Upper Deschutes Carnage
By: Troy B. Jordan Photos By: Ryan Brennecke
There was a light frost on the ground. My son’s breath slowly rolled into the morning air. “Ooo, cold Papa,” he exclaimed. We were walking a trail in search of a scene described to me the night before. I was told about low, extremely low, water on the Upper Deschutes with thousands of dead and dying fish. As we top the crest of the hill I peer down. My son asks “Where did the river go Papa?” In view is a small pool, a puddle really, where there was once a deep back channel. The puddle is teeming with floundering and gasping fish rimmed with pale carcasses. “Look at all the fish Papa!” I figured we would come across some carnage. It’s that time of year for water drawback on the Deschutes here in Central Oregon and with that generally comes some fish getting trapped. What I didn’t figure on was massive carnage and what a toddler might think of it.
Why does the drawback happen every year, leaving fish for dead? Simply put - water releases from Wickiup Reservoir are scheduled at certain times depending on water demand for irrigation. Right around April water is released, sometimes nearly 2,000 cubic feet per second (cfs) from the reservoir for irrigation across northern parts of Central Oregon. Come October water is held back to assure certain amounts for the next season. It’s just this time the drawback seemed to happen fast and lowered to a dangerous level of 32 cfs.
There are a lot of folks here in Central Oregon, and to some extent nationally, up in arms wondering why such a thing was allowed to happen to our cherished Deschutes and the habitat it holds and nurtures. Two words- Water Rights. People who have been in the West long enough know it, and those new here are quickly learning it -- whiskey is for drinking; water is for fighting over. This Upper Deschutes travesty stems from an antiquated system of first here, first rights. It’s “prior appropriation”, giving the first person to use the water from the river first rights to it... forever. And here in Oregon that means irrigation. Sure, there
Central has been some movement
towards a more progressive approach to water management with the Instream Water Rights Act. Sadly it still works on a seniority basis lending little to no help on the Upper Deschutes since the Act’s inception. Although it should be noted that without the Act, the Middle Deschutes would presumably still be drained nearly dry during the summer. Things are moving, just at a glacial pass.
My son and I make our way down to the river, or rather what used to be the river, to meet up with Ryan who is busy snapping photos. While standing in what would in Summer be a pool deep enough to cover us, Ryan and I talk about how the drawback happens every year but that this year seemed to trap far more fish. Thousands more. Ryan points out many large brown trout, one measuring a little over twenty five inches and several others in the eighteen to twenty inch range. The amount of redside rainbows and whitefish are too numerous to grasp. Sculpins, sculpins, sculpins. They line the river bottom motionless. I notice my son trying not to step on anything dead, a tough task, as he makes his way to the puddle with fleeting life. He doesn’t seem too phased by the dead fish, either that or his optimism for the struggling fish overshadows the corpses.
“Look Papa, they’re swimming. I’m going to catch some fish.” It seems even at a very young age my son understands the simple principle that fish need to be alive in order to catch them. While he notices the dead fish he has little interest in them. They have no value for him. They are not catchable for him. This is what’s lacking- better management for the river holistically, not just partially. The river holds value not just for irrigation but for the life in it and the lives of those who create value from that.
The morning air is colder than I expected and the sun still has a little time before its rays blanket the area with their warmth. I tell my son we’ll catch fish another time, right now we need to head home and get warm. We say goodbye to Ryan and make our way out of the open grave and back towards the trail.
On our way home I have the heater cranked. My son talks of the fish he saw and the cold air he felt. He states how he wants to catch some fish. I reassure him we will go fishing soon and change the subject to blueberry pancakes. He knows what I just did but seems fine with the bait and switch. I think of the massive mismanagement of what is the lifeline of Central Oregon. How can such a world-renowned river be treated like a second rate drainage ditch? I wonder about my son’s ability to fish the Upper Deschutes in the near future. How many more massive fish kills can it handle? I understand there are many factors at work, but there has to be a better solution. There are many groups like Upper Deschutes Watershed Council, the Deschutes River Conservancy, Trout Unlimited, Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife and Water Watch of Oregon sitting in meetings with the Oregon Water Resources Department, working on a plan called the Water Planning Initiative. There is also the Basin Study Work Group trying for a solution. I am hopeful for an earlier, rather than later, resolution. Short of that, an immediate solution for the interim that addresses the fish kill need to be discussed by everyone with a stake in this issue. Planning out a letter to my Oregon legislators in my head is the first of many small steps to be taken. While eating our blueberry pancakes I ask my son where he would like to go fishing. “Back where we were Papa. But I don’t want to catch the dead fish. I want to catch
the swimming fish.� If we don’t do something to change the current policy I fear that he may have far fewer swimming fish to catch.
By: Troy B. Jordan Photo Credit: Ryan Brennecke
Holiday Editorial
By: Cobb Hudjohn As the doors open and streams of customers, both coming and going, make their way through them, I am taken aback by the items that fill their bags and carts. Video games, ear buds, cell phones and a plethora of other electronic gifts on their way to be wrapped in colorful paper and eventually unwrapped by excited children all over town. Something about the thought of the look on their faces as they light up with delight on Christmas morning brings a smile to my face. And then, as if something hit me in the head, my smile is gone and I am instantly stricken
I am not quite sure when, as a society, we decided that living life virtually was just as good as living it actually but I am sure that is a mistake that will carry with it grave implications. No longer are children receiving footballs, and jump ropes, and FISHING RODS as gifts. Instead they are given an electric box and a chance to watch and wave their hand around. We are slowly and systematically stripping away the appreciation for being outdoors and with it the appreciation for the outdoors all together.
Ask yourself why you read things like this or why you buy an H&H T-shirt. Is it because you have nothing better to do or because our shirts are so cool that you couldn’t help yourself, (which I would totally get) or is it because every time you read about it or slide on your favorite shirt you’re just one step closer to being back on the water? It’s the water and it’s always been the water. Whether it was my first Snoopy fishing pole and those 5am trips to Collins Lake with my dad or the first time I stood in the Wilson River with my brother while the snow fell around us, it has always been the water.
Now ask yourself whether you would read this or buy our shirts if nobody had ever taught you to love the water. What if you had never stood in the river when the only sound was that of the water moving around you? What if you had never been there when the dead calm of sunrise gave way to the pandemonium of a morning hatch? Would you care when they dam your local river? Would it matter that habitats are being
destroyed? Or would it all just be something that didn’t affect you and didn’t warrant your time?
I have been blessed to receive so many gifts over my 35 Christmas’s that I could not begin to list them for you. I can however tell you that the very best gifts were neither electronic nor expensive. In fact, the physical gift was not really the gift at all. The true gift was the love of the outdoors that my first fishing rod or football or pocketknife planted in my heart. It is that love that makes me want to fight for local streams. It is that love that gets me involved when fish are being killed. And it is that love that caused Alex and I to start H&H in the first place.
So what’s the moral of the story? Why am I rambling on? Because I want you to PASS IT ON! Instead of a game or a phone or a gift card, just take someone fishing. Just take someone out there and let them smell the scents and hear the sounds that only the outdoors offers. Take one electronic gift and trade it for something that gets them outside, then sit back and watch it change their life. Do this and I promise that your gift will be the best one they get this year, or any year. And when you’re done, go thank the person that did that for you.
Merry Christmas Cobb
The Anticipation of Adventure
By: Kyle Jensen
Sleep evades me; the darkness that surrounds me allows my thoughts to wander to the joys of adventure and the prospect of unexpected things to come. My childhood was filled with delusions of some far off land. As I step into adulthood the delusions of my childhood are replaced with stresses of everyday life, money, school, and work. Fly fishing runs thick in the veins of my family on my dad’s side; the idea of a rising fish elicits a wide array of emotions in us all. I wonder if something a bit more twisted flows in my veins because although a rising fish is a thrill, I’m consumed with the image of presenting a fly to a monster with its head in the mud and tail thrashing at the surface. The delusions that follow me at work or during a lecture at school consist of tails and poufs of mud covering a bay in the summer heat.
I was introduced to the beautiful Cyprinus Carpio or Common Carp at the fairly young age of 14 and I was appalled! I refused to even hold the one my cousin had caught and I couldn’t comprehend how someone wanted to catch this fish over a pristine cutthroat trout.
As the years passed my options for species waned as did my relationship with my father. I was young when my parents divorced and I’ve never asked why because it wasn’t all that bad for me. My father and I were as close as a father could be to his son but it wasn’t the time we spent together that brought us close, but our passion for fly fishing. My childhood was filled with the anticipation of adventure that would come about when it was my father’s weekend with me. We never wasted much time and would reach our campsite for that weekend before night fall. I was a simple kid give me a fire, a knife, and a fly rod and I was content for hours. I loved weekends with my dad, I loved fishing with him.
As I got older visits to my dad’s became less and my understanding of why became more. My father was homeless and addicted to drugs; these issues had evaded me
because I was preoccupied with the essence of youth. Communication became almost nonexistent as he lost his job and slipped deeper under the control of drugs, trouble followed soon after multiple arrests and many stints in jail. While my father was in this state I was learning how to handle adolescence and figure out the mysteries of fly fishing, both challenging endeavors. I’ve had such a deep love for fly fishing and its practice but without my father there was a void in fishing and I lost interest.
High school was a struggle for me as it is for most, but compounded with bouts of depression caused by bullying, lack of my dad, and other life issues that face a naïve teenager. It got so bad that I attempted to take my own life…the next part is going to catch some off guard but it was the best thing that could have happened to me. My relationships in school improved and my desire to fish again was renewed. Now you’re probably wondering how I go from talking about carp to this but carp are one of the reasons I’m still around today. The pursuit of carp on the fly is not for the undetermined as it requires patience and calm temperament, the latter which I lack. The challenges that accompany the catching of carp on the fly were beneficial for me to keep my mind from wandering into depression. I fished hard for a year before I landed my first fish and I was hooked! (Pun intended) After my first carp things took off and I became good at targeting them on the fly. Carp are now my main fish I target and I help run a website dedicated to the pursuit of carp on the fly www.flyfishforcarp.com. This is not where the story ends because the great carp is instrumental in bringing my father and I back together.
My father was recently released from jail and given a clean slate. I ventured to the jail before he was released to see him for the first time in 3 years. I was nervous and scared but nothing had changed and the topic of conversation quickly turned to fly fishing and where I was fishing and what I was catching. I shared many pictures with him of memories he had missed out on and that void that I had carried for so long was gone, I was back with my dad talking fishing! As I write this I begin to feel the anticipation of adventure building, plans are in the works to fish with my dad yet again. The fish of choice…carp of course.
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Matt Callies is the director of product development for Loon Outdoors.
Pursuing Perfection
By: David Mead
Perfection is unattainable. Period. That's always been the message. You can try to be perfect. You should try to be perfect. But you will not get there. Not in this lifetime. And it's logical; "No one is perfect," wouldn’t be cliché if it wasn't. But I hate that message, and know for a fact that it’s wrong. At five O' clock in the morning on March 16th, 2013, my dad, my brother, and I hit the road: destination, Heaven. It's pretty much your typical heaven, only instead of streets paved with gold, there's dirt covered boulders; instead of pearly gates there's barbed wire fences; and instead of clouds and celestial earth bustling with angels, there’s moss and ill-tempered water teaming with trout. Although nothing went horribly wrong during the car ride, the struggles were simply biding their time. This day strove to stamp out perfection. The fish were unforgiving, refusing to eat anyone's bug but mine. My dad’s fly was particular unappetizing to the fish. I can't be certain, but I imagine watching the kid you taught to fish haul in trout after trout from water you failed to connect with mere moments prior is disheartening. While it undoubtedly gave him a sense of pride to see my success, his frustration in his own lack thereof was palpable. And how could it not be? He is human. He can't be perfect. His frustration didn’t dissipate as the day wore. It grew worse. Soon, Dan, my brother, began to catch fish too. Every 10 minutes one of us was yelling for a netter. But Dad continued to drift his red rock worms through holes all but guaranteed to be fishy, and he continued, and continued, and continued, and continued to come up empty. And his frustration grew, and grew, and grew, and grew to the point where not even he could deny it. There, on the banks of heaven he whimpered, "I'm just not feelin' it."
It wasn't right. In fact, it was absolutely wrong. How could the sage of my fly fishing doctrine be so out of sorts in this deific refuge? Imperfection had found definition. The sun began to flirt with the horizon, and quitting seemed the clear option. But we are fly fishermen, so at least two of us were not ready to call any cast our last. We decided to make one last decent to an area less traveled to give our flies one more chance. Sitting, engulfed in a rocky hallway with walls 30 feet high, racing the red, orange, and purple sky, we all began to fish.
Dan caught a fish. Dan caught a Fish. I caught a fish. I caught a fish. Dan caught a fish. Then—I would know that whistle anywhere. Dad was on a fish. Both Dan and I grabbed our nets, scrambled up, down, and over boulders for 500 feet, and there, against a watercolor background, was a 52 year-old man wielding a 10 foot fly rod that was bent in a semi circle. Dan and I slid into the river, nets in hand, over eager to scoop up whatever was trying to rip the fly rod out of Dad's hands. Five minutes later, though, we were still waiting. By that time the initial adrenaline had subsided, and we were calmly wading in the water, gently talking, laughing, and kind-heartedly poking fun at each other. I looked at Dad and said, "You feelin' it?" "Yeah Dave, I'm feelin' it." And suddenly perfection wasn't so unattainable. Perfection was us. Three men, standing in a river, with a trout tugging on our souls.