Category Archives: Trip Reports

Posts about time I’m out there wondering the woods and trying to hook fish.

Metolius, Sometimes I Loathe Thee

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

It was early, perhaps too early. It was o’dark-thirty in the morning and I was tossing my gear bag out the slider onto the patio as Ryan pulled up. You’d suspect we where going steelhead fishing on the Lower Deschutes. But no, we where not, we were not even heading far enough from town to warrant such an early departure. We were simply heading over to the Metolius for some trout fishing. So why so early? I don’t know: hedge our bets on getting into fish by having more time, give Ryan first light opportunities for his photography, I’m that slow at rigging up. It could be any number of things. One thing for sure, we both thought our departure time was sort of ridiculous. But there we were throwing my gear in the back of Ryan’s truck in the dark of the morning. I looked back at my place and saw… well I didn’t see much. It was dark as hell and all the lights where out. I didn’t stir wife or son. It would be an hour or more before they woke, flicked on kitchen lights, and started their day. By then I would be on the river trying to sniff out the notoriously educated Metolius bows.

The ride out wavered between fishing and having kids; Ryan’s expecting his first born soon and I’m battling mine and the horrible threes. As for the fishing conversation, thoughts where expressed on how hard the Metolius can fish. There’s times when things click and everything goes well, but there are often times when it doesn’t click and there seem to be nary a fish around. We decided we had enough time to fish any water we wanted

There seems to be plenty of evidence to suggest the river is chock full of fish, such as the redd counts being up. Stocking of hatchery reared fish ceased on the Metolius in 1996 and it became a wild trout fishery once again. Subsequently, Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife started studying spawning activity via redd counts. According to the study the count went from approximately 150 redds in the mid 1990’s to nearly 500 in the late ’90’s with a huge jump in 2002-’03 of nearly 1,200 redds. It had a drop in 2006 to around 600 and since then has seemed to settle on around a 900 redd count. There’s definitely fish, but they lack the hatchery nature, which is great. Moving fisheries away from hatchery stock and towards a healthy and vital wild fishery is and should be a goal on many rivers. However, it means you trade the gullible sluggish pale hatchery fish for a Ph.D educated strong beautifully colored wild fish. The fishing can lend itself towards difficult, especially when we’re talking about that fishery being on a clear, glacier blue, spring fed river. It’s a trade off, but one well worth it.

We turned onto Camp Sherman road and headed towards what we hoped to be a day where everything clicked. We swung by the headwaters for Ryan to snap a few first light photos for his stock images. I was unsure why he thought wet wading the Metolius (a river with a consistent water temp of 48 degrees fahrenheit) on a slightly chilly morning seemed like a “quick and easy” solution for his pics… But hey, it wasn’t my sack going in the frigid water. Once Ryan shivered out of the cold water we motored down river and stopped at the small quant Camp Sherman store. It’s a place that sells most anything anyone could need or want in these parts. Anything from micros and macros, deli meats, camp accoutrements, handcrafted bamboo fly rods to post cards to send back home saying you might be gone longer than originally thought. They even have some good espresso, which I was in need of. Just one catch. The store needs to be open to acquire any of the said items, at least in a legal fashion. I was in need of more caffeine but not of a criminal record. Damn early starts and not enough coffee.

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

We hit a couple spots we both knew fairly well, looking to get on the board early and fend off any skunk. Although quite a few campgrounds had a decent amount of filled sites, there wasn’t anyone on the water fishing, but that was sure to change. Our spots turned up nothing. We didn’t even get a sighting. We tossed a few under some brush and over hanging branches here and there to no avail. The thought and hope was to coach something unseen out. We talked about it being too early, how hatches and fish seem to keep gentleman hours and things will pick up later in the morning. All the normal talks everyone gives themselves when things are slow. Which saying that is in itself funny. The phrase “it’s slow” is used when things are not just slow but rather aren’t happening. It’s comforting self rhetoric.

It wasn’t just us. Later in the day we bumped into two other fisherman, only two so far, who claimed things were slow too. Shortly after leaving them we spotted a nice fish finning under a down tree. Lined up just perfectly where the cast had to be dead on, the drift just right and the hook set and play of the fish well orchestrated. He was the valedictorian of his class. Ryan attempted the fish while I rigged up for the challenge. He tangled and broke off just as I finished my double nymph rig setup. As he was re-rigging I managed a couple valiant attempts, one of which nearly tapped him on his nose. Then one too many bold attempts and I found myself in a tangoing with far too twiggy bush. Ryan, now reset, went back at it while I tried to unweave my tangled web of monofilament. Back and forth it went, ailing attempts to reach such a precisely lying fish. We surrendered our feeble pursuits conjured by our 3 pound (six collectively) human brains to his apparent malevolent, and obviously more sophisticated, pea size brain and perfect position. We however kept one eye on trickster as we backed away.

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

We spotted a few more fish in a deep pool. Couldn’t slam anything down far and fast enough for them nor could they be brought up. The day stretched onward and the conversation during hikes and new locations and fish hunting went towards the eerily missing fishing folks. It was a weekend, why wasn’t there more people on the river? Was that a sign of something we didn’t know? That the fishing on the Metolius has been slow and folks camping out here were “just enjoying the view” and not here to fish? Not only where there nary a fish around, there was hardly anyone out besides us trying to find them. I’m sure they were there, after all there’s the redd counts and fish studies to support it. However, we were getting beat. Beat by the fish, beat by the amount of time we had been hiking, beat by our early rise… We had enough.

I’m thinking of resting the river until it’s time to chase the Bull trout who chase the Kokanee. It comforts me to think I wouldn’t be foolish enough to repeat this day so soon and expect a different result. I probably won’t, but right now, that’s what I’m thinking.

- Troy

Photo Credit: Ryan Brennecke. Check out more of Ryan’s work – here.

This piece first appeared in H&H Outfitters issue #4 of The Backcast. Check it out – here. You can check all of their issues out – here.

 

On the Up and Upper

It was a slow methodical rigging. Erroneously double checking that every guide was strung. Adjusting straps on an already adjusted pack. Tying tippet on with a blood knot when I knew a double surgeons would suffice for the fishing we where about to do. I wouldn’t say I was deliberately taking it slow, none of us where in any real hurry, nor did I have any reproach in regards to our impending water. I was just sort of… curious. That’s all. Curious how the water would look, how I would fish it.

My last visit to “The Punch Bowl” definitely left an impression on me; any complete submersion would. It impressed enough on me to try on different wading belts until I found the one with the greatest comfortability factor to ensure it’s use.

I’ve gotten severely cautious about my wading, more so than usual. I’ve never considered myself an adventurous wader, but now I second guess what I would have never given any thought to. I was definitely shaken by going down. Any confidants that I did have for sloshing through rushing water, leaping a boulder or two, weaving in, on and around snarled log jams was drowned. But now I’m going back to the scene of the accident. It’s my chance to face the demon and ask “What the hell?” Then poke it’s eye and run the other way.

The distinguishing click and following hiss of a snapped beer can tab rang out and awoke me from my trance. I notice Jake and Arian, standing, patiently awaiting for fishing to begin and rigging to end. I ended my internal conversation and grab the cool perspiring can of beer Arian was offering me. “We’ll just kill a little time here until it get’s closer to last light, then head up river to the other spot. The good one. Last time I was up there they were just smashing it.” Jake proclaims with a slight, sort of maniacal, chuckle. We all smile with the prospect of getting into some hard hitting brookies.

I was about to crack the beer as we started towards the trailhead. “You don’t mind if we partake in libations around you, do you?” I ask Jake knowing he’s been free of the habit for a little over three years now.

“Nah. I don’t mind at all. I just can’t have any. I have this allergy – every time I drink I seem to break out in cuffs.” He chuckled. We all share the laugh and head towards fishing, leaving my internal conversation and vehicle roadside.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

The first spot we stop to fish is “The” spot. As we approach I start doubting that it is the spot. I look towards river left bank. This can’t be it. There’s no giant branch obstructing the edge of the pool where I went in off the point. Below the pool is a down skeletal tree but not as I remembered it; as the big bushy trunk where I bassmastered the brookie out from under.

“So, this is it?” Arian asks.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

“I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure it is, but everything seems off. It’s possibly the next hole.” I answer with uncertainty and walk down the bank peering into the water looking for recognition, either from me to the river or the river to me. It doesn’t seem threatening. I feel sort of bewildered to the reason why such a seemingly tame waterway would drag and shove me like a cattle catcher on a locomotive. I recognize the tree in the shallows above the pool and the submerged limps towards the bank. I walk to the point and look into the pool. Yup. This is the brute. The one that dragged me down but managed to break free of. It’s the abyss. I look at it some more. I look into it. I look all around it. There’s a slight, but definite, change to everything. There’s a softer, sorrowful tone. I guess as the season wears the punch softens. There’s change in both of us but not quite to an unrecognizable difference. I unhook the streamer from the guide wire, let out line and toss it into the current.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

After a few strips of a streamer it seems nothing is going to come out or up for a take. Perhaps that’s how it’s suppose to be. Just a gentle reintroduction, get reacquainted before more fish are let to hand. I feel comfortable and start fishing deferent areas of the Punch Bowl. I throw the streamer a few times below the pool. Then wade across well above the pool, and try a small seam on the other side.

I spot a couple small risers but have little desire in re-rigging. I get a good solid tug on the streamer but miss the hook up. Arian’s taking pictures in between a few tosses of a dry fly. Jake’s on the other side of the river spotting for fish in the deep pool, his rod leaning next to him rigged with a two nymph setup. Fishing is slow all around. Someone, not sure who, mentioned time. It’s nearing low light and for us to motor over to the other spot for smashing action during last light. I reel in and head back towards the trailhead behind the other guys.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

The “good hole” as Jake put it, is a slow flow but nipple deep wading experience. Stripping streamers hounded out a few pumps here and there but nothing buttoning up. Jake switched to a Chubby Chernobyl for some reason or another and buttoned up and got a brookie to hand. I switched… yup. Arian made a comment about the amazing wonders of the Purple Chubby Chernobyl. I’m not really focused on the fishing. I slip back into an internal conversation - It’s the little wonders and what ifs amazing us the most. Often things are just on the edge of working and you need to figure out that slight change in order to get things to click. Sometimes things fail completely and you have to look at it as a learning experience and not a failing endeavor. Was my complete submersion a utter failing? Not really. I got the fish. I learned to always wear a wading belt. Best of all, I got a story I’m sure to yarn out every once in awhile around angling friends. I went back, faced the demon, but found that it wasn’t really there. I didn’t have to poke his eye and run the other way.

-Troy

Don’t forget the following:

Check out Beattie Outdoor Production‘s video “Spring Stoneflies” with Jake – here

Check out Arian Stevens Photography – here

 

Full Waders and Brookies

I had an outing not long ago I just cannot not share. Epic day as they say, with lessons learned and brookies caught. Emphases should be on lessons learned more than the brookies caught for reasons that will become apparent, even if you’ve never experienced a full submersion

I’ve been fishing the upper stretches of the Deschutes lately and was talking to a friend about getting back up there. I’m sure I had a slight sense of urgency in expressing it too. Mainly because there’s an appropriate time to fish the Upper; before the mosquitoes become so thick you can’t see your flesh beneath their blood sucking bodies. The urgency comes from that timestamp steadily approaching.

Drew Shane and I fished together only once before. It was your basic inaugural outing, at least in my book. He went with me and Adam, whom I fish with frequently. Once we were all in the car everyone was vague about where to go. Familiar guys skeptical of the newer one. Newer guy not really sure of the familiar guys’s seemingly cryptic talk. At least that’s why I think we ended up trying a shortcut which turned into more of a detour and landed us nowhere near where any one of us originally had in mind. In any event, we dredged through the rain and snaggle of down trees. Finished the night towards the headwaters and fished the slower slough water and meadow. I managed a decent brookie on a streamer towards the end of the night. I think the other guys did ok, but I don’t recall. What I do remember is we started to let our guards down. Later, Drew and I decided to fish the Upper again at a clearly decided upon spot. The idea was to fish our way to a certain meadow and then back. Simple, be home for dinner.

The air in the higher country was still cooling. It would be another month or so before the sun baked and brought out the mosquitos in full blood sucking force. Let there be no doubt, they were there, just not in the running in fear magnitude. We both decided on carrying two rod setups. One for streamers and the other for dry and/or nymph. It can be a hassle sometimes carrying two rigs but it helps with covering water efficiently and effectively. I was slower in gearing and rigging up, so Drew hit some water right near where we parked. Once I was rigged we both took off working our way down river. Him on river right and me on river left. It wasn’t long before he hooked into a nice brookie with his nymph setup. I was tossing and stripping streamers alongside the heavy undercut bank trying to entice one out from it’s secure holding lie. Drew managed another good tug, but his enthusiasm dwindled a little once he caught a glimpse. “Just a whitefish… but wow!” He exclaimed as he fought it a bit harder than one would expect for just a whitefish. It was a shouldered whitey to say the least.

The river in this section isn’t too wide. Nothing prohibiting two fisherman carrying a conversation with each other while working opposite river banks. However, it does have a handful of deep pools speckled about. As we were walking, approaching what Drew claimed to be one of his favorite spots, we each sat down one of our rod setups and started eyeing our approaches. He pointed out what I’m going to call the punch bowl. A deep pool in an area that would seem unlikely to hole up such a massive volume of water. I started fishing just below the punch bowl while he fished above. Me stripping the streamer alongside a nice sized down tree and him flinging a nymph. Two strips in and bam, fish on. With my attempt to bassmaster it out into the middle of the river and avoid going into the snarls of the tree I lost it. Dang it. I looked back over my shoulder up river. He just shrugged and said “What’re you to do? You had to get it out from that down tree.” I thought, yeah but I didn’t have to lose it and I exclaimed “I’m going to get that sonuvabitch” and tossed the streamer back down along the log and started stripping again. He shook his head in slight bemusement. It was a brookie, and if there was one fish anyone could stick twice in a row it would be a brookie. A couple times tossing the streamer in and stripping it back I started to doubt my overly enthusiastic attitude and slight macho-ism. I gave it one last toss and stripped it in slightly different than my last couple times. Solid take!

I’ll save the drama. I lost it immediately. It went right into the tree and popped the hook. Miraculously I didn’t lose the streamer and it boosted my confidence in my fishing prowess and my liking towards brookies. It’s hard to not like a fish that’s willing to come out and play even after you just stick em’ with a sharp object. However, I figured that was my last chance to catch it that day. I continued to fish the area but didn’t bother trying the tree. I managed to net a nice brookie just above the punch bowl. The one thing this brookie got me doing was thinking about the one sulking over by the tree. Yup, I was going to give it a go one last time. Cocky? Perhaps. Determined? Definitely.

So here’s the thing. I stuck it and managed to bassmaster it out from the problematic tentacle branches of the tree. This is no joke. I’m not making this stuff up. Third time “is” a charm. I have a witness and everything. But here’s the thing, I got it out in the middle and I started looking around wondering where I was going to net it. I’m standing right at the edge of the punch bowl on the overhanging bank looking down into the deep blue belly of the pool. The brookie took off down towards the abyss. I armed and reeled it up towards top water and pondered a little harder on netting. I needed to get this to net. Couldn’t do it from where I stood, the bank was an overhanging shelf and my net handle not long enough to dip in from there. I had to get in the river. Drew gathered my conundrum and put down his rod and grabbed his net and headed towards me.

I’m stepping backwards going up river, letting out a little line so not to drag the brookie. I’m looking to step in well above the punch bowl and net this thing. Drew get’s my attention “Right there” I look over towards him. “What? Are you f’in’ kidding me?” I’m way too close to the top edge of the punch bowl and it’s seemingly endless blue depth. Drew proclaims back “Seriously!” A slight pause, I look down. There’s some decent hydraulics at work but it isn’t too deep but it is awfully close to the bowls edge. “Do you trust me with your life?” he asks. “Umm.. No. As a matter of fact I don’t” I express with grave concern. I feel the pulse of the fish on the end of my line. I need to get this thing in and netted. I jump.

It was sort of a blur really. I remember not really jumping per se but just lightly leaping. Didn’t feel any solid touchdown and then I felt wet, really wet. It happened fast, as fast as the hydraulics that swept my feet over the edge of the bowl and down into the chasm. I couldn’t find any sort of bottom for footing. The turbulent water was filling my waders and pulling me down. I was scrambling and scratching trying to grab the slightest edge of anything and pull myself up and out of the deep powerful punch bowl. All awhile holding my rod tip up. Cause… well… apparently I instinctually didn’t want to loose the fish. I finally got a grip on Drew’s hand and he helped me up. Soaked. Waders full to the brim. I was stunned for a brief moment then began to laugh, then felt the pulse again. “Oh, shit! The fish”

Not sure if it was the initial set of the hook, the way the fish took it or if it was from all the   jostling around from my plummet towards death but it was hooked deep and solid. Sorry to say folks. I made it but the brookie didn’t. Couldn’t revive it. I poured myself out of my waders, rung everything out as best I could (thank gawd for synthetics) squeaked back into my waders and went back to fishing. Even though the brookie didn’t make it, it was a tasty dinner. And for those asking the question, “Didn’t you have a wading belt on?” I would like to say I did, but sadly no, I didn’t. Lesson learned. All Drew had to say was “Man! When you do finally go, you’ll go without making a sound.” Apparently during the whole escapade I didn’t say a thing, didn’t make a sound, other than the splashing from the flailing.

A big thanks to Drew Shane for taking pics and for witnessing and pulling me from what could have been my last fishing adventure.

-Troy

Down South on the West end of East Lake

There’s a nice little lake just south of Bend Oregon, two awesome lakes actually, East Lake and Paulina Lake. They are both crater lakes in the Newberry Caldera within the Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Paulina Lake is at just over 6,300 feet elevation while East Lake is slightly higher at just under 6,400 feet. Give or take on each of those measurements. Not trying to Wiki it here, just trying to give the general idea. The caldera was formed by an eruption over 500,000 years ago. The main inflow for the lakes are rain, snow and some hot springs. The hot springs are what gives the cautionary warning on consuming too many fish from them – natural occurring mercury. I’m not for fishing stillwater fisheries all that much, so no worries on over exposure and consumption and turning into some sort of mutant super fisher with a fly rod for an arm and a net for a sac. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful place to hike, camp and sometimes fish.

Newberry LakesI prefer East Lake myself, it covers slightly less area and is much smaller in depth and volume, which gives a feeling of intimacy with the water and fish. It’s not too massive and deep where you loose yourself or targets, i.e. fish. Not to mention the weed bed that pretty much encompasses the lake allowing for copious amounts of said targets. One of the big reasons to head there is the Callibeatis hatch. Massive amounts of bugs and fish feeding on them. Another good reason is the lakes elevation.

We’ve been getting some unusual, or maybe it’s the new norm – global warming and what not, high temps for this time of year around here. Just last weekend it got near a 100, they’re still hovering around that gnarly three digit number. That’s above 15 more degrees than the years past averages. So when a buddy offered to take his canoe up there for us to fish it I said… “Sure why not. I guess we could.” Like I said before, I’m not much of a stillwater fly fisher which is why my enthusiasm for the proposition seemed less than optimal.

However, the more I thought about it as I readied my gear for the next day the more I thought about the predicted temps and the elevation of East Lake. Temps up above would be cooler than down below. Fishing this stillwater started sounding better. Especially when compared to my original plan of battling the massive swarms of black blood sucking clouds of mosquitoes in the heat on the Upper Deschutes for brookies. The next morning we loaded his boat and were off to slightly lower temps and swarms of friendly grayish Callibeatis. Upon arrival my mood swung around again – “Holy crowded ramp / lake / bank / campground Batman!” People everywhere. With motors going and diesel and gas smoke rolling. Dang! I knew it would be crowed but… dang.

Nevertheless, we put in and started paddling. Another friend met us at the lake and was going to join us with his float tube. We where heading towards his “spot” as he called it. He was up at East the weekend before and said he did really well/ I noticed there where fewer people over in “the spot” which made me sort of skeptical. Given this crowd, and If it was a sweet spot, why wouldn’t there be a line and a ticket dispenser to fish it? But I shrugged off the skepticism in hopes of shaving the cynicism. At least we were paddling away from everyone.

As we paddled over some deeper water I looked down into clear glacier blue water. I felt bad for the fish’s volubility from overhead predators but took great joy in the ability to view such a beautiful underwater world. The crowd was dwindling in view, sound and mind. We were engulfed by swarms of delicately fluttering Callibeatis. I spotted a riser, then another. I heard a take behind me. I looked down and spot fish cruising. I started taking line off my reel and wondered if I’ll be able to connect to the electricity of my current surroundings.

East Lake - TomI missed a handful of takes. Remembering stillwater ain’t my game. I had a talk with myself and actually listened. Setting the hook stillwater fishing has a subtle difference to it than doing so river fishing. Everything has a slightly slower rhythmic feel. The fish are methodically cruising in search of food, rather than a rushing trough of water conveying food to them. You have to give a split second more for the fish to take the fly. Their lurking towards it not darting out of a lie to nab it. Hook up!

I might try to fish stillwater a bit more, but it would take a more comfortable flotation device. Like a drift boat. Not that there’s anything wrong with a canoe.

-Troy

A Bus Ride Away (Pt 2)

It’s been some time since I posted, been sort of a whirl wind lately. However, it’s been even longer since I posted part one of A Bus Ride Away. I haven’t forgotten about part 2, I just haven’t gotten around to it. So…where was I?… Right, my nerves were frayed from a lack of fishing and too much concrete. I played some billiards, tossed in fitful sleep, then awoke to discover salvation lay just outside the city confines on the Clackamas River…

After discovering Milo McIver State Park and TriMet’s ability to get me close to it, I hurriedly grabbed my gear, albeit meager, and head for the door. My gear simply comprised of an old musty canvas army rucksack, Coleman pup tent, a tattered sleeping bag, a cheap two piece rod and reel from a certain catalog that shall remain unnamed, an old dented aluminum mess kit and some random flies in a 35mm film canister. Really not much. My apparel is simple, some leather Carolina work boots, well worn Korean War issued fatigues from my step-father, a wool flannel and whatever t-shirt from my laundry pile I deemed clean enough. I have no waders, fancy fly boxes or nifty paraphernalia. No lightweight tent or a sleeping bag overly stuffed with down. The thought of a sleeping pad entered my mind once, but my meager bank account let it slip right back out. Quick drying synthetic apparel isn’t even a real conceptualization to me. The upside to a meager, stripped down gear supply is my ability to literally get out the door in minutes.

I walk down the sidewalk towards the bus stop at a pace like Kramer hopped up on Cafe Late’s, I think about my provisions. I wrestle with a dilemma; pick up some grub for the trip while I was still in the city or find a store in Estacada, the last stop on the bus route and the beginning of my hike. I decide against spending a second longer than what was absolutely necessary in the city. Besides, having a lighter load for the bus ride would be easier to manage. With that in mind, I flashed by the Safeway and continue towards my open bubble waiting room.

Beat Up and Booted

It starts to rain as I approached the covered bus stop. And not the rain Portlanders boast about not needing an umbrella or rain parka for, it’s an actual rain. Forceful and not the usual mist of a grizzly pissing on a rock. The rain prodded those who where standing around the stop to huddle under the bubble. I didn’t need nor want to pry myself into the huddled wet ash stray smelling herd. I am about to spend time beside a river sleeping on Earth’s pine needled mattress; I want to keep myself in the environs, no need to escape them. I was jittery with excitement like a boy on Christmas morning awaiting to tear into the big ticket item. I anxiously pace, peering up the street every five seconds in an attempt to will the bus early. It was on time.

After jostling my way onto the bus and through it’s isle, I plop myself down on a seat near the rear exit. With the rucksack on the floor between my feet and the fly rod tube telescoping up from the floor by my side next to the window, I take a deep breath and sigh relief. I was heading outside the confines and away from the hustle, street noise, buildings, scattered city parks, hipsters and strippers that is the compound known to me as Portland. I was officially heading towards my destination and to my goal. With another deep sigh I could hear my tinnitus start to subside, although it won’t subside to a greater degree until I get off the bus and start hiking, it was nevertheless a relief.

“Excuse me. Excuse me sir.” I was tuning everything out, just staring at the passing landscape. Watching building after building spiral down to miles of sprawling strip malls to house after house to finally sporadic clumps of houses and then to a familiar setting of few houses with miles of greenery and spacious land and tall majestic firs – the country.

“Excuse me sir!” I turn toward the seat next to me. I didn’t notice anyone sit down next to me. I had no idea how long the teenager had been sitting there. I look at him with what probably seemed like a slack-jaw stoner expression to him and slowly drew out, “Pardon.” I am completely relaxed and have no idea why I said what I said in the way I said it. He replies, “Well, I was just trying to ask you what’s with the tube?”

Fly Rod and Reel“It’s a fly rod”

“Fly rod?”

“It’s a fishing rod you use for fishing with flies.” I let out of my mouth while simultaneously realizing that it’s a nondescript answer.

“Cool.” He quickly replies and reaches across to pull the bus stop cord. “Well, I hope you catch some while you’re out fishing. Have a good day.” He proclaims as he leaps up while the bus is coming to a stop and darts out the door. I’m officially out of the city. The landscape has greatly improved along with the people. Politeness and genuine interest in people from others has been lacking in most of my encounters lately.

My stop was approaching, Estacada…

…To Be Continued…Some Time…Hopefully Soon….

I promise the next installment, Pt. 3, will be the conclusion of this.

-Troy