Fishing in Oregon Volcanoes
by Jennie Fitzhugh
Portland, OR
Northwest women tend to out-fish all other folks. That’s just the way it goes. So I decided to make it a bit more challenging by asking my friend Jess to help me make the transition from the hook and bait method (earthworms dug up after a rainstorm, in case you were wondering), to one of fly fishing.
We started out paddling the high-altitude depths of East Lake, contained within the crater of an old volcano in central Oregon that blew its top.
We hadn’t been fishing long when we suddenly heard a series of high-pitched screeches coming from the woods.
“What’s that sound?” Jess asked.
“That, my friend, is the mating call of the Yeti as he prepares to make love to the female of his species,” I said. “It’s nearing autumn, the time when all the Yetis and Sasquatches and Bigfoots claim their mates for the procreation of their kind.”
Just as I was explaining the gestational period of our hominoid cousin, Jess said, “Hey, we’re drifting too close to shore and I wanna be near the shelf where the Kokanee hide out.”
“I’ll paddle while you fish,” I said. “My biceps could use the workout.”
An oar in each hand, I paddled that canoe with such speed that we soon became airborne. It was as if our boat was but a well-worn stone skipping quickly across the water.
We must have got three feet of air with each stroke as the Kokanee chased after us. You see, I had attached leader to the ends of my oars and tied each leader off with mayflies. The fish were going crazy, flinging themselves toward us as I paddled.
I looked over my shoulder toward the back of the boat and saw that it was pretty empty. I knew my companion would have a powerful hunger after a day of fishing. So I finished off each stroke by bringing the oars out of the water and sweeping them over the boat, causing the fish to fly into the canoe as they chased after the mayflies.
By the time we got to shore Jess had a mighty pile of assorted brown trout and Kokanee at this feet. In his hands he held what looked like a baby smelt.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Did you bring a can of sardines to snack on or something?”
“No,” he said, as a single tear fell gently upon his cheek, “This is the only fish I caught, and it is too small for me to see without my glasses.”
“There, there,” I said, “Don’t worry, I caught enough to feed us for weeks. I only wish there was a pan big enough for us to cook them all in.”
“Me too,” Jess said, “But they don’t make pans that big.”
