The Redband Revival

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  • Woah, That Fly is HUGE!

    I was making my weekly rounds through The Patient Angler Fly Shop earlier today and got on the topic of flies for the Crooked River. Peter, the shop proprietor, shared a recent experience:

    He pulled up to his favorite hole, only to find it crowded with a group of anglers. Peter patiently waited as the group eventually packed up and headed back to their cars.

    “Did you catch anything?” he asked.
    “Nope,” they said. “There aren’t any fish in this run.”

    Peter made his way down… and proceeded to pull 10 fish out of that very hole.
    The difference? Tiny bugs.

    Bigger Isn’t Always Better

    There are plenty of reasons anglers reach for big bugs. Maybe they see caddis hatching and grab the first one they see in their fly box—laziness. Maybe they believe that bigger flies catch bigger fish. Or maybe they think a larger fly is just easier for a trout to see.

    Sometimes, it’s a simple case of misjudging size. A skittering caddis looks a lot bigger on the water than it does resting on a leaf near the bank.

    Matching the hatch doesn’t just mean using a dry fly labeled “mayfly.” There are dozens of different species of mayflies in any given stream. Some are big—like Hexagenia—while others, like tiny BWOs, are barely visible to the naked eye. With such a wide range of bug sizes, we need to look more carefully at what trout are actually eating.

    Why Small Flies Work Better (Most of the Time)

    My buddy Lucas and I were talking one morning about using large vs. small stonefly nymphs on a local river. The conversation drifted into insect lifecycles—and how much their size varies throughout the year.

    A stonefly nymph doesn’t just become that big overnight. It grows over time. And since they can take multiple years to mature, there are multiple generations of nymphs in the water at any given time, each at a different stage. The adult bugs we see crawling along the rocks? They’re the survivors—the minority, not the majority.

    This is one reason I lean toward smaller flies, especially on pressured rivers. Most anglers throw huge stoneflies because they’ve seen adult salmonflies on the banks and assume that’s what fish want. But I’d rather tie on a smaller, more immature stonefly to imitate the broader biomass of nymphs drifting below the surface.

    In general, there are simply more small bugs in the river. Not every insect makes it to maturity—far from it. The ratio of eggs laid to adult emergence is massive. So while adult insects may look uniform in size, the subaquatic buffet trout feed on is made up of countless smaller stages.

    Your size 12 or 14 stonefly likely looks more natural drifting through a riffle in October than a size 6 salmonfly. (Remember: salmonflies hatch in May on the Deschutes.) A smaller fly draws less suspicion, especially in clear water.

    Matching the Natural Forage

    As fly anglers, we should always aim to imitate what the fish are actually eating—not just what’s easiest for us to tie on.

    Many rivers in Oregon (and beyond) are loaded with midges, micro-mayflies, and other tiny aquatic insects. It may not be as fun to tie on a size 22 midge, but doing so will often produce better results.

    When Peter was on the Crooked River, he noticed the trout were nosing up just below the surface—not quite rising. They were feeding on emergers. Using his decades of local knowledge, he tied on a size 22 emerging midge and absolutely cleaned up, fishing the same water where the previous group got skunked.

    How to Fish Small Flies Effectively

    1. Use lighter tippet.
    Yes, thinner tippet can be harder to fight fish on—but if you’re playing fish properly, 5x to 6x will hold. Thicker tippet has two major downsides when fishing small flies:

    • It’s harder to thread through tiny hook eyes.
    • It reduces the natural drift due to increased stiffness.

    2. Fish longer leaders.
    Small flies tend to shine in softer currents with swirling micro-eddies. A long leader gives your fly the slack it needs for a true drag-free drift and helps you stay stealthy in tight seams and backwater pockets.

    A Final Tip on Fly Size

    A guide once told me:

    “Pick the fly that matches the hatch, then go one size smaller.”

    It’s a simple rule, but one I follow constantly. When I compare a drifting spinner or caddis on my hand to my fly box, I always go one size down. That small change often makes the difference between fooling a wary trout and going home empty-handed.

    And don’t worry about whether fish can see your fly—they can.
    Fish spend their entire lives watching food drift toward them. Between their visual acuity and their lateral line sensitivity, they’ll find that size 22 midge long before you even spot your own indicator.

    Fish On, and Fish Small.

    —T

  • Oregon Outback Adventure: Bass on the Fly and the Biggest Steak of Your Life

    The Oregon Outback is a different kind of Oregon. Compared to the Willamette Valley or the Oregon Coast, this place feels wild and untamed. Think sagebrush, arid terrain, and a step back in time to the golden age of ranching in Central Oregon. We did an overnight camping trip here to escape the crowds and disconnect—even if just for one day.

    My fiancée Kate and my buddy Mike at Crack in the Ground — a volcanic fissure over 2 miles long and up to 70 feet deep in some places.

    The Oregon Outback: What and Where

    Most people outside the state think of Oregon as heavily forested, rainy, and infested with hippies and vanlifers. That couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the entire area east of the Cascade Range is dry and considered high desert. Southeastern Oregon is even drier and predominantly flat, with the exception of a few volcanic formations.

    The Oregon Outback is sparsely populated and probably has more cattle than people. Hay farms are sprinkled throughout the sagebrush ecosystem, alongside the occasional abandoned singlewide trailer. The region is better known for its geological formations and volcanic legacy than for its fishing. Think landmarks like Fort Rock, Hole in the Ground, and Crack in the Ground.

    Waking up at our campsite in the Fremont-Winema National Forest.

    The Camping

    We set up camp near one of the few lakes that dot the Oregon Outback. These bodies of water—and the surrounding marshlands—serve as oases and sanctuaries for birdlife. Our campsite was in a developed USFS campground in the Fremont-Winema National Forest. From our campfire, we watched deer stop in for a drink and Forster’s Terns diving for minnows lurking in the reeds.

    The road in was covered in cinder and flanked by basalt rimrock, as much of Central Oregon is.

    One thing to note is the overwhelming quiet in this wilderness. We were many miles from the nearest town and even further from any notable population center. No humming motors, no rumble from the highway—just birds chattering and splashing in the nearby reservoir. The cherry on top? No cell service—a feature I specifically seek out when choosing where to camp.

    That’s a bigass bass!

    Bass on the Fly: Fishing in the Desert

    When we first arrived at the lake, an algal bloom was in full swing. The water was so green we were convinced there might not be any fish at all. It didn’t help that the most recent fishing report was nearly ten years old and mentioned a lake drawdown that had killed most of the fish.

    Still, we gave it a shot. That afternoon, we hopped on paddleboards and trolled the muck with a couple of woolly buggers. The mission was mostly to explore and see if anything was alive out there. We saw nothing. As dusk rolled in, we scanned the lake with binoculars for signs of fish—also nothing.

    The next morning felt different. Waking to birdsong is always a privilege. Over a crackling fire and sips of hot black coffee, we scanned the lake again. There were bugs on the water. Maybe some fish activity further down the shoreline? It was hard to tell.

    Mike and I finished our coffees (and a couple of Miller High Lifes) and rigged up again. Hiking along the shoreline, we stumbled across some shattered obsidian—ancient arrowheads? Who knows. Eventually, we emerged from the weeds and took up stations on rocks lining the marshy edge.

    We both tied on poppers. Mike used his 6wt, and I stuck with my trusty St. Croix 5wt. A few casts later, Mike convinced a largemouth bass to investigate his fly. I switched back to a dark woolly bugger for confidence’s sake. An hour of casting yielded a bass every five casts. The fish weren’t fazed by the algae matting the surface.

    Then it happened. One cast in, my line suddenly drew tight. I strip-set into what I thought was a rock—until the “rock” started moving. This was the first fish of the day that put a serious bend in my 5wt. It thrashed in the shallows, displacing water like a wake. A few minutes later, it was in the net: a bigass largemouth bass.

    Cowboy Dinner Tree is a step back in time.

    Cowboy Dinner Tree: The Real Reason for the Trip

    The other reason we came out to the arid wilderness—besides camping—was a reservation we made a month earlier at the Cowboy Dinner Tree. This place holds an almost mythical presence in Central Oregon and is an experience every Oregonian should have at least once.

    Cash only. No cards. No checks. No KIDDING!

    The restaurant is unlike anywhere I’ve ever eaten. Old wood, low ceilings, and dusty western memorabilia everywhere. The building was converted from an old cowboy bunkhouse in 1992 by a local couple hoping to preserve the history of cattle driving in the Outback.

    The site had been used for decades by cowhands pushing cattle to the Sycan Marsh—halfway there, it was a spot for shade, biscuits, and beans from a chuckwagon under a big juniper tree.

    Dining here is by reservation only, served family-style, and beautifully simple.

    You start with a bowl of salad for the table and warm yeasted dinner rolls. Then comes the largest bowl of beans you’ve ever seen—easily 2–3 quarts. But the main event is the entrée: you choose between a 2-lb steak or an entire roasted chicken, each served with a baked potato. Kate, Mike, and I all opted for the massive steak.

    Cooked perfectly to medium rare and well-seasoned, we each made it about a third of the way through before admitting defeat. Then, out came dessert: strawberry-marionberry shortcake.

    Pure bliss.

    Thankfully, they provide to-go bags—we left with enough leftovers to fill a cooler.

    You won’t go hungry at the Cowboy Dinner Tree! And yes, those are full-size dinner plates.

    Rugged Hospitality

    The Cowboy Dinner Tree embodies the spirit of the Oregon Outback: rugged, wild, and nostalgic. People don’t come to this part of Oregon for fine dining or Instagrammable waterfalls. They come to experience life as it once was—surrounded by the warmth of family and friends.

    They come for the taste of the Old West, to gather around a fire after a long day—not unlike the cowboys did generations ago. Only now, the fires are accompanied by s’mores and a couple of beers. The laughter around the flames? That part hasn’t changed.

    – T

  • My First Wild Steelhead: The Fish That Hooked Me

    The first time I brought a wild steelhead to hand on the swing changed my life.
    For the better? I’m not so sure.

    I was perfectly happy fishing for 14-inch redbands before that fish rattled me to my core. The bend in my 8wt, the line flying off my reel uncontrollably, the heft of a specimen that had overcome unthinkable adversity—only to be fooled by some purple feathers. This fish changed something in me, and now I’m going to tell you about it.

    Muddlers are typically swung in the surface film or on the surface as a waking fly.

    A Synopsis on Steelhead in the Deschutes

    Steelhead and Columbia redband trout are genetically the same fish. The difference? Steelhead are anadromous—they migrate to the ocean where they gorge themselves before swimming upriver to their natal streams to spawn.

    It’s unclear why some redbands stay in freshwater their whole lives while others head to sea. Some trout born to steelhead parents never migrate, and some redbands end up making the journey to the ocean. What is clear: the tremendous size and power of a steelhead is directly tied to its time spent in saltwater.

    All Deschutes steelhead are considered “summer run”, meaning they begin migrating upstream in summer, while river levels are dropping. They stage at the mouths of their home streams until fall and winter rains raise water levels—then make their final push upstream. Unlike salmon, steelhead can survive spawning and return to the ocean to repeat the process.

    Young steelhead in the Deschutes typically spend 1–2 years in freshwater, feeding in the nutrient-rich river before heading to the Pacific. In the ocean, they bulk up for 1–2 years, preparing for the long journey back. Once they re-enter freshwater, they stop eating—laser-focused on one goal: spawn.

    The Challenge of Fly Fishing for Steelhead

    Because steelhead don’t feed during their migration, we rely on other instincts to provoke a take. Swinging a fly in front of a resting steelhead evokes a territorial or predatory response—we’re not exactly sure which. Either way, the fish lashes out. No hands? No problem. They use their mouths.

    It’s well-known that swinging a fly is the most challenging way to catch a steelhead. Gear anglers use plugs and spinners that cause serious disturbance. Some fly anglers turn to dead-drifting egg patterns and nymphs—even though steelhead aren’t feeding. Still, the easy snack of a nuke egg or stonefly often gets more grabs than a traditional swing.

    My buddy Lucas prefers Euro nymphing with his 6wt Diamondback Ideal Nymph. Using a heavy egg-sucking leech, he keeps the fly in the zone, dancing in the soft current near the boulders in the heads of runs. It’s technical, effective, and satisfying for him.

    The Streetwalker should be a staple for any Deschutes steelhead box. I like to tie mine sparsely.

    My First Steelhead on the Swing

    Being a fishing masochist, I prefer a swung fly on a dry line. I love casting a two-handed rod, feeling the tension as the fly sweeps slowly across the current. While I appreciate a visible V-wake on a skater, I’ve had more success on traditional wet flies swung a foot or two below the surface.

    One morning, I launched my raft downstream of Buckhollow. I was solo and late to launch, rigging up while the rest of the crowd hit the water. It was going to be hot—I knew I had just a few hours before the bite turned off.

    At the time, I didn’t own a two-hander. I was still learning how to swing flies on a floating line with my single-hand rod: an Echo Ion XL 9’ 8wt, usually reserved for chucking heavy nymphs or bull trout streamers. That morning, I tied on a size 5 Streetwalker with a 12-foot tapered leader.

    I pulled into my first run of the day. The current was even, with a couple of boulders and depressions in a 100-yard stretch I knew held fish. The tall grass behind me made casting tricky, but the weight-forward line handled roll casts well. My double-haul overheads rocketed the line out.

    Just 10 yards down the run, the line went tight. I dropped the rod to the side and set the hook. The reel screamed.

    Steelhead on!

    The first run peeled off 100 feet of line and another 50 feet of backing. For such soft current, I knew this was a big fish. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, I saw her jump—maybe 8 to 10 pounds, large for a Deschutes summer-run fish.

    She ran again, almost into the backing. Eventually, she rolled over, exhausted, and I slid her into the net. A bright, wild hen, about 30 inches long and close to 10 pounds. I took a video instead of photos to keep her wet. Supporting her in cooler water just off the bank, I let her recover.

    Then, with a strong kick of the tail—
    She was gone.

    What a way to land my first steelhead on the swing.

    My first Deschutes fish on a swung fly. A beautiful wild hen.

    A Special Fish

    Steelhead numbers are in rapid decline due to river mismanagement and broken promises. Dam operators continue to violate water quality standards, and conditions grow less hospitable for these incredible fish. Though large, steelhead are fragile—and we’re pushing them to the brink.

    But these fish are too special to give up on.

    If we want future generations to experience the joy of releasing a steelhead, we must speak up now. Not later. Not next season.
    Now.

    —T

  • A Weekend at the North Umpqua

    Morning over the fly water on the North Umpqua River. This is one of the slower runs you’ll encounter.

    The North Umpqua River originates high in the Cascades—in the Mount Thielsen Wilderness, to be precise. It slides down the western slope into Toketee Lake, where we set up camp. The 33 miles of fly-only water below the lake are heavily regulated, wild, and beautiful. Like the Deschutes, the North Umpqua is home to Oregon’s wild native steelhead. The river is rich in history and is known as one of the most challenging and rewarding steelhead fisheries in North America.

    Setting Up Camp

    It takes me about two and a half hours to drive from the north end of Redmond, where I live, to Toketee Lake Campground. It’s a straight shot down Highway 97 before heading west on Highway 138, past Crater Lake, and into the Umpqua National Forest.

    Toketee Lake Campground is one of my favorite places to stay for several reasons:

    • The campsites are tucked along a thin stretch of the river.
    • There’s plenty of room to spread out.
    • It’s a central location for a variety of family activities while staying close to my favorite fishing holes.

    Toketee Lake is big enough for paddleboarding, kayaking, or canoeing. It’s just a 4-mile drive to the Umpqua Hot Springs and a short walk from the Toketee Falls Trailhead. The campground sits at the inlet where the river flows into the lake—meaning the trout fishing is usually excellent.

    There’s plenty of structure here to shelter both brown trout and rainbows. The dry fly action can be stellar. Just out from the inlet are thick weed beds. Paddle out and your fins will get wrapped—guaranteed. But if you’re bold enough to cast into the weeds, you just might connect with one of the bigger fish that cruise the lake.

    The Fly Water

    The North Umpqua might be my favorite river to fish, not only for its beauty but for the fly-fishing history etched into its pools and banks.

    The water is cold—very cold. Both summer and winter runs of steelhead travel hundreds of miles from Reedsport to reach the Steamboat area. About two-thirds of the run head up Steamboat Creek, namesake of the Steamboat Inn, which has kept fly fishers warm and fed since the 1950s.

    The regulations on the fly-only section are stringent:

    • No fishing from floating devices
    • No indicators or attached weights
    • Single, barbless fly only
    • Between July 1st and September 30th: fly must be unweighted

    This level of restriction creates a competitive fishery that rewards traditional techniques and tests an angler’s skills. Success relies on:

    • Using sink tips to achieve proper depth
    • Reading water accurately
    • Managing line in conflicting currents

    And based on current fish returns, success tends to be rare.

    The Magic of the Floating Line

    The summer steelhead here are known for being surface-oriented. That means anglers get the privilege of swinging flies using one of the most enjoyable methods possible.

    The setup is simple:

    • Floating lines
    • 15-foot tapered leaders
    • Light flies like muddlers, bombers, and skaters

    Fish these early in the morning before the sun and crowds hit the water. Choose a run with even current, make your cast, and let the fly wake slowly across the surface. After 10am, your best bet is a traditional hair wing fly paired with an intermediate polyleader. Check out my other posts on rigging for summer steelhead for a more in-depth setup breakdown.

    My personal success came on the one morning I dedicated to swinging for steelhead during our long weekend. I left camp at 4:45am, careful not to wake my fiancée (she’s a light sleeper). Some of my favorite pullouts were already taken—word must’ve spread that the fish were showing up in the fly water.

    Eventually, I settled a few miles below Steamboat Inn at a smooth, glassy run. The head of the pool was turbulent, but it soon transitioned into a slow, even flow—4 to 6 feet deep—before reaching the tailout where the current picked up again.

    I started at the top of the pool, casting a size 5 black muddler tied in the style of a green butt skunk:

    • UV chartreuse thread butt
    • Slim black body
    • Red cactus chenille bolster
    • Black spun cow elk
    • Lady Amherst tailing, replacing the usual white wing

    The first half of the run offered nothing. Then, about 30 yards above the tailout, I heard a splash behind me and turned to see a chrome flash disappear into the current. That fish wasn’t interested in my muddler.

    Still, I swung the fly through the tailout. The water split around a submerged volcanic spine just beneath the surface. At the top of that spine, I saw a swirl, then a nose breach the water and pull my muddler under. The line drew tight—two deep pulses—and then nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Swapped flies. Still nothing. Such is the North Umpqua.

    The Rest of the Weekend

    The rest of the weekend was filled with great food and even better company. My brother, his wife, a longtime friend, and my fiancée joined me fireside. We cooked steaks, paella in the Dutch oven, and even breakfast s’mores. I might do a separate post soon with some of my favorite Dutch oven recipes.

    While the ladies hiked to the hot springs one morning, my brother and I explored the trout water above the Steamboat Creek confluence.

    This stretch is more riffled, bouldery, and generally trouty. A 5wt rod is overkill for most of the fish you’ll catch here, but you might need a 6wt in case a steelhead shows up. The technical dry fly fishing was a blast, and the cold, clear water let us watch trout inspect our flies before softly sipping them and disappearing behind their chosen boulders.

    Steelheading on the North

    I absolutely love this river and the challenge it represents. Fishing here is almost spiritual. While I have yet to land a steelhead from the North Umpqua, that fact speaks to the difficulty of the fishery.

    Hooking a fish here is the culmination of:

    • Years of practice swinging flies
    • Dozens (if not hundreds) of hours on this river
    • A masochistic willingness to get skunked

    We’re casting to fish that are already skeptical of flies, in what might be the most technically demanding fly water in North America.

    But it’s that possibility—that the next swing could be the one—that keeps me coming back. That, and the memories.

    – T

  • My Home Waters: The Deschutes

    Floating through the canyon on the Deschutes.

    The first trout I ever caught on a fly rod was on the Deschutes River. Not several miles down a trail or in a section only accessible by boat. Instead, it was an elk hair caddis thrown haphazardly by a pulloff on the highway.

    The fish came after many patient months of learning to cast, learning how to undo hundreds of tangles, and figuring out how to select flies for the conditions. My first trout on a fly came from the Deschutes, so it will always hold a special place in my heart. Since then, I’ve chased native fish on the fly up and down Oregon. This weekend on the North Umpqua really sticks out.

    A Living Landscape

    The Lower Deschutes is only about a 45-minute drive from my home in Redmond—longer if you want to get to the good spots. The river originates as runoff from the Cascade Lakes and proceeds to tumble 250 miles toward the Columbia River. Along the way, the river takes on many different personalities.

    The Upper Deschutes is cold and alternates between waterfalls and slow-moving glass fit for an inner tube. This section, forested and full of log jams and undercut banks, fosters brook trout, brown trout, and some rainbows.

    The Middle Deschutes is also considered the “town section.” The river becomes clogged with paddleboarders, kayakers, and floaters as it courses through Bend and carries on toward Lake Billy Chinook. Along the way, it funnels through tall rimrock and earns a wilder character. The easily accessible sections will give up a couple of browns or rainbows, but the holes at the bottom of cliffsides tend to be the fishiest water. The river enters Lake Billy Chinook and mixes with the cold, clean water of the Metolius and the warm, polluted water of the Crooked.

    The Lower Deschutes officially begins at the bottom of the Pelton-Round Butte Dam complex. This area north of Madras is where the real magic happens. The river courses through a deep and wild canyon that will make you feel insignificant.

    The section between Warm Springs and Trout Creek Campground is called the “day stretch” due to the volume of guide boats taking their clients out for a day trip on the water. It should be noted that it is illegal to fish from a watercraft on the Lower Deschutes—and everyone is damn serious about it.

    The area around Maupin, a small rafting town, is very fishy and has great road access. While the rest of the river is best accessed by boat, Maupin provides a base camp for anyone wanting to fish off the roadside 10 miles north or south of town.

    There’s a stellar fly shop here—The Deschutes Angler. The shop is run by Amy and John Hazel, pioneers in modern steelheading. They can be credited with popularizing the spey rod in the PNW. They’re a wealth of knowledge and passionate about conserving this precious waterway.

    The area below Mack’s Canyon is truly wild. Here, the road ends and the only access is by boat or a long hike down some abandoned railroad tracks. Most boats down here will spend three days floating and fishing their way down to the river mouth at the Columbia River. The area is a brief glimpse of what the river looked like without the interventions of man—before the dams were put in. Wild, scenic, and unforgiving are words that encapsulate the lower reaches of the Deschutes canyon.

    The salmon fly hatch in May draws thousands of anglers from around the world.

    Trout and Steelhead: A Four-Season Fishery

    Most of the year, we fish for native redbands on the Lower Deschutes. The fishing really kicks off in May when the salmonfly hatch begins. Bring big bugs: Chubbies, Clark’s Stones, big Stimulators, and the like. I like to fish a dropper under these big bugs—usually a Pheasant Tail or Nick’s Fatass Caddis nymph.

    In June, we switch to caddis patterns for the next month or two. Any of your classic caddis patterns will work here, but a dark X-Caddis is probably my favorite. Bring plenty of your standard nymphs, as always.

    Fall is when the fishing gets really special. The trout fishing is spectacular—streamer fishing, killer nymphing, mayfly hatches.

    Personally, I get fixated on the steelhead. Deschutes steelhead are notoriously willing to rise to a fly presented on a greased line. Think bombers, Steelhead Bees, and skaters when the sun is off the water. In the middle of the day, use a sparsely tied wet fly or an egg-sucking leech to get the job done. No need to go insanely deep since the fish will move for your fly. As the weather cools down, however, we start to throw smaller intruders and Hoh Boh Speys on T-11.

    A Couple Notes on Deschutes Etiquette

    1. Don’t high- or low-hole anyone.
    Especially if you’re floating. The section below the dam complex is 100 miles long. Give everyone some elbow room.

    2. Never fish under someone swinging a fly.
    This is considered a cardinal sin on the Deschutes—even if it’s a 200-yard run. If you come across your favorite run and see someone swinging flies, politely ask if you can fish behind them. Almost every single time, they’ll say yes and appreciate that you had the consideration to ask. But fish in front of someone, and there might be some fightin’ words—and you’re definitely the one in the wrong.

    Your Home Waters

    Each of us has a piece of home water that we hold near and dear. For whatever reason, it excites us and recurs in our daydreams. Whether it was a special memory or simply the beauty, we keep coming back to the same stretches of river.

    You owe it to yourself to become an expert on your home water and advocate for its conservation. As fly anglers, we develop an intimate understanding of the holistic ecosystem that surrounds the fish: the bugs, the birds, the changing seasons.

    It wasn’t until I started fly fishing that I began to notice the disastrous effect humanity has had on the Deschutes River: warm water flowing out of the dam, pH and temperature swings that encourage algae growth, inconsistent insect hatches, and the decreasing sound of songbirds chanting in the background.

    You’ll only understand if you devote patience to learning your own home waters.

    Learn More

    To learn more about conservation efforts on the Deschutes, check out the Deschutes River Alliance.

    -T

  • How to Ethically Handle Wild Trout for Catch and Release

    I’m strictly a catch-and-release angler—well, maybe more like 95% of the time. Still, I believe catch and release is the most sporting way to fish for wild trout. We have a moral and ethical responsibility to advocate for our local rivers and preserve them for generations to come. After all, the fish will outlast us long after we keel over.

    I’m here to talk about how to ethically handle wild trout for catch and release. I’ve seen too many fish go belly-up within 30 seconds of being “released,” usually because someone needed a crappy iPhone photo. We can—and should—do better.

    One of the most gorgeous redbands I’ve had the pleasure of releasing.

    Why Practice Catch and Release in the First Place?

    For starters, in some places, it’s the law. Don’t be that guy who keeps fish in a stream that’s already on the decline. The game warden may not have seen you, but Jesus did. So did Santa Claus, and that’s why you got coal in your stocking instead of the $1,000 Sage your wife promised you.

    The bigger reason—and why regulations exist—is because catch and release benefits the river. These fish already face enough stress: polluted tailwaters, pH imbalances, swinging temperatures, and declining insect hatches thanks to poor water management. Catch-and-release fishing reduces mortality, which gives anglers more opportunities to hook into fish. More fish in the river means more spawning, which (when done right) leads to greater abundance overall.

    So how do we practice ethical catch and release? Let’s break it down.

    Don’t Overplay Your Fish

    That half-pound dink you caught on your 5-weight doesn’t need to be played out for five minutes. In fact, most steelhead don’t either—if you’re applying proper side pressure and playing fish strategically. Here’s what to do:

    Set the hook with authority. Use the butt of your rod to apply side pressure. Play the fish in softer water rather than letting it wear you out in heavy current. And for the love of trout, fish barbless and use the right tippet size. (I’ve got an entire post on why barbless hooks are the way to go.)

    Keep ‘Em Wet!

    Always wet your hands before handling a fish. That slime coat protects them from infection, and your dry, chapped hands will rub it off—guaranteed. Also, use a rubberized landing net instead of those old-school nylon mesh ones that damage scales and fins.

    Keep the fish’s head and gills in the water so it can recover. When releasing, point its nose into a gentle current and allow its gills to reoxygenate. Support the fish until it swims off on its own. Simple.

    The Money Shot

    I don’t take many fish pics—because it’s not great for the fish. But when I do take a photo or video, I follow a few basic rules:

    • Let the fish recover a little before handling.
    • Support its body so you’re not stressing or compressing internal organs.
    • Take a video instead of a photo—videos are quicker, and you can screenshot your favorite moment later.

    To do it right: support the fish, gently lift it out of the water, pause in-frame for just a second, and then help it back in. Easy. I’ve seen way too many guys re-dunk and re-shoot their catch 15 times like some kind of botched baptism. Don’t be that guy.

    Be Mindful of the Temperature

    I’m talking both air and water temps.

    Don’t shoot a dozen photos on a 90-degree summer day. That’s like holding your fish up to a heat lamp. But even more important is the water temperature. Trout and other salmonids are cold-water species. When water temps rise above 65°F, things start getting dicey. At 70°F, it’s downright dangerous.

    Even if you do everything right, a fish released into warm water might still die from stress and lack of dissolved oxygen.

    At the end of the day, it’s on us as individual anglers to act as conservationists and ambassadors for the sport. We owe it to future generations to preserve the rivers, fish, and wild beauty we’re lucky enough to enjoy.

    Fish hard—but don’t be hard on the fish.

    -T

  • When to Fish Short: The Case for a Light or Short Fly Rod

    My fiancée and I hiked some of the local trails this past weekend. The path pitched and rolled through volcanic terrain before dropping into a stand of trees and running alongside a narrow creek—maybe 20 feet wide at most. I knew this water held small brook trout in a few pockets deeper than six inches. The flow was swift, technical, and choked with dense foliage hovering over the frigid current. As it turns out, my 9’ 5-weight wasn’t up to the task. Yes, I caught fish—no, it was not ideal.

    What is Considered a Sort or Light Fly Rod?

    I define short as anything under 8 feet and light as anything under a 3-weight. Of course, rods can be short and heavy, or long and light. For example, a purpose-built bass rod might be under 8 feet, but it’s stiff and fast-action to throw poppers and push heavy lines through the air. On the other end of the spectrum are Euro-nymphing rods—usually 10 feet or longer and rarely above a 3-weight. The soft tip protects fine tippets, while the powerful butt section provides the backbone to manage surprisingly strong fish.

    One exception to the “long and light” rule? My buddy’s 10’10” 6-weight Ideal Nymph. Built to Euro-nymph for steelhead in pocket water, that rod is proof that there are no hard rules—just tools for specific jobs.

    Situations Where Short or Light Rods Shine


    Tight Quarters:     Think overgrown creeks, brushy banks, and dense tree canopies—anywhere a 9-foot rod turns into a liability. Shorter rods offer real advantages here. Their compact profile makes it easier to navigate tight vegetation, and they allow for quick, compact casting strokes when backcasting isn’t an option. Bow-and-arrow casts are also more precise with a short stick, and that precision can be the difference between a fish and a missed opportunity.

    Small Water: Short rods excel on spring creeks, alpine trickles, and mountain streams. Beyond the benefit of easier casting in tight quarters, lighter-weight rods are better suited for playing the small fish we often find in these environments. Ever set the hook on a six-inch trout only to accidentally launch it into low orbit with your 5-weight? Guilty as charged. And not proud of it.

    Ultralight Tactics for Fun: Let’s be honest—it’s just more fun to fish light tackle. I’m not advocating chasing steelhead on a 2-weight and 6x tippet, but there’s something to be said for prioritizing finesse and feel over brute strength. Of course, it’s our responsibility to balance enjoyment with ethical handling—land fish quickly and release them safely. Light rods also shine in technical dry fly situations. They land flies gently, offer better accuracy at close range, and are more enjoyable to cast when you’re tossing tricos or midges to spooky risers. Trust me—fishing small bugs on light tackle is just more rewarding than lobbing them with your standard 9’ 5-weight.

    Hiking In: Short and light rods are more travel-friendly—whether you’re flying across the country or trekking 10 miles into the backcountry. Especially when exploring alpine lakes or remote streams, you’ll appreciate the reduced weight and bulk. A compact rod is easier to carry rigged, bushwhack through thickets with, and pass fellow hikers without snagging everything in sight. Portability might be one of the greatest strengths of these rods.

    When Not to Use a Short/Light Rod

    There’s a subset of anglers who use trout tackle for steelhead—casting 9’ 4-weights, 5x tippet, and dainty soft hackles. Sure, that sounds like fun, but most of us don’t have the skill (myself included) to land big fish on light gear without risking their well-being. If the fish requires backbone, give it backbone.

    Windy days on the Deschutes are also no time for a 7’6” 3-weight. Light lines struggle in a headwind, and short rods lack the power to push flies across big water. You’ll also have trouble casting heavy flies—whether weighted streamers, nymph rigs, or big dry-dropper setups. Anytime I’m throwing sink tips, indicators, or 4.6mm tungsten beads, I reach for a rod that can handle the load.

    Match Rod Length/Weight to Conditions, Not Ego

    Alpine creeks deserve a 7’6” 2-weight. Technical spring creeks call for a 8′ 3-weight. A compact pack rod is perfect for a 10-mile hike with 2,000 feet of elevation gain. Fiberglass rods are a joy for casting small dries. It’s about having the right tool for the job.

    Think about the size of fish you’re targeting and the water you’ll be fishing. Short and light rods are precision instruments, not just toys or training wheels. Build some versatility into your quiver. Just like you wouldn’t use a Phillips screwdriver for a flat-head screw, you don’t want to be stuck with one rod for every situation.

    Most of us start with the all-purpose 9’ 5-weight—but that shouldn’t be the end of your gear journey. Your rod collection becomes an expression of your preferred tactics and the waters you frequent. Over time, it can also reflect your personality—especially when you start adding custom builds or vintage glass into the mix.

    That said, you don’t need to spend thousands to fish three species in three environments. My buddy Mike is a perfect example. His quiver includes 5-weights, 6-weights, 8-weights, and two-handers—all purchased secondhand. None of them would’ve cost more than $250 new. And guess what? The man catches a ton of fish. He won’t replace a rod unless he can’t get parts anymore. That’s one of the reasons I appreciate Mike—he’s a patient, utilitarian guy who believes fishing shouldn’t be stressful or overcomplicated.

    Long story short: Sometimes, less rod is more fish.

    -T

  • Why Local Fly Shops Still Matter in the Age of Amazon

    With two-day shipping and endless options, why would anyone still shop at a brick-and-mortar store? The reasons go far beyond just “supporting local.” Your local fly shop is more than a retail space — it’s the cultural hub, knowledge base, and community anchor of the sport. It’s where fly anglers trade tips and stories, but never their best holes.

    Fin and Fire in Redmond is more than a fly shop — it’s a hub for the fly fishing and hunting community. Check out their podcast sometime!

    Online Convenience Has Its Limitations

    Simply put, one-size-fits-all gear rarely works on your home waters. Big online retailers push an overwhelming selection of generic flies that lack the finesse to excel on the Deschutes, the Umpqua, and definitely the Metolius. Even the specialty fly fishing websites don’t understand the nuances of local hatches or the feeding behavior of spooky fish.

    And let’s be honest — those big-box retailers will probably recommend a 9’ 5wt for every body of trout water, without considering whether your local fish max out at eight inches or tend to hold beneath tangled overhangs.

    Your local fly shop is a source of real, timely knowledge. With anglers constantly coming and going, the shop gets fresh, accurate reports daily. The fly bins are stocked with patterns that are proven to work on your local rivers — not just generic size 12 pheasant tails. They’ll even let you know what sizes the fish prefer during specific seasons.

    Need a specialized setup? Your local shop can dial it in — from rod weight down to the 15-foot tapered 6x leader you’ll need to drift a dry fly through conflicting microcurrents. And if something breaks, they’ll give you an honest take on whether it’s worth fixing or replacing. Sometimes, they’ll even fix it for you.

    A Place to Touch, Cast, and Compare Gear

    Here’s a case study: the Redington Behemoth is widely praised online as an indestructible reel with strong drag, thoughtful design, and an affordable price. And while I agree with most of that, the “thoughtful design” part doesn’t hold up. It’s not until you hold it in your hand that you realize it’s a heavy, clunky paperweight that lacks finesse. Yes, it’s durable — but it’s unpleasant to use and way too heavy for any single-hand rod I’ve encountered.

    I do own a Behemoth, but only because I scored it used at a great price. It lives on my switch rod, where a heavier reel actually helps anchor the rod during the casting stroke.

    When you browse your local fly bins, you’ll also find flies you won’t see online. That’s because fly shop nerds tie patterns specifically for your local waters. Two of my local shops — The Fly Fisher’s Place and Patient Angler — absolutely get this. The owners have spent decades crafting patterns that consistently fool fish on the same rivers they’ve been fishing since the ‘80s. I’d like to see Amazon try to match that.

    But Trev, the Online Prices Are Just Too Good!

    Lies.

    I’ve done the homework. The fly prices are basically the same, and most gear pricing is locked in by manufacturer agreements. That’s right — the $500 Grundéns Vector waders cost the same online as they did at my local shop (which is where I bought mine).

    The difference? That markup at your local shop goes back into your community, not into a venture capital firm’s pocket. Your dollars support real people, not corporate dickheads and stock buybacks.

    Peter Bowers, owner of the Patient Angler, is one of the most down to earth, helpful, and kindest guys I know. Photo from his feature in Bend Magazine.

    The Bottom Line

    Supporting your local fly shop builds a culture around fly fishing, not just a transactional economy. Your money helps real people who dedicate their time, energy, and knowledge to helping you catch more fish. It also funds conservation work: stream restorations, local cleanups, regional nonprofits, and guide coalitions all benefit from shop-backed stewardship.

    I shop local because I’ve made friendships with shop staff. Sometimes I just pop in to ask about a bug they posted on Instagram or to shoot the shit about water levels.

    Shops I Frequent in Central Oregon

    • The Patient Angler: Peter and Steven are the most genuinely helpful guys I’ve ever met. They’ve provided top-notch service for over 40 years.
    • Fin and Fire: Chris and Paul are super cool hombres. Chris once lent me a sink tip from his personal leader wallet for a steelhead weekend. Their Iron Chef-style fly tying competition is the highlight of my winter.
    • The Fly Fisher’s Place: Jeff is a top-tier tyer and stillwater angler. He writes the best fishing report in town and will get you hooked on the ghost fish of the Metolius.
    Central Oregon Fly Fishing Shop — Guided Fishing — Sisters Oregon
    • Bend Fly Shop: These folks live and breathe Spey.
    Bend Fly Shop
    • Confluence Fly Shop: Tye is a well-traveled storyteller and a killer artist. Check out his fish illustrations — and his conservation work, too.
    Home

    Support your damn shops.

    -T

  • Big Flies, No Bites: Streamer Days and Humble Lessons

    You already know the feeling. You open your boat box filled with a hundred combinations of fur and feathers, tie on a piece of meat, and start hucking streamers at brown trout that might as well be vegan. That’s what happened to me this past weekend on my home waters.

    It’s one of the only sections around here where you can fish from a drift boat. Calm water, mottled cloud cover, mid-60s, and a cooler of Rainiers. I’d committed to throwing streamers at the banks all day. That’s right—while trout were rising everywhere, I kept my 8wt in hand and lobbed meat at logjams. I had some great follows, a few flashes, even a pricked jaw or two, but nothing to the net. Days like these make me wish I’d brought my dry fly rod—and left my hubris at home.

    Getting skunked on a day like this, with the boys, beats working 11/10 times.

    The Game Plan

    This time of year is a great window to entice local brown trout with 4-inch sculpin and baitfish patterns. While olive is usually the ticket, yellow can get the job done too. The key with streamer color is not to get stuck on one. Kelly Galloup says it best: if you haven’t moved a fish in 15 minutes, change colors.

    I’ve found that contrast makes a big difference. Among the sculpins, buggers, dungeons, and D&Ds, most of my flies have a light belly and a darker top—maybe even some mottling in the collar for good measure.

    Rods and lines matter. A fast-action rod with a heavy weight-forward taper line gets the job done. Leave the 4-weights at home—bring at least a 6wt if you want a chance at launching that articulated bug more than ten feet. The Scientific Anglers Sonar Titan 3D is a solid choice for boat work. A fast-sinking tip paired with an intermediate running line makes your life a lot easier from the drift boat. If you’re wading, go with a line that has a floating handling section so you’re not getting tangled around every rock in the river.

    We fish the structure, and we fish a lot of it—cast after cast into cut banks and logjams until our shoulders are sore. We run flies off rock shelves and behind boulders. Brown trout—especially the big ones—hang out in slower water with plenty of hiding spots. Logjams and undercut banks offer the cover they need to ambush wounded baitfish and stay out of the afternoon sun.

    Big flies like this yellow dungeon are well-suited for brown trout fishing with heavy rods.

    The Grind (The Skunking)

    Honestly, I feel like we did everything right—changing flies, varying retrieves, casting into fishy structure. And I know we did everything right, because the day was full of action. Fish followed our flies right up to the boat. But as the day wore on, we had to accept it: this was going to be one of those days.

    The occasional missed grab almost made it worse. Feeling the headshakes, only to lose the fish halfway in—classic barbless heartbreak. I could lie to myself and say I didn’t commit to the strip set. But really, it was the hooks. Or the moon phase. Probably both.

    Reflecting on a Tough Day

    Streamer fishing and steelheading require the same mindset. You commit to the hunt, even when it doesn’t pan out. The ones who keep coming back—who dedicate themselves to a lifetime of shellackings—enjoy the process: the method, the obsession, the moment when you fool a fish, even just for a second.

    Like steelheading, streamer fishing isn’t about numbers. It’s about that one fish—THE fish. And sometimes, the fish doesn’t show. But we keep grinding, because we know that one day, it will. And when it does, we’ll be ready.

    I’ll be back out there when the clouds roll in.

    -T

  • Drift Boat or Raft? What to Row (and Why)

    Personal pontoons are a fun way to float the river, provided the rapids aren’t too gnarly.

    Ask ten guys on the river what’s better—a drift boat or a raft—and you’ll get eleven different answers. I’ve rowed both and read countless forum arguments about which one reigns supreme. Here’s what I’ve learned.

    The cop-out answer is: “It depends.” I know—that’s not what you’re looking for, but hear me out. Each vessel serves a unique purpose and has its place on the river. The decision to buy one or the other depends on your rowing style, the type of water you’re running, how much gear or how many passengers you’re transporting, and what activities you prioritize. I’ll break it down as simply as I can.

    Rays River Dories builds some of the most beautiful drift boats to ever grace a river.

    Drift Boat

    The boat that conquered the West. When most of us picture a drift boat, we imagine the classic McKenzie or Rogue River styles: high sides, flat bottoms, and lots of rocker. These boats are responsive, track well, and offer a great casting platform.

    Drift boats come in various materials—from wood to aluminum to fiberglass. Each has its pros and cons, and the choice usually comes down to personal preference. Drift boat captains need to stay sharp on the oars; a bad line through a rapid can punch a hole in your boat. That’s not to say they can’t handle whitewater—just look up dory captains sending massive standing waves on the Colorado River.

    Drift boats have three major advantages that rafts can’t match: stability, comfort, and aesthetic. Their rigid bottoms make for ideal casting platforms. High sides keep anglers dry and seated comfortably—though they do catch the wind. And let’s be honest: a well-maintained wooden drift boat floating downriver will always turn heads.

    Rafts are rugged and built for maximum utility.

    Raft

    Rafts are inflatable boats made of PVC or Hypalon (rubber). A metal frame supports seats, gear, and casting platforms, giving the vessel its structure. These boats are more forgiving in rough or shallow water, tending to bounce off rocks rather than smash into them—but don’t let their durability become a crutch. Get comfortable behind the sticks.

    Rafts have a shallow draft and a wide footprint, which helps them track well downriver. However, they can be sluggish compared to a drift boat, so plan your lines early.

    Rafts are the ultimate utilitarian river vehicle. Framed designs offer endless customization to match your rowing style. Add casting platforms, cooler mounts, and cargo tie-downs as needed. Raft floors come in I-beam or drop-stitch construction—the latter being better for standing and casting.

    Side-by-Side Comparison

    CategoryDrift BoatRaft
    DurabilityTough but rigid – can dent or crackHighly durable and forgiving
    Shallow WaterTracks well in moderate shallow waterLow draft – performs well in skinny water
    RapidsClass I-III no problemUp to Class V with proper skills
    Casting PlatformStable and ideal for multiple anglersStable with key modifications
    PortabilityTrailer requiredTrailer, roof rack, or rolled in a car
    MaintenanceFill scratches and dents, repaint regularlyLearn to patch and use UV protectant
    CostUsually more expensive upfrontGenerally more budget-friendly
    AestheticClassic, clean, sexy linesUtilitarian and rugged

    Transporting Your Vessel

    No question—having a dedicated trailer is the best way to transport your drift boat or raft. But trailers add a few grand to your setup, and then there’s the issue of storage.

    If space and transport are major concerns, go with the raft. While it’s inconvenient, you can deflate, roll, and haul it in the back of an SUV. I’ve seen people strap them (inflated) to the roof of a Subaru or rest them across truck bed rails—that’s how I transport mine.

    A Word on Maintenance

    There’s no such thing as a maintenance-free boat. Period.

    Drift boats need occasional varnishing, repainting, and gelcoat repairs. Rafts need patching and regular UV protectant applications. Both need to be cleaned—not just for looks or longevity, but to prevent spreading invasive species. Transporting aquatic hitchhikers between watersheds is a dick move.

    Clean your damn boat.

    The Grand Canyon style of drift boat is fully decked and equipped to handle huge whitewater. This one is guided by OARS on the Colorado.

    So, What Should I Buy?

    • Weekend Warrior: Get a drift boat. You can attach a motor for lakes, it’s more comfortable for the family, and your angler buddies will appreciate the casting platform.
    • Expedition Types: Go with a raft. Customization is endless, and it’s easy to convert into a gear boat.
    • Guides: Choose whichever suits your clientele and trip style.
    • Skinny Water / Variable Flows: The raft is your friend.
    • New Rowers: Crash your buddy’s boat first. Then maybe grab a used raft to learn on.
    • Rich Guys: Just buy both—ignore your spouse.

    Final Thoughts

    I currently own a used raft with more patches than Raggedy Ann, but I plan to own a drift boat someday. I even want to build one. Beyond the satisfaction of crafting it myself, I love the heritage aesthetic of a wooden drift boat—it feels like an homage to the legacy of angling in the Pacific Northwest.

    For now, my raft lets me learn new rivers and row in peace, but the comfort of a drift boat is becoming more appealing than the versatility of a raft. If I were regularly running Class IV whitewater, I might feel differently—but for my style of fishing, the drift boat is where it’s at.

    At the end of the day, row your friends’ boats, be honest about what features you value most, and come to your own conclusion. Talk to the guys at your local fly shop. Every vessel has its place—and both will get you on the water.

    And really, isn’t that what matters most?

    -T