you bring them home and then the day you get rid of them".

Those horse owners that I've spoken with that have had good experiences say that horses add much joy and fulfillment to their lives.   They are companions and teach children responsibility and confidence (as I write, the girls are up at 5 a.m. to feed and "muck" stalls...).

As the girls enter the challenging years of middle and high school, I am hopeful that their relationship with Sunn Nee Boy and Tallulah will help them to cope better and enjoy the relationship with the animals and those they meet who share in this interest.  But mostly, I hope for them to have fun and look back one day and cherish this memory as part of their childhood experiences.

"Two horses enter a feed store and the clerk says, 'so, why the long face?'"

Deschutes River Adventure

I have been fishing the Deschutes River since the late 1980's.  It was the first river that I learned to fly fish on - and remains the most challenging.  This Central Oregon river originates at Little Lava Lake where it begins as a trickle and by the time it hits the Warm Springs Reservation, its flows become steady and tumultuous.  

Ready for an adventure on the Deschutes River

Fortunately, fly fishing anglers can fish this river throughout the year (not all sections) and flows remain steady due to the feeding water of various smaller tributaries.

With my two week vacation already underway, I decided (with the strong encouragement from J) to fulfill one of my last cataraft challenges - running the White Horse Rapids on the Deschutes.  White Horse is well known by any serious local fly fishing angler or white water enthusiast.   Its large boulders, narrow lines and fierce waves provides the criteria for its class III+ rating and I've even seen it listed as a class IV.  A number of deaths have been recorded here and many boating accidents.

White Horse Rapids

Last week, I tied about 100 flies in preparation for my trip.  If this sounds like a lot of flies for a single two-day trip, you are correct.  My supply was very low and I wanted to stock up on my two favorite fly tandem - the Prince Nymph/Pheasant Tail dropper rig.  During a fly fishing tip to Maupin with J on a Valentine's Day get away in 1997, we met an expert fly fisherman at the lodge that we were staying.  He told me that this set up was what he fished sub-surface on the Deschutes 90 percent of the time.  J and I went on to have a stellar day fishing the Prince/Pheasant Tail and I've fished this rig with success ever since.

So, my adventure began on Sunday morning at 4:30.  I had set my alarm for 5:30 but, on cue, I was restless in anticipation for the trip.  I finished packing a few items that remained from a list created the previous day.  With a kiss to my sleeping girl's foreheads, a kiss and a hug from J and a pat on the head for Golden Joe, I was off (sorry pal, I know you wanted to make the trip).   

I arrived at Trout Creek Campground and boat launch at about 8:00 a.m.where I was greeted by a BLM Ranger.  He checked my gear and when asked if I had a device for storing human waste, I grimaced.  See, when I purchased the cataraft, the salesman asked if I wanted to purchase such a device and, at another hundred bucks or so, I respectfully declined  and was not persuaded that I would need one as the local river trips I mostly run are favorable for timing nature's call and I was confident that the longer out of town trips would have available restrooms.  It never crossed my adventure-tuned mind that owning one was required by law. 

Morning on the Deschutes River

 I sold to the ranger that I could drive the 45 minutes to Madras to locate such a device but pleaded a bit for a break and asked if there was any way another item could be considered for this purpose.  He said that if I could locate a "sealable" container, he would let me go on my way.  I scrambled to find something that would retain liquid.  He said that plastic bags were not allowed for this purpose.  After searching the cab of the ole Toyota T-100 I emerged with a grin that only good fortune - and an ounce of imagination - can bring and said "This will work!" I showed him my recently purchased Starbucks coffee mug.  He explained that he would allow that to pass his test but only if it had a tight seal to prevent water from leaking.  I poured some water inside the mug, pressed extra firmly on the drinking tab to create a seal and presto!...no water escaped!  I must one day create and name a fly in memory of this experience -Perhaps a good name for this fly would be the Starbucks Emerger?

The ranger checked my BLM boater's pass and Warm Springs Tribal permit (which, as it turns out, I didn't need because I was primarily floating on a stretch where no fishing is allowed on their property which runs river left side of the Deschutes) and wished me well.

I purchased a $65 shuttle to have my truck/trailer driven to Harpham Flats, some 37 miles downstream.  

An old homestead built by railroad workers

 The first few miles were wonderful.  No wind, blue skies and a terrific hatch of Caddis flies.  There were a few guided drift boats that entered the river just before me so I got some left-over water to fish.  At one location I saw some Redside Trout feeding on Caddis' that were dropping from an overhanging  tree limb.  I positioned my cataraft just downstream and tried for an hour to hoax the unsuspecting trout to my Elk Hair Caddis pattern (which I tied the week earlier).  He made a few good attempts at the bug but due to the location of the tree's hanging branches, I wasn't able to perfectly place the fly.  I lost a couple of flies trying but finally gave up.

Large rock formations line some sections of the Deschutes River

 The first day of fishing was very good but was hampered a bit by increasing windy conditions.  I caught several trout on the Prince/Pheasant Tail setup, saw lots of Osprey, Kingfishers, Great Blue Heron and deer.

An Osprey perches high above the Deschutes River

I arrived at Whiskey Dick (honest) Campground in mid-afternoon to set up camp.  This campground, like all others on this stretch of the river, is primitive.  There's no electricity, no fresh water and the only access is by boat.  Since the guided boats had traveled ahead of me I settled on the first campsite I found.  

This was seemingly a nice area to pitch my REI Half-Dome tent. It was well shaded and close to the river.  Upon inspecting the site I caught a glimpse of a snake's tail (not yielding a rattle) entering some thick grass on a trail leading north.  I wasn't looking forward to walking through this tall grass-lined trail to access the nearby restroom.  I proceeded to remove my two large dry bags which contained my tent, table, chair, clothing and miscellaneous camping stuff (As usual, I way over-packed).  

Base Camp

After setting up base camp I sat down for a breather - but only for a minute.  I decided to grab a bottle of water from the cataraft and, upon returning to my chair, I saw the deadliest looking rattlesnake on Planet Earth!  This snake was instantly given the name "Mr. Rattlesnake" and was an estimated 3 feet in length (later research revealed this to be a Northern Pacific Rattlesnake).  He was uninterested in my appearance and slowly slithered toward a nearby tree.  I tried to "shoo" him a bit with the assistance of the tip of my 9 foot fly rod for which I received only a whisper of a rattle.  I thought for certain that Mr. Rattlesnake would, after being annoyed by my look of terror and poke with a 5 weight G-Loomis graphite rod, go on his merry way to eat someone else.  

I was wrong.

Mr. Rattlesnake

Mr. Rattlesnake meandered to the tree and disappeared but only for a few minutes.  Upon observing him again, and reliving the fear and dread, I found that he now appeared occupied in thought - and my assumption was that he wasn't at all interested in leaving my new domain (which probably belonged to him moments earlier) which did not rest easy with me.  

Mr. Rattlesnake - Not Leaving

 I grabbed my Nikon and took a few pictures and some video which should provide a glimpse of the experience.  Instead of leaving, he returned to my tent.

Click Here to watch Mr. Rattlesnake Video

Prior to this trip, I encouraged J to come with me and promised the girls that this adventure would gauge for us whether or not they could come on the next trip.  I knew that this meeting with Mr. Rattlesnake would either make them want very much to come or scare them enough to never travel to the Deschutes River with me.  As for J, she would be glad she didn't come along and I wouldn't blame her.   Mr. Rattlesnake eventually left my camp.

I awoken the next morning with great anticipation to float White Horse Rapids.  White Horse is only about a mile below the campground.  This short drift is beautiful with tall canyon walls and picturesque rock formations.  

Beautiful rock formations line the banks of the Deschutes River

 I didn't realize that I was so close to this famous rapid and actually found it by accident.  I saw and heard the initial roar of White Horse upon rounding a bend.  I thought that the run looked very exciting but somehow believed that it would look more intimidating.  I pulled over and fished just above the rapid and then made my way up a trail to the railroad tracks.  There, I saw the White Horse Rapids scouting area.  Up higher now at a bird's eye view, the rapids appeared more impressive.  I studied and charted my route after reading a small photograph shrine placed in memory of a girl that drowned there four years earlier during a church rafting trip (I later met a BLM worker who told me that she fell off a raft after being tossed as she sat on top of stowed camping gear.  She was wearing her floatation device but struck the "Can Opener" rock and was forced under.  It took 10 days to recover her and that was made possible by the lowering of the water level by adjusting flows at the Lake Simtustus dam). 

Click Here to watch White Horse Rapid Video

The run through White Horse was exciting.  My plan was to drift between the two "Camel's Back" rocks which would set me up to miss the first big rock located just downstream at river right.  The force of the water pushed me over the first rock but I still had time to return to the line and avoid the upcoming "Can Opener" rock.  My cataraft is really a great ride and even if I miss a line I'm confident that I can rely on its exceptional build and engineering to escape most situations.

About a mile downstream of White Horse is probably the best fly fishing pocket water that I've ever seen.  Huge boulders with fast-walking-speed water made for fun and exciting wading and fishing.  I caught one 18 inch Redside and I lost another much larger fish that took my line under a rock and snapped off.

Best ever stretch of fly fishing "Pocket Water"

 After this terrific fishing experience I continued my float toward my planned second night's stay at "Windy Flat" campground.  I landed there at at 2 p.m. and, living up to its name, the wind began howling insistently.  I decided that since I was capable of drifting all the way to my final location at Harpham Flats before nightfall, I might as well enjoy the drift and sacrifice what little fishing was to be had due to the wind for the rest of the day and the next. Strong winds and fly fishing do not mix well.

I pushed on down river passing through more beautiful scenery and watching a terrific display of wildlife.  I saw a small herd of white tail deer which scattered upon seeing my blue cataraft.  

Click Here to view video of White Tail deer 

As I made my way toward Harpham Flat, the wind became my enemy.  When I lived on the Oregon Coast, I experienced 90 to 100 mile winds and I must say that at one point near the "locked gate" section of the river, I estimated a wind gust to be at about 90 mph.  It struck my 16 foot cataraft as I was attempting to ferry to river right to avoid some upcoming rocks.  It pushed me toward river left despite using all of my strength to keep the boat moving right.  Just before striking the bank the wind gust ceased and I back-rowed quickly to escape a collision with the rocks.

I made it to Harpham Flat with about an hour left of daylight and called the shuttle and was delighted that they were able to immediately drive my truck there.  They arrived only about 30 minutes later.  On my way out of town I observed a river safety display that was created to remind boaters of the dangers that exist on the Deschutes River.

This drift boat was wrecked at White Horse Rapids in 2005

This was an amazing trip that I will not soon forget.  It's inviting to say that I came away a bit disappointed but that's only due to the high winds that negatively impacted the fishing and that I experienced the beauty and quality of this amazing river without being able to share it with my family - but I'm also thankful they did not experience meeting Mr. Rattlesnake along a grassy path.  

Running Disney

We just returned from Anaheim, California.  It has been 4 years since I last visited the happiest place on earth - Disneyland.  Back then, we celebrated my youngest daughter's 5th birthday with a trip to meet Mickey Mouse and his cast of make believe celebrities.

 Original Model of Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle

Since my first visit in 1986 (during my freshman year in college and on a last second dare from a buddy - the dare included a bet that my 1977 Honda Civic didn't have the strength or horse power to drive from Monmouth Oregon to Anaheim - he was right; alternator left me stranded for some time) and that was a special trip given my lifelong love of the Disney movies.  I have vivid memories of tossing my bed pillow in front of the t.v. every Sunday night and watching the "Wonderful World of Disney" which included movies such as "The Strongest Man in the World", "Ole Yeller" and "Herbie the Love Bug".

Ah, I must say, Disneyland claims to be a magical place and for me, it really is just that.  What makes it even more special is when you take your own children there and see their smiles and "dreams" come alive when they meet the characters, overcome fears of some of the rides and walk and sometimes run to the rides over and over again.

Buzz Lightyear

Then there are the fireworks display and, this year, they had the "Wonders of Color" presentation which was simply amazing.  The scene was at California Adventure and the show began in the evening with the lights/water fountain displays setting the backdrop for a video presentation of many scenes from famous Disney movies.

Wonders of Color

I think the best part of the trip was watching my oldest daughter overcome her fear of the Disney rides.  During our last trip she refused emphatically to ride some of the more modestly scary rides such as Thunder Mountain Railroad and The Matterhorn.  I decided this trip (and she promised) that I would instill a bit of fatherly-firm-love and insist she first ride the park's most scary, fast and exciting ride- California Screamin.

 Watching the girls enjoy Disneyland

This roller-coaster starts off at an incredible fast speed, makes several high speed turns then takes a "loop-D-360 loop" before finishing with some more speedy turns.  My oldest, with tears in her eyes and pleas, made her repeated case that she wasn't ready to ride such a scary ride - I did not succumb to baby fawn eyes, let alone the tears.

California Screamin Video

Upon entering the coasters car her tone changes from scared to excited and by the time the ride was over - and to her daddy's delight - she was a changed person!  The first words out of her mouth were "Let's do it again Daddy!"  What followed was 4 days of numerous trips to California Screamin, Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain Railroad, Haunted Mansion and Tower of Terror.

Entering Space Mountain

It was a fantastic vacation that I'll never forget.  It was a terrific and much needed escape and I was able to maintain my running schedule with morning runs around the perimeter of Disneyland as well as my morning run by the front gates where I was the only one to enjoy the flowered design Mickey Mouse.  Our plan next year is to vacation in Germany to visit my "Oma" with my mom.  It will perhaps be the final visit for my family to enjoy time with my grandmother.

Neuschwanstein castle in Germany - Summer of 2011?,

Cedar Waxwings!

My Cedar Waxwing Summer Challenge

I've always been interested and envious of birds.  Growing up in the mid-Willamette Valley, I spent much of my time enjoying nature - playing near rivers, swamps, forests, fields and therefore many hours watching various species of birds.  The rivers and ponds were full of interesting birds to include Red-winged blackbirds, Sparrows, Swallows, Blue Herons, Robins, and many others.  Forests were filled with Oregon Juncos, Red-headed woodpeckers, Pileated woodpeckers, Wrens, and the occasional owl.  In the fields where I played there would be Red-tailed hawks, Buzzards and Kestrals - flying or perching high above to score the occasional field mouse, snake or squirrel.

As I grew older, more time was spent on rivers and lakes, fly fishing for trout and getting to know the Osprey.  In the early 1990's, I remember spending the day at Hosmer Lake, watching from my float tube the amazing flight and observation skills this bird possesses.  He would perch high over the lake as if resting from the mornings hunt.  He then would sound a loud-pitched "cree" (non-bird expert description) and launch.  Circling his target from a couple of hundred feet in the air, I would see the Osprey stop in flight, hovering as he focused and planned for the dive.  With incredible speed and precision, this amazing bird dove head first at the fish below and then, just before contact with the water, would move his feet and grab the unsuspecting fish.  Fishing all day, every day....my kind of bird.

 Cedar Waxwing

One day several years ago I stopped along the Sandy River to enjoy the view near a hillside at the east end of Oxbow Park. In front of me was a swath of Douglas Fir trees with branches hanging both below and above due my position on the hill.  I noticed a small bird perched on a branch.   It's crested head, beige/brown color, silky yellow-tipped wings and black mask covering its eyes, the bird was both interesting and beautiful.  It was a bird that I couldn't remember ever seeing and thinking that it belonged in some far away land.  I later researched and discovered that I'd located a Cedar Waxwing or Bombycilla cedrorum .

Cedar Waxwing Information 

During this mid-day observation, there was a hatch of some type of mayfly.  For thirty minutes or so I watched this "Cedar" repeatedly spot a mayfly, launch from its perch-branch-platform, gobble-up the bug  and then return to the same resting place on the branch.  What struck me was the simplistic approach to finding and eating a meal in nature by one of God's truly wonderful creatures.  The Cedar's approach was less hunt and more compared to one of us eating from a bag of potato chips - no challenge, a convenient snack with plenty of enjoyment and satisfaction.

Insert Local Cedar Waxwing Picture Here - That is the challenge!

 Cedar Waxwing

Upon moving from the city to the country a few years later, I spotted a small flock of Cedar Waxwings dining on berries from a Mountain Ash tree in my front yard.  I was so excited that I ran to the house for my camera and upon my arrival, of course, they were gone.  I spotted them only on one other occasion on the tree before we decided to take the tree down (neat tree for attracting Cedars - they like the berries, but the tree was not well cared for and was a bit of an eyesore).

While trying not to burn some chicken on the barbecue last weekend, my daughter came yelling for me in the back yard - "Daddy, I see a Cedar Waxwing!"  Now, I've showed her a Cedar a couple of years ago....and let her know that it was "Daddy's favorite bird", but for her to recognize the Cedar while it was perched on a telephone line made me question if it was really a return of this bird.  I ran with her to the front of the house and, with surprise, I saw the first Cedar that I've seen in a couple of years.  He was perched on the line for only a few seconds before flying off.  We searched other trees and telephone lines that day but could not locate another Cedar.

To this end, I've set a goal - Find and photograph a Cedar Waxwing in the Summer of 2010.  Stay tuned....