Posted by the editor’s wife:
It’s Saturday afternoon, 3 o’clock. The hatch should be on. We drive wide-eyed up the Owyhee River in Eastern Oregon. We pass trucks from such far-flung states as Texas, New Mexico and also locals from the neighboring states of Washington and Idaho. We realize how fortunate we are to have a world-class fishery on our doorstep.
The best fishing holes are already taken, so we turn around and hunt for an unoccupied spot by a riffle where the fish will be active.
“What about that gravel turnout?” I say. My fisherman husband (a.k.a. The Fish Hunter or TFH) keeps going.
“No riffles.”
“There’s no one parked here,” I point out.
“Current’s too slow.”
Ok, so I decide to hush up. He knows what he’s looking for. We park up in a gravel area off the road, with a short walk along the river to reach the riffling spot he noticed earlier.
“I’d better put my tennis shoes on.” This is obviously not flip-flop territory.
We walk away from the van. I’m loaded down with a folding chair, a shoulder bag full of books, writing pad, sunscreen, bug spray, bottled water and a heavy camera. The Fish Hunter sees a lizard.
“You might want to wear the waist-high waders – there are bigger lizards out there, and then you can stand in the water to take close-ups of the fish.”
I turn back, unload my paraphernalia and change. We head back out, TFH striding in front over rocky terrain with spiky desert plants and yellow flowers that must survive on dirt.
“Where’s your rod?” I ask.
He shakes his head and walks back to the van, as I stumble on over the uneven volcanic boulders. The river is hidden behind the bushes, but I hear it rushing by. It’s close to 4 o’clock and the fishes’ odds for uninterrupted freedom are going up. TFH overtakes me and heads towards the brush where the path narrows between a steep bank and the fast-flowing river. He gallantly takes the folding chair, leaving me with the bag slung over one shoulder and the camera hanging from the other. I beat through the undergrowth, as the branches scratch my bare arms. I wish I had worn long sleeves and could swap the camera for a machete.
“Are you sure this is a path?” I call out.
I notice some droppings and realize something has been this way before.
“Are you still there?”
TFH is up ahead somewhere, but I need to focus on not stumbling into the river. But for a spent bullet casing, I’d say this was virgin territory. Now, we’re trapped between the river and a steep bank of shifting dirt and rocks. TFH manages to clamber up to the road, using the chair as a pick-axe. I am weighing the dangers of continuing on and being impaled by the spiky brush, twisting my ankle on the boulders piled at the bottom of the slope, or taking my chances up the mountain of shifting dirt. The shoulder bag keeps swinging around to destabilize me and I’m not feeling inclined to take any photos right now. Grabbing on to the 100 degree rocks, I claw my way up the slope and stop half-way, not convinced I can go either forward or backward. TFH comes to my rescue and relieves me of my two burdens. He sits me down in the chair by the roadside, where I fall limply, gasping for breath. I swig the bottle of lukewarm water with glee, watching his receding figure as he hikes back to get the van. The bugs are having a hey-day. To pass the time, I read a chapter of Erma Bombeck and realize that I have enough material to write my own. The van appears in the distance and glides to a halt by my chair.
“Jump in.”
“That’s all very well,” I say as I load the folding chair, the shoulder bag, the camera, the bottle of water, and, carefully book marking my page, the book.
“We’ll find a better spot.”
It’s now 4:30 p.m.
“You have to earn your riffle,” I say as we pass the same fishermen from earlier, the third time now.
“There goes that brown van again,” I imagine them saying, though of course they are so intent on fishing, they haven’t noticed us.
“I’m sure they haven’t caught a thing,” I say to encourage TFH, whose precious hours of daylight are slipping away. But by 5 o’clock, he’s happily casting, fly line swaying gracefully back and forth, catching the light, his fly finally connecting with water.
Meanwhile, I sit under a tree, watching the river saunter on. I’m a target for a thousand bugs, but I’m glad I have something to write about. What else is a fishwife to do but tell tales?
Fishermen are, by the way, their own species. They don’t need to eat, drink, or go to the bathroom the entire day and could probably wear their waders for several days before noticing when they finally do make it to the restroom. There is also absolutely no point in holding a conversation with them the minute they open their fly box. As an alternative riverside companion, I highly recommend “The Best of Bombeck”. The shoulder bag contents really paid off in the end.
