Crater Lake and the North Fork of the Umpqua River

After finally checking off the Williamson River, we left Chiloquin and headed for the nearby Crater Lake National Park, the only national park in Oregon. Neither of us knew much about this park--obviously it has a lake in it, but that was about the extent of our foreknowledge. The drive up and into the park was spectacular. We stopped at a number of pullovers and view points to see some spectacular sights--deep canyons, fairytale-like giant trees, volcanic ash formations. We learned a lot about Crater Lake from the material the ranger gave us at the entry point at the South Entrance where we came in. Turns out that it was once a 12,000 ft volcano, now called Mt Mazama, a huge triangular mountain much like Mt Hood or Mt Rainier. About 7,000 years ago, the molten magma within this mountain built up unbearable pressure and the mountain blew its stack with an almost unbelievable amount of ash and lava erupting, laying waste to everything for hundreds of miles around (similar to the nearby Mt. Saint Helens eruption not so many years ago, but supposedly about 50 times more powerful and destructive). The Klamath Tribe Indians who are native to this area have an ancestral memory of this happening. They explain it in terms of their own belief system, but everything that's been passed down jibes with what geologists figure happened here--and some ancient Klamath-type braided moccasins have been found buried a good way under layers of the volcanic ash from that eruption so that proves they were definitely here for the Big Explosion.

Carol hugging one of the majestic, fairy-tale-like trees on the trail.

So, to continue, once the mountain blew its stack, it had nothing to hold it up from within, as all the magma was gone, and it just imploded, over a short time, like maybe a few hours! A huge 12,000-ft mountain just crashed down into itself and became a 6500-ft mountain with a giant empty crater in it, about 6 miles across. Over a long time, this crater filled up with water from rain and snow and became a spectacularly beautiful and peaceful lake--this is the deepest lake in the United States, folks, almost 2,000 ft deep! No streams or rivers flow into or out of the lake, so it is some of the purest water in the world, which causes its otherworldly royal blue color, which you just can't take your eyes off when you're viewing it in person. The lake has a perfect balance between snow/rain filling it up (average annual snowfall there is 44 ft) and evaporation and seepage, so the lake maintains its level consistently in an almost magical way.

When we got there, we first went to the large campground within the park boundary to secure a site for the night, since it was a Friday and people were coming in for a special day on Saturday--on two consecutive Saturdays in September, the Park closes the east rim drive to motorized traffic, allowing bicyclists and hikers to have the road to themselves. The hordes pour in for this, as bicycling is a religion in Oregon. We managed to get one of the last sites with full hookups, so we were happy campers. We then left the campground and headed on up to one of the two visitor centers to see the movie and see what else we could learn about the area. The movie was good, narrated by Peter Coyote and gave us a lot of information and really made us want to see the lake for ourselves. However, while we were in the visitor center it started to rain and got really foggy. We continued on with our sightseeing, however, driving the east rim in the opposite way from what most people do (always have to be different!). We did one beautiful hike in the light rain, through a magical forest with gigantic white-bark pine trees, and got a misty glimpse of a tiny section of the lake and a geological structure in the water that's called the Phantom Ship--it really did look like a phantom ship through the mist. But we never could see the classic lake view that everyone raves about.

Phantom ship in the mist.

The fog and rain just got worse and worse as we drove and we finally couldn't see much of anything! Nobody in their right minds would have been driving this route on this day--what does that say about us? At one point we took a side road to drive up to what was billed as the highest point in Oregon that you can drive to on a paved road--when we got there it was completely fogged out. The sign at the view point said you could see the entire lake from there. This is what we saw.

You had to have a great imagination to see the blue lake inside the crater.

We finally gave up and went back to the campsite, had some soup, and hunkered down in our lovely van in the rain. It was cold too--did we mention that? In fact, it had snowed about 6 inches on the summit.

Believe it or not, Jack has a real snowball he's about to throw at Carol.

When we got up in the morning our folding camp chair that we had left outside had a round disk of ice in the seat. Fortunately, however, the day was beautiful!! Sun shining, warming up fast--yay! After breakfast and breaking camp we headed off to finally get a decent view of the lake, and we sure did. In fact, lots of different views of the lake. Once you see this place, you can't take your eyes off it, as previously mentioned, so we walked around taking photos from many different vantage points.

The beauty of this place is staggering.

The deep blue lake perfectly reflects the eastern rim of the crater.

A cinder cone inside the crater.

Carol, as usual, was intrigued by the idea of climbing out to a scary-looking rocky point hanging out over the lake about 1000 feet up, and having Jack take a photo from a distance. There were three German youths hanging out at the same place but were too wussy to climb out on the rock. Carol showed them all up by sliding down the gravel bank on her butt and crawling out to the scary rock place (after doing a quick mental engineering calculation related to center of gravity) and hollering at Jack to take her picture quick! Then she scampered up on hands and knees back to safety.

Carol getting ready to slide on her butt down to that jagged rock ledge to the right,
which is actually about 500 feet above lake level,

She makes it down and then waves at me while the three German youths look on in amazement.

I told her not to do this, but she never listens to me.

After she left the spot to walk back to where Jack was, Jack saw one of the German boys decide to do it too, but he tried to walk down the steep, slippery gravel bank rather than slide on his butt, and slipped and almost went over the edge. Carol said she was glad she didn't see it and doubly glad he didn't fall to his death, as she would have felt guilty for egging him on.

We had a great time walking around and ooh-ing and aah-ing over the lake. We had lunch at the historic lodge, which has been there since 1915 or so. Beautiful park! Beautiful day!

A beautiful old guest hotel built in 1915.

In the back of the hotel are rows of rocking chairs where you can sit and ponder Crater Lake.

We left after lunch just as the bicycling crowds really started coming in. We left by the north entrance and headed toward the Steamboat Inn on the North Fork of the Umpqua River, the next river on Jack's list.

This river is a world-famous steelhead river and fishermen come from all over the world to fish it. Steelhead are rainbow trout who are born in fresh water streams but go to sea eventually and live in the ocean, for a couple of years at a time. They then are programmed to return to their native streams to spawn, like salmon. While in the ocean, they get very big and strong, and that's why so many people want to catch them. I'll let Jack tell you more about steelhead in his fishing stories.

Jack had booked a guide to fish this river on Sunday as you need special equipment for this type of fishing. We had also made a reservation to stay at the Steamboat Inn right on the river, a historic fishing lodge that's been there for decades, in the spot where the famous western author Zane Grey had his fishing camp and spent a lot of time. We arrived about 3 pm at the Inn and found our little streamside cabin overlooking the river, which is huge, emerald green, clear, rocky and has lots of rapids--a gorgeous big river, one of the prettiest we've ever seen. We climbed down the rocky hill to the water to get a closer look--the way the rocks are arranged, it almost seems like the whole hill has been carved into steps--very easy to climb down even though it's a steep hill. The folks at the Inn are very friendly and welcoming. The place is known for its good food. We had some soup for supper that was yummy and we made a reservation to have their special group dinner on Sunday night after Jack's day of steelhead fishing--it's served family style, just one entree chosen by the chef (although if you have special dietary needs they will accommodate you) and you sit together and chat with the other folks who've reserved this night. We had a relatively early night on Saturday since Jack had to get up early to meet his guide at 6:30 am.

The Steamboat Inn part of the river was a favorite haunt of Zane Grey who loved to fish here.

Our room with Jack's fishing gear on the bed.

The view from the room of the walk-around deck added a nice touch.

Outside on the deck you can view and listen to the roaring river below.

Out front a path led to a wonderful library which had all of Zane Grey's novels, 

many of which were first editions.

We got up at 5:30 am. Funny how that's not so early when you are going fishing. My guide, Mark, had told me I needed wading boots with steel studs so I exchanged my felt-soled boots for a loaner pair of his studded boots. Mark had brought two spey rods, one rigged with a weighted line and a large blue and black streamer. The other spey rod was rigged with a floating line and a medium-sized popping type bug. Each of these rods were 13.5 feet long and were 8-weight rods. By comparison I have a 6-weight rod that is 8.5 feet long. The spey rods have two cork grip handles designed to be used by both hands. My rod has one cork handle and is designed to be held in one hand. Both spey rods used a 10-pound test leader. I usually use a 3.5 pound test leader.

I mention all of this because I spent a fair amount of time learning to cast with these spey rods. Mark explained that the idea was to cast the streamer down and across a likely steelhead "holding pool" and try to entice a rested 8 to 10 pounder to rise up and grab hold of the streamer. Mark told me he did not want me to "set the hook" if a steelhead struck the lure. The steelhead would set the hook by his ferocious strike and if I tried to set the hook, I would end up pulling the streamer out of his mouth. And at the end of each cast, I was to strip out about 2 feet of line before casting again. That way we would carefully cover all the area in the tail-water of the pool. Oh yes, hold onto the rod, as steelhead strikes were known to pull the rod out of the hands of a novice.

OK. I got all of that, but I still wasn't ready to go fishing. I had to learn how to cast with a spey rod. This is the tricky part and it takes a while to get it right. Mark said some people never get it. First you strip in the line with your left hand and then pinch it against the top handle with the right hand. Then with two hands you move the rod and weighted line upstream and with the same fluid motion move the rod back, and then with a strong forward motion move the rod and line quickly, stopping at 10 o'clock and let the weighted line pull out all the rest of the line. When I got it right, I could cast about 65 to 70 feet down and across the pool. After about 15 minutes, I was "good enough," according to Mark, to start fishing.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I learned early on why I needed wading shoes with studs. Imagine going down a 30-foot wet bank, with a 45 to 60 degree slope, strewn with gravel and rocks with a 13.5 foot rod in one hand. Going down is fairly easy, as the studs help a lot in the same way that studded shoes help you on ice. Gravity helps you going down, but only leg muscles and hands get you back up. Every time I did this as we went from pool to pool, I was thankful that I had on studded boots.

Casting a weighted spey rod and climbing up and down river banks takes it out of you. But hey, this was a beautiful river and I was having fun and expecting one of the 8-10 pounders to chop down on my fly at any moment. On one hole I had an exciting moment. Apparently a larger steelhead moved up from the depth to take a look at my streamer. He must have scared the daylights out of a 14 to 16 inch trout who came out of the water in a giant leap to get away. Alas, the steelhead did not take my streamer.

I fished at least 10 holding pools with no strikes. I did get better with my casting and Mark said I was doing everything right. Try as he may, Mark was not able to talk a steelhead into taking my lure and our four hours on the water soon came to an end. Mark tried to explain that you had to do a lot of fishing before you ever catch a steelhead. But I already knew that. I fished the Sacramento back in 1999 for 8 hours and did catch a steelhead, which I fought for 15 minutes. I thought I had him worn out. As the guide ran out to net him, the steelhead made one last desperate lunge and broke my 5-lb test leader. I'll try again on the Deschutes River, when my fishing buddy, Bud Hennessy, gets here on Sunday to fish that river together.

Mark and I at the end of my half day of fishing for steelhead.

I still had to catch at least one fish to check off this river. So the next morning Carol came with me to a beautiful section of the river next to the Steamboat Inn. There I caught four rainbows in the 8 to 10-inch range on nymphs trailed from a dry fly.

Fishing near the Steamboat Inn.

Fish on!

Maybe a 9-incher rainbow. After living in this river for about a year, this little guy will grow up to be a steelhead.

It was a great relief when Jack caught his fish in the North Umpqua, since we didn't know how long we'd have to hang around this area till he finally caught one! We needed to get some provisions and get some email and make some phone calls, so after he caught the trout we decided to drive into the nearest city of some size, Roseburg, and do our errands. On the way, we stopped to walk to a waterfall and see if we could spot some steelheads jumping up it. Jack actually saw one, but Carol was looking at a big logging truck go by and missed it. Roseburg seemed like a nondescript little town but after buying our groceries, we found a sweet campground on the outskirts, in a winery area and next to a county park, where Carol could do some laundry. They also had very good wifi.

Where we watched for steelhead moving up these falls.

On Tuesday morning we drove back toward Steamboat, since that's the general direction of the next river on the list, the Deschutes, but also because we wanted to try to find the Big Bend on Steamboat Creek. There's a big pool there where bunches (hundreds) of large steelhead hang out and wait for conditions to be right to move on upstream to spawn. This pool has been overfished, dynamited and desecrated for ages by people who don't know any better, and somehow this fish keep coming back. Now there are laws protecting the fish in this creek because it's a crucial spawning area, and no one is allowed to fish here. There's a guy who lives at this pool in his Airstream camper for most of the year, and watches and protects these vulnerable fish from poaching and general human evil and goofiness. He's been doing this for 18 years. We didn't really know what to expect, and we'd heard that the protector guy was kind of weird, but we set off to find him and his pool of steelhead. Steamboat Creek Road is a steep, winding, mountain road and we weren't exactly sure how far up the Big Bend pool was. We stopped to ask for some directions from a couple in a camper who were guarding another road closure and they said to keep going up for several more miles.

Finally we spotted the Airstream camper and parked the van. A friendly red dog greeted us and escorted us down toward the stream. We heard voices from under a canopy as we walked down a couple of steps built into the hillside. Suddenly we could see the pool down the hill in front of us filled with at least 100 long fat shadowy fish all schooled together in a green-tinted but perfectly clear and beautiful pool. Awesome! The Fish Guardian, who looked to be about 60 or so, was sitting at a sort of homemade-looking desk under his canopy and another guy, about 50 or 55, dressed in khaki ranger-like clothes, was sitting next to him and they were chatting about the fish. They seemed nice and included us in their conversation--they obviously knew each other well and were conducting a friendly punning competition. This turned out to be a most memorable afternoon of sitting and being mesmerized by the fish behavior playing out in front of us and asking any questions that came into our minds of these two knowledgeable guys, Lee (Fish Guardian) and Dave (friend and who happens to be a fish biologist by training). It was a peaceful, almost spiritual scene, and we certainly learned scads about steelhead and other trout. Wow!

Lee and Dave standing guard. Great guys. Lots of fun.

Can you believe this pool full of hundreds of steelheads, some weighing around 20 pounds?

And one lonely female chinook salmon waiting for a male to arrive. Note white tail fin.

We finally had to tear ourselves away and now we're ensconced in a trailer park in La Pine, Oregon--tomorrow we're scouting the Deschutes River.

Oregon - Fishing the Williamson River

September 22, 2016: After spending the night near Boise, we drove on to Oregon. We stopped at a nice rest stop/welcome center after crossing the border and took a photo, then drove on. 

Oregon rest stop - nice - free coffee and friendly people

What we saw as we drove was a big surprise--didn't fit our concept of what Oregon looks like. The eastern half of the state is pretty much empty, desert, bare rocks and cliffs, sagebrush prairie. We barely saw another car on the road for hundreds of miles. A few cattle and sheep ranches appeared here and there, but mostly it felt like wilderness. 

Southeast Oregon.

When it started getting late, we looked for a campground to spend the night, but they were few and far between. We almost drove past the "town" of Riley, which consisted of nothing but a small gas station/general store and a little post office across the highway from it. But we spotted a few RVs in the parking lot of the gas station and thought maybe we better stop too, so we turned around. Sure enough, for $15 a night we could camp in front of the gas station, along with a few others. Nice and quiet. Not much traffic goes by there.

Up and at 'em the next morning, heading for Klamath Falls in south central Oregon, near the Williamson River, the first Oregon stream on Jack's list. We began to see bigger and bigger mountains, some in the far distance with snow caps. We stopped for a few historical markers, most about the Oregon Trail and folks who tried to take short cuts and got lost and died. We gassed up when we got to Klamath Falls in mid-afternoon--gas prices not bad here--and looked for the fishing outfitters we had located on the internet. After reading up on the Williamson, Jack had decided he had better get a guide, as it's a tough river to fish. Very different from most trout streams. We found the outfitters, located on a resort called the Running Y Ranch. A young oriental man was manning the store and he didn't know anything at all about fishing! Not sure what he was doing there. He was very polite and he called the manager and she told him how to book a fishing trip with a guide--scheduled for Thursday with "Joe."

Then we backtracked north a bit to our campground, the Water Wheel RV, where we got a campsite right on the river, so Jack could try his hand before going with the guide on Thursday.

Fishing the Williamson River in Oregon by Jack

We camped at the Water Wheel RV Park and got a spot right next to the Williamson. My guide books warned me this was a tough river to fish. First sentence in my Top 100 guide book starts with this bolded statement: “THIS IS THE RIVER YOU HATE TO LOVE”. My other guide book had this advice: “If ever there was a place to hire a guide, the Williamson may be it.”

OK, you get the point. This is a tough river to fish. Why is that? Because the river looks like a spring creek (crystal clear cold water) and it's loaded with big fish that have plenty to eat. So why would a such a fish even bother to look at an imitation fly? I'm not sure, but I was banking on there being a few dumb fish in the river.

To increase my odds of catching one of these dummies, we booked the Water Wheel campground for three days and arranged for a guide on the second day.

First day fishing.

The day started out reasonably warm and sunny. I had checked out the stretch of the river by our campsite the night before for good fishing spots and even talked with my guide the evening before. My hopes were high. I would catch a fish so I could check off the stream and then have a relaxing day with my guide with Carol taking photos of all the fish I would catch on the following day. I started in the morning with nymphs and fished for an hour with no strikes. I discovered that I could not wade in the section where I thought big trout would be. The water was too fast and deep there for me to wade. Next I changed over to a weighted streamer (minnow imitation) and fished for an hour with no strikes. Finally I shifted over to dry flies and fished for another hour or two. Nothing.

First Day on Williamson River - Beautiful water - No fish caught.

After lunch the sky got cloudy, the wind started blowing hard, and it looked like rain. I tried several casts from a floating pier using a dry fly, I was able to reach some of the fast deep water, but no strikes. On one cast I ended up with a bunch of “wind knots” in my leader, so I gave up. The Williamson was living up to its reputation.

That night it rained and got cold. My guide for the following day suggested we move our starting time back one hour from 6:30 am to 7:30 am. I agreed, eagerly.

Second day fishing

Carol and I met my guide at 7:30 am. It was cold and cloudy and we were hopefully dressed for a chilling day with rain gear. We headed upstream near the town of Chiloquin. Joe explained that we would row the boat upriver and later drift back down to put in. At first this made no sense to me. Granted the area where we put in had flat water, but how much fishing could we do that day and how much water could we cover in a stream that had rapids and fast water? I trusted Joe's method, as I do all guides. They typically know where fish lie and how to catch them.

Joe had a year-old nice-looking bird dog which he let out of his truck as he maneuvered his boat down a steep bank into the river. Another fisherman, that Joe knew, had a dog about half the size of the bird dog pup and she quickly chased the bird dog back to his master. As we approached the river, I could well understand why the bird dog pup took off. His aggressor had a frightning snaggle-toothed mouth that made you look away for fear she would run you off also.

By this time, Joe had the boat ready and we climbed in. Joe paddled upstream, staying close to one side of the river so as not to disturb the fish in the runs. There we sat while Joe took off my 9-foot 6x leader and tied on a 9-foot 4x leader (leader breaking strengths: 6x-3 lbs, 5x-4 lbs, 4x-5 lbs) with nymphs tied in ever-decreasing size on 5x leaders. Near the top of the rig Joe tied on a 1-inch red floating ball that we used to call “bobbers” but which fly fisherman call “strike indicators.” So much more professional.

Joe told me where to cast this unruly rig and to strip out line and let it drift downstream while mending my fly line upstream so the red ball was always downstream. I was to do this until I could no longer see the strike indicator. Then wind the line back onto my reel and do it again. We repeated this style of nymph fishing for several hours. On some occasions Joe, and sometimes Carol, would yell “set, set!” which meant for me to quickly try and set the hook on a fish. Most of the time this resulted in a bottom snag. Nymphing is not my favorite way to fish and pales in comparison to dry fly fishing where you actually see the fish rise to the surface and grab your fly.

However, I needed to catch at least one fish and so I persevered and watched carefully that little red ball floating down the river with my line following the ball and placing no drag on the ball. So when it was least expected and everyone was chilled to the bone, my little red ball went underwater and I instinctively set the hook, followed immediately by a large fish jumping maybe three feet out of the water. I had a fish on and he meant to get away. I looked at my line that I had bundled on the foredeck of the boat. Too much to reel in so I couldn't put the fish “on the reel,” where the drag setting would wear the fish down. So I kept tension on the fish using the fingers of my left hand, while the fish fought to get off. Two more times he hurled himself into the air. Several times he ran downstream. When I got him close to the boat so Joe could net him, he took off again and even ran under the boat. Two more times Joe tried to net the fish. Once when Joe had him, he jumped completely out of the net. Finally, Joe netted the fish. No one in the boat was cold anymore. Adrenaline was flowing in everyone in the boat as Carol tried to get a picture of the 20-inch, 4-lb red-band rainbow. This fish was also camera shy. Twice he flipped out of Joe's hand and once he left one of the hooks in Joe's hand. Needless to say, Joe and I did several hi-fives as we watched this beautiful fish swim away. Carol had taken several pictures, some of which are shown below.

Fish On!

Note tangled fly line under reel.

Fish gets away from Joe's net.

Large fish in net.

Jack, Joe and nice Red-band Rainbow.

Joe without his sunscreen mask. Dog Rocky in truck.

I fished some more, but I was cold and tired and I could see so were Joe and Carol. I had caught the fish that allowed me to check off this RIVER YOU HATE TO LOVE.

Third day fishing

There will be no third day on this river, unless of course we get up tomorrow and I can see fish rising everywhere to dry flies.

River of No Return Wilderness

We enjoyed camping at the Hayspur Hatchery Campground near Silver Creek for several days, not least because it's free! We had one rainy day when we hunkered down and worked on our book projects. When the weather cleared up, we walked a nearby nature trail along Loving Creek and watched a trout slurp flies off the water's surface as they floated overhead. On our last day in the Picabo/Silver Creek Preserve area, we drove back up to the Silver Creek Preserve Visitor Center and walked their nature trail for several hours, hoping to see some moose. We know they're there because others have commented on seeing moose in the visitor's book, but we didn't see any, unfortunately. We did see lots of birds, and lots of trout, and took some final photos as we said farewell to this special area.

Goodbye photo of a stream we loved (Silver Creek). The pool in the left foreground was loaded with trout. You can see them in the photo.

Our next destination is the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area. The "River of No Return" is the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, so-called because of its wild rapids and heavy current through a deep rocky canyon. This river is on Jack's list of the Top 100 trout streams but it's problematic and we've been puzzling to figure out the best way for him to check this one off. Because of the nature of this river and the fact that it's in an extreme wilderness area with very few roads, it's pretty much inaccessible. People can run it in rafts with an outfitter and fish it that way, but you have to have a state permit that is only obtained far ahead of time in a lottery, and the trip takes a minimum of 5 days! We had already determined that we weren't going to take that trip, because of the expense and not wanting to be that far from health care if needed for that many days (plus the sheer exertion of rafting and fishing all day, every day for 5 days and sleeping in a tent on the ground)

Entering the River of No Return Wilderness.

.
Jack was hoping to be able to get into the upper reaches of the river -- at least be able to fish one of the major tributaries if not the main Middle Fork itself. We had talked to a couple of fishing guides about driving our RoadTrek on the long (20-mile plus) dirt road into the launching area where the rafts put in and had gotten varying answers. Other than questions about the condition of the road itself, a separate issue was the giant Pioneer Fire (it's burned about 400 square miles so far) that's been going on near this area since mid-July. Lots of roads have been closed and in fact we'd been told by one person, who should know, that the road into the area was closed and that they were having to fly the rafters in. So Jack was now looking at fishing one of the two major tributaries, Marsh Creek or Bear Valley Creek, which we had been told were more easily accessible and had fish.

We headed off once again to drive north of Ketchum over the Galena Pass and into Stanley (where we had some yummy pizza for lunch). This time, the mountain peaks we saw from the summit of the Pass had snow on them, a reminder that winter is not far off in this neck of the woods! Lots of fall color too--very pretty drive. We were heading for Lola Creek Campground: Marsh Creek flows right by it and it's accessible from a reasonably well-maintained dirt road. As we headed off the pavement, we were approached by a woman representing the Forestry, asking us where we were heading. Because of the ongoing Pioneer Fire, they are monitoring traffic into the area and warning people off from the active parts. She gave us a map showing the current "fire footprint" and road closures. Fortunately, where we were going wasn't near the active fire.

Jack in his baggy fishing pants with snow-covered peaks in background.

The road in was washboarded but wasn't too bad. We found the campground and picked out our campsite -- very pretty, wooded, with the beautiful creek, which looked more like a river, flowing right by it. And there was just one other couple camping here! We walked down to the creek, and then Carol went up to talk with the other campers, a very nice couple from Boise, Scott and Vickie. As it turned out, they camp here often and Scott is a veteran fly fisherman. He had lots of good advice for Jack on good holes to fish. However, he told us that at this time of year, a lot of the trout in this creek have moved downstream toward the Middle Fork, where the water is deeper.

Marsh Creek looking upstream.

Marsh Creek looking downstream. 

Note fish trap where rangers tag salmon smolts for identification when they return 2 years later. 

It was early afternoon and a beautiful day, so Jack got suited up and headed for the water to try his luck.

Following is Jack's fishing story #1:

I tied on a large attractor dry fly and to my surprise I got a strike, or a refusal, on the first cast, but no hookup. I fished up and down around where I got the strike, but got no more hits. About twenty minutes later Carol came down saying she found the pool Scott had told us about. To make hours of fishing story short, I tried every pattern I could think of and never got another strike, Toward dusk, I even tied on one of my "big gaudys" that had worked so well two years ago on the San Juan River and the upper Rio Grande River in Colorado. But no strikes. Wow! This catch and release tributary wasn't going to let me check off this river. [end of fishing story #1]

Jack fishing Marsh Creek. It's called fishing, not catching, Jack had to remind himself.

It was dark by the time Jack quit fishing. Carol brought some chicken noodle soup down to the riverbank while Jack tossed a few final flies into the stream. We finally went back to the van and crashed.

In the morning, a bit discouraged about being skunked the previous day, we talked over the options, whether to hike downstream to try to find where the fish went, or to move to Bear Valley Creek and give that tributary a try. Carol ran into Scott and Vickie while walking up the road, and they asked why, since Jack really wanted to fish the Middle Fork of the Salmon, we didn't just drive the 20+ miles to get there (the spot near where the rafters launch). I told them that we'd been told either the dirt road was too rough for our little RV van, or the road might be closed because of the fire. They said our van could easily negotiate the road ("I've seen people bring their Cadillacs in there!" said Scott.) And they said the fire had been put out in that area and the road was open. They encouraged us to go there, to the Dagger Falls campground, where Scott had fished a number of times, and he even told exactly where Jack should fish.

So that did it. Off we went to Dagger Falls, excited to find out that we could actually get to the famous Middle Fork and Jack could fish those waters! The drive was beautiful and the road was long but no worse than others we've had the van on during this trip. This is a serious wilderness area --millions of contiguous acres with no roads at all. We arrived at Dagger Falls around 1:30 pm and were awestruck at the powerful falls and the beautiful clear water.

Gorgeous fall scenery like this was everywhere on the drive to Dagger Falls.

Another gorgeous fall mountain scene. 

As we descended the last mountain, off in the distance (middle of photo) was the rafters camp, where they put onto the Middle Fork of the Salmon. Note dirt road on the right we took to Dagger Falls.

Carol at Dagger Falls viewing spot. Hard to imaging spawning salmon making it up over this falls.

Jack's fishing story #2

Below Dagger Falls was a beautiful pool that just had to contain fish. As usual I started with dry fly patterns even though I saw no insects coming off the river. After nearly exhausting my dry fly patterns, I tried several nymph and streamer patterns. No luck.

Jack fishing a lovely hole below the falls.

Let me see... there's got to be some trout in this pool.

Scott had told me he liked a hole upstream of the pedestrian bridge over the river above the falls. I put on a new leader and a new attractor dry fly pattern and waded alongside the river, casting to likely runs where I expected trout. I even eventually tied on a nymph pattern as a dropper from my large dry fly, which usually does the trick. I fished all the way to the head of the pool where the river was rushing over some large rocks without so much as one strike.

The bridge looking upstream at the rapids and pool

Across the bridge lay an enchanted forest.

An entangled enchanted forest.

Jack on the enchanted forest side of the pool fishing upriver. Can you find me?

Just then Carol joined me and I told her how frustrated I was that I had not got any strikes at all. Carol suggested that I put on the smallest nymph I had with me and try the rapids. I found a small size 18 beaded Hare's Ear nymph and cast into the rapids and let the nymph swing slowly in the current while I raised and lowered the nymph to make it appear as an emerging nymph trying to get to the surface. On the first cast, I had a good strike, but the fish got off. Two more attempts and I caught my first fish. It was a 10-inch, or so, Mountain Whitefish.

Fish on! (Finally...)

A small one.

A Mountain Whitefish is a strange game fish in that it has a small sucker type mouth that makes one wonder how they can catch an undulating nymph in a strong current. I recalled that the first fish I caught on a dry fly several years ago on the Henry's Fork of the Snake River in Idaho was a Mountain Whitefish. How could a fish with a downturned small sucker mouth take a dry fly off the top of a river? I wondered then as I wonder now.

Another cast got me into a much larger fish. This one stripped line off my reel and fought very hard. In the background I heard Carol yelling, "Keep your rod up," as she tried to get out her camera. Carol has turned into quite a fishing guide, I thought to myself. When I finally got this big fish in, which I was sure was at least an 18-inch cutthroat trout, it was, to my great surprise, an 18-inch Mountain Whitefish.

A bigger fish.

While not a trout, it is a game fish and by my rules I get to check off any stream from my Top 100 list as long as I catch a game fish on a fly. Speaking of game fish, the definition is a bit vague. It's any fish that anglers pursue for sport. To me it's any fish that fights hard. As a kid I loved to fish for brook trout in the Laurel Mountains near Uniontown, Pennsylvania. Much later I found out this fish, native to the Appalachian Mountains, is not really a trout but a char. To me they are the best eating fish. They have a pinkish flesh that is delicious. Out west where I am fishing now, the bag limit of brook trout is 25 per day (in Pennsylvania the limit is 6 brook trout. Westerners maintain the brook trout competes with the native cutthroat trout so they want to get rid of brook trout. Some anglers feel the same about Mountain Whitefish. My rule is to turn all wild trout back into the water unharmed. But I have one exception. When a state such as Idaho or Montana puts a bag limit of 25 fish per day for a fish I love to eat, then I take a few for eating. In the eastern waters, I turn back every wild trout, no exceptions

My fishing story would not be complete without telling you about the American Dipper. This is a small charming little bird the runs along the rocks and fishes for aquatic insects (nymphs). I first saw one on a Colorado stream several years ago and could hardly believe my eyes. They always seem to follow me. Here are two photos of the jolly little bird who seems to have the same color as the rocks in this stream.

Here is the American Dipper that Carol photographed as I fished.The bird is in the center. He bobs up and down on his little legs and then walks right into the water, often completely disappearing underwater.

Here's the American Dipper a moment later with his head underwater about to grab an insect.

He stays next to the edge of streams, lest he become fish food for a lunker.

[end of fishing story #2]

Carol met another fisherman streamside and he told her that the pool just above the falls, although difficult to reach, had some fantastic fish in it. Carol and Jack both scouted it out--it required some slightly dangerous boulder scrambling to get down to the water but looked like a fabulous deep pool. Carol scrambled down and it was definitely possible. Since it was late when Jack caught the two fish, we decided to stay the night there at the Dagger Falls Campground so Jack could hopefully fish this pool in the a.m., rather than driving back at night to our other campsite at Lola Creek Campground.

Carol above the pool which is about 35 feet below where she's. standing.

Jack at the same spot thinking maybe he could just lower his line into the deep pool.

But what would happen if he caught one?

However, it rained quite a bit during the night and we decided to get up in the morning and drive back to our original campsite rather than fish more, since the boulders would be extra slippery and it seemed too risky. We also wanted to see and say goodbye and "thank-you" to Vickie and Scott. (We knew they'd be worried when we didn't come back to Lola Creek last night.) We'll always remember their kindness and thoughtfulness --when we weren't back at our site by dark, they even brought some dry wood to our campsite so we could have a warm fire when we got back late. Really nice folks! And Scott gave Jack a neat Idaho souvenir "Flyfish" hat! Thanks, y'all!!

Vickie and Scott, really nice people who gave us great advice. 

Hope we meet again on the road somewhere!

Jack with the new hat that Scott gave him,

It was a satisfying conclusion to our Idaho odyssey--all three rivers, including the real Middle Fork, checked off, with fish caught in all of them. Now we're making our plan to move into Oregon. We drove down into Boise today, our route taking us through parts of huge burned areas from the Pioneer Fire. We never saw any actual fire, but just the results of it. We saw one of the large staging areas for the firefighters in the town of Lowman. Interestingly, we also drove through areas of past wildfires, from 2 and 3 years ago, and the trees and plants are coming back.

Fire Traffic ahead.

Looking down on firefighters staging area and camp in Lowman.

Burned trees right next to the road.

We drove on state highway 21 all the way to Boise, and it took us through the little historical town of Idaho City, which had been a gold mining town in the 1860s. It has board sidewalks and neat old brick buildings--very Old West. Apparently for a short time, this little place was the biggest city in the Pacific Northwest!

Old brick courthouse from 1800s is still the courthouse for the county.

Jack with one of the street gals he ran into on the boardwalk.