Fly Fishing in the Crater of a Volcano

Well, Jess is planning another fishing trip that happens to correspond with a time when I'm too swamped with work to join him. He claims that the timing simply has to do with the end of the fly fishing season this month, but I suspect it's more likely related to me humbling him with my fly fishing and canoe paddling skills this past summer.

I'm a simple hook and bait girl by nature, with my favorite catch being a nice rainbow trout. The only person I've ever met who can out fish me is my friend Jodi. Her husband refuses to fish with her because she's so hardcore about it, pulling fish out from dawn 'til dusk without so much as a break for lunch. The last time the two of them went fishing her husband came out to the river's edge as the sun set and asked, "You about done fishing yet?"

"Just one more," she called over her shoulder, "I know I can catch just one more."

Most women I know with roots in the Northwest can out fish their men. That's just the way it goes. So I decided to make it a bit more challenging this past summer by asking Jess to help me make the transition from the old hook and bait method (earthworms dug up after a fresh rainstorm, in case you were wondering, although the rainbows will also bite cubes of cheddar and globs of peanut butter).

The first thing I noticed when Jess and I pulled up to the bait and tackle shop was a big chalkboard listing the top catches of the day and proven methods that scored the fish. Now here's where bait fishing and fly fishing differ. I was shocked to see the devices that other fishers were using to lure in their fish: wedding rings (no doubt a recent divorcee), a flashlight (perhaps the fish were attracted to the light?), a cowbell (obviously the trout were lured by the sound of the bell ringing under water) and even a Ford fender! I don't know what to make of that last one.

All we tied onto our leaders were nymphs and mayflies (boring!) Next time I go out to my mom's farm I'm going to see if there's at least an old cow bell that I can take with me next time, although I'm thinking that wind chimes might work even better because then the fish will be lured by the sparkling chimes as well.

My lesson began with us pushing off in our canoe and padding out into the high-altitude depths of East lake, contained within the crater of an old volcano in central Oregon that blew its top. I can't imagine how the fish ever got there in the first place, other than they must have been blown out of neighboring rivers when the volcano erupted and then landed in the crater. East lake, at 6,400-feet in altitude, is prized for its German brown trout with the record being a 22-pounder back in the 80s, and a 28-pounder in neighboring Paulina lake back in 2002. Then of course there are the rainbows, Kokanee, salmon and chub.

Jess showed me all the basics, tying on the leader, selecting the appropriate nymphs and mayflies, different casting styles. Northwest men have the best skills.

We hadn't been fishing from our canoe 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 Big Foots claim their mates for the procreation of their kind."

Just as I was about to explain about the gestational period of our hominoid cousin Jess said, "Hey, we need to paddle a bit more, we're starting to drift too close to shore and I want to stay near this shelf where the Kokanee all hide out."

"Fine," I said, "Just give me your oar and I'll paddle while you fish for a while. My biceps could use the workout."

And with that I grabbed a canoe oar in each hand and paddled with a powerful force that few men have seen. I attribute it to my experienced sea kayaking skills, and in no time we were flying across the lake.

"Slow down!" Jess called out from back behind me. "Slow down! The fish can't keep up with the boat!"

(Sigh.) Menfolk.

So I slowed my paddling to pacify the man until it was time to head back to shore, at which point I paddled with a force and agility the likes of which had never before graced the surface of either East lake or neighboring Paulina.

Before I knew it I was paddling the canoe with such speed, an oar in each hand, that we actually became airborne and it was as if our boat was but a well-worn, perfectly-shaped stone skipping quickly across the water.

I must have got three feet of air with each stroke of the paddles as the fish literally dove out of the water after them. Yes, it's true, I had attached leader to the end of my oars and tied each leader off with mayflies. The fish were going crazy, flinging themselves toward the oars as I paddled.

I looked over my shoulder toward the back of the boat and saw that it was pretty empty. I knew my man would have a powerful hunger after a day of fishing so I began to finish off each of my paddle strokes by bringing the oar out of the water and sweeping it over into the boat, causing the fish to fly over the side of the canoe as they chased the mayflies.

By the time we got to shore Jess had a mighty pile of assorted trout and Kokanee at this feet. In his hand 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."

That pretty much sums up our fly fishing trip to central Oregon. Anyway, that's the way I remember it.

Currently reading : Hemingway on Fishing, By Ernest Hemingway

My Mom's Bull Busted off the Farm

For whatever reason, round about the beginning of October, all the menfolk with roots in rural Oregon seem to disappear. My stepdad is gone hunting, my friend Jodi's husband is gone shooting, and my boyfriend Jess has taken off fishing - high up on a mountain and far out of cell phone range for a week.

So of course this is also the time of year when things start happening like my mom's bull busting out of the pasture this week and wreaking havoc on neighboring farms in a testosterone-fueled rampage.

One of the other farm wives called my mom up in a panic to let her know that her bull was running loose, tearing up another neighbor's land farther down the gravel road.

"You better tell Dan!" she said.

"I can't," my mom answered, "He's gone hunting. We're going to have to get your husband to help round him up!"

"He's gone hunting too!" she said.

So my mom made a quick call to two of my younger stepbrothers, Benjamin Jaimison (BJ for short) and Walt. Then she quickly rounded up the cows and their calves from the woods, since there was obviously a break in the fence somewhere.

That done, she went running down the road to meet up with the other farm wife and the two of them set out onto the neighbor's pasture. Right about then the owner of the property came out grabbing her head in her hands, her eyes tracking the rampaging bull.

"You'd better get your husband!" my mom shouted across the field. "Ours are both gone hunting."

"I can't," she shouted back, "Mine's gone hunting too!"

Right about then a huge dust cloud was building on the horizon and quickly rolling toward the three farm wives.

Yep, sure enough. It was my stepbrother Benjamin Jaimison, and he was three-wheeling it over to corral the bull. Walter was right behind him.

The two of them worked together to drive him back toward my mom's field, where, as she puts it, "The bull just leapfrogged right over the fence! He must have got five feet of air... I've never seen anything like it!"

Ahhh, rural fun. Is it any wonder why the metrosexuals I used to date would always tremble and cower in fear whenever I'd tell them stories of my rural upbringing?

Yeah, it's true. I kick heine.

Fortunately, I'm now dating a man who was not only born and raised in rural Oregon, but grew up on a pig farm outside of Springfield.

Yes, he is of my people.

Of course, he too swapped the rural life for an urban one, something very few people I've ever met can really relate too. It can be difficult sometimes, experiencing the juxtaposition of rural and urban life, while trying to fit smoothly into both at once.

So it's kind of nice dating someone who has a common rural history for a change, and doesn't give me a look of complete shock and horror when I tell him that another one of my stepdad's carboys of moonshine exploded in the kitchen, or that I need to renew my Wilderness First Aid certification in the spring, or that I think I might want to hike the high Sierras.

(Of course he does raise an eyebrow when I say I think it might be a good idea for me to work toward becoming a Master Sommelier, or that I'd like to go to Iceland and soak in their famous Blue Lagoon, or that I should probably learn Italian after I'm done teaching myself Latin.)

Anyway, after 12 years in San Francisco, it's nice to be back with my people. I feel like I can just be myself here and no one gives me a hard time about it.

It's nice to be able to have someone to talk to who doesn't seem completely perplexed by me for a change.

I'll have to make sure to remember to tell Jess that... whenever he ever decides to come back from fishing.