When I first moved up to Oregon, never mind from where, I'd never heard of summer-run steelhead. My experience had been limited to searching for these fish in rain-swollen rivers during the coldest, wettest, most miserable times of the year. I wasn't particularly bothered by the fact, having come from a duck hunting background; I just took it for granted that was all there was, and kept flinging Corkies into the mist.

After I'd been here a while, I began to hear rumors about fresh steelhead being caught in July and August up in Washington. Tracking down these rumors got me acquainted with a few sources of these rumors and eventually led me to take a steelhead fly-fishing course from one of the real, cutting-edge experts in the game, Bill Bakke. Bill was high on grease-line techniques and surface flies and taught us a lot of the techniques for fishing same, although, being an inept student, I wound up not catching much of anything that first year or two or three. In fact, things got so bad, reward wise, that I strongly suspected the old Oregon aphorism-there's no such thing as a summer steelhead, and, even if there were, they wouldn't take flies-was true.

Eventually a guiding buddy of mine took pity on me and confided there might be better places to fish than in the backyards of Washoughal summer homes. He even intimated that steelhead were easy to catch. "On flies?!" I asked incredulously. "Of course, on flies," he said with exaggerated patience. "What else." Since he was a guide, I assumed it was just bullshit, but eagerly accepted his invitation to fish with him on the Deschutes anyway--in return for washing dishes and looking after his camp. I'd heard about the summer-runs that lived there out in the sagebrush, and, whether real or not, fly-eating or not, I at least wanted to try. I couldn't do any worse than I had already.

By steelheading standards, the Deschutes is a pretty big river. Summer flows typically are between 4,000 and 5,000 cfs in the steelhead section and there's no place you can wade across. There are no pools in the usual sense-pond-like areas with little current-just long, almost featureless sections of water moving a bit slower than it does in the rapids. Then, too, this stream's locale is about as different as I could imagine from the coastal and Cascade-west side rivers I was used to fishing. No dripping firs, no moss, no clouds, no perpetual damp. But instead, a landscape as arid as the Holy Land, with a blasting sun, stunted trees, swirling dust, and a wind that defied belief. Didn't look like steelhead to me, but I was here, and I was willing to try.

Mike Sallee, my mentor and guide-friend, positioned me in the middle of what he assured me was a sure thing as far as a Deschutes steelhead drift went. "Just cast your fly out there to the seam of the current and let it swing in to shore. Walk down a step or two, and try it again. Just keep doing that until you catch something." With this somewhat laconic advice, he hopped back in his sled and roared off to take his paying clients to where the fish really were (as I blackly thought).

Oh, well. What the heck. As I said, I was here. It was a cheerful sort of day: puffy clouds were moving across a deep cerulean sky, the wind had fallen off enough for me to be able to cast, it wasn't too hot, and the water felt great swirling around my legs. I waded into position at the top of the run, tied on the Green-Butt Skunk Mike had given me, and began to lengthen out line. The fly dropped near the seam, as directed, and swam string-straight slowly back toward my shore. Didn't have to mend, or anything. Cool. Anyway, it looked to me like it was going to work, so I got serious and began the drill.

After about an hour of this serious stuff, and, as usual without a touch, my mind and commitment began to wander. This was just like the Washoughal, and, besides that, it was the wrong time of the day. Steelhead hit in the gloaming, not in the middle of a blue-bird afternoon. I was just putting in time; besides, there was a caddis hatch on and some really nice red-sides were beginning to rise within easy casting range. I remembered that I had a couple of smallish elk-hair caddis patterns in one of my fly boxes, and so, having cast my line out again into the seam, I began to rummage around in my vest for the flies. I had tucked my rod under my right arm as I was rummaging, and had clamped down hard enough to secure it from being blown out of my grasp by an errant blast of wind, so it was OK. I forgot about it while I found the box and tied to pry the lid open; to get a better look, I turned upstream about a quarter-turn. I was just thinking about bringing the line in to bend on a smaller tippet when I was abruptly whipped around to my original position by a pull so savage I've never forgotten or gotten over it. I must have looked like the starter pulley on a lawn mower as I spun around, grabbing at the rod and trying to maintain my balance. It was over in a second, but not before I saw an immense head slash open the water forty feet away. Water geysered and boiled as the line went taut against the rod and the leader snapped. "Wow," was all I could come up with at the moment. I forgot about the trout.

FACT SHEET

The steelhead portion of the Deschutes flows approximately 100 miles northward through a deep canyon carved through the plains of central Oregon. The river lies in the rain-shadow of the Cascades and things are pretty dry; the dominant vegetation is sagebrush, juniper, cheat grass, hackberry, and, at stream side, alder. The river carries a large volume of water year round; there is no real "summer low" on this stream. The constant volume of the river is a natural feature, although flows are now moderated by a regulating dam at Pelton. A substantial waterfall at Sherars Bridge physically divides the river into an upper and lower section. Important access and take-out points further define and subdivide the river. The term "Upper River" usually refers to the stretch between Warm Springs and Maupin while "Lower River" generally means somewhere between Macks Canyon and the Columbia. "The Access Road" defines that portion of river between the falls and Macks Canyon. As one might surmise, the river along this stretch is accessible by road. There are also a couple of other access roads favored by steelheaders: one that runs upstream from Maupin; another than drops into the canyon at Trout Creek; a short one that runs down from Warm Springs to Mecca Flat; and a somewhat harrowing one that winds up at Kloan. The nearest towns of any consequence are The Dalles, about 85 miles east of Portland and twelve miles west of the Deschutes; Madras, near the upper launch points at Warm Springs and Trout Creek; and Maupin, a surprisingly well-stocked oasis that lies about in the middle of all this. Accommodations, restaurants, fly shops, guides and provisions are available at all.  Whether you fish in the upper or lower river depends a lot on the time of year and the style of fishing you prefer. 

	The first fishable runs of steelhead enter the Deschutes in July. The Glorious Fourth often sees a fair number of fish landed near Moody, where the Deschutes empties into the Columbia, and by the third week in July, fish are usually distributed throughout the twenty-five miles below Macks Canyon.
There is often a small run of fair-sized fish entering in June, but catching one that early would be a pretty lucky event.

Before Pelton and Round Butte dams were built, there were a great many strains of summer steelhead in the river, but now the wild fish are predominantly small, very aggressive, one-salt delights referred to as "Type A" summer steelhead. These fish are found in other tributaries of the Columbia, but are the steelhead most closely associated with the Deschutes. The Type A fish are the first abundant wild strain to enter, although they run in close association with larger, less aggressive-from the fly fisher's viewpoint, anyway-hatchery fish. While the Type A wild fish will weigh about five pounds on the average, the hatchery fish run around nine. The hatchery fish have been much more abundant than the wild fish of late, but the bulk of the catch is wild. The natives are a great deal more restless. As is true throughout most of the Northwest, wild steelhead must be released. Hatchery fish may be killed.

The Deschutes is a cold stream, and its waters have such allure to steelhead heading for the upper Columbia and Snake rivers that many of them-thousands, sometimes-may stray into the Deschutes, ascend many miles, and linger throughout the summer before dropping back down to the Columbia to continue their upstream migration. One particular strain of wanderers from the Clearwater River in Idaho shows up in the lower river around Labor Day and is referred to as "Type B." These fish can be huge by summer standards and often enough exceed the twenty pound mark. The Type B strain, though, is only one of the stray stocks; in some years, as many as 75 per cent of the steelhead in the river are transitory; you never know what's going to smack your fly as it swings through the drift.

Suffice it to say, there's usually a rich mixture of fish in the river by mid-August, and by mid-September enough have ascended Sherars Falls to make the entire river a likely bet. Fishing stays good until the weather turns really cold in late October.

	While there a many places to access the river from your car, most serious anglers bring a boat. While regulations prohibit fishing from a boat, boats are used for transport to the drifts and for carrying camping gear for those staying overnight.
Jet sleds are the only power boats seen on the river, and they are restricted to the sector between the Columbia and Macks Canyon. Drift boats and rafts carry anglers in all other portions. Because of heavy rapids in some river sections, boaters should be quite good at the oars before attempting a prolonged trip.

Deschutes steelhead really are easy to catch on the fly; the problem is finding them. As I mentioned, this is a big river, and the fish don't hold uniformly everywhere. The pattern for the last several seasons has been for the fish to move in gangs fairly quickly through the system. The water has been high during this time, and this probably contributes to the rapid movement. You may enjoy excellent fishing in a certain drift in the morning and get thoroughly blanked there that same evening. 

The fly water on the river is easy to identify once you learn what to look for. Water moving at a slow-walk pace over a gradually shelving bottom of cantaloupe-sized stones is always promising. Position that drift above or below a strong rapid and it gets even better; if there are some large boulders placed randomly out in the flow, you've hit the morphological jackpot. There's a axiom on the river that goes "the tougher the wading the better the fishing." If you're stumbling around, more concerned about keeping your feet than fishing, there's a good chance you're floundering through Bonanza. Bear in mind, too, fly drifts on the Deschutes, particularly in the lower twenty-five miles, are long. One hundred yards of prime water is not uncommon, and there are enough of these drifts so that anglers respect each other's right to fish through unhurried and unmolested. In water where you might expect to see half a dozen people working, you'll see only one (or two, if they're friends). The worst breach of etiquette you can commit is to jump in the water 50 yards ahead of another angler and start fishing down. Like to get you killed.

Sunlight during the day can be bright and intense. While fly-fishing usually stays good through late morning, there's often a drop-off in action from early afternoon until the shade comes on the water. The typical routine for August/September fishing is to hit the river at first light, as soon as you can see well enough to distinguish your surroundings, and fish like crazy until the sun hits the water. Many people quit at this point, but the fish will be quite active through at least the next hour. Once it gets really hot and bright, you may as well head on back to camp for lunch. Mid day is when people move on down the river, relax in camp, or hide under a shady tree. Fishing gets underway again as the shade comes on and continues until black dark. The most productive times are usually about an hour after day light and an hour before dark. Cloud cover can greatly extend the productive fishing time. 

One factor you'll have to contend with in the afternoon and evening is the famous Deschutes wind. Most days the first breezes will start making themselves felt just before noon, and will become stronger by the minute. Afternoon winds blow upriver on fair-weather days and reach a crescendo at dusk. A grown-up, full-bore, ready-for-prime time wind will fling water upstream like rain, flip drift boats on the beach, move loaded coolers along the ground, and wad up tents like Kleenex. It's a bit of a challenge to cast under these conditions, but the fish do hit during these periods. If you can keep your mind off the fact that your camp is blowing away, and can wait out the strongest gusts to cast during the momentary lulls between, you can curse and fish your way through the worst of them. It's considered bad luck and worse form ever to say the "w" word out loud.

Tackle for the Deschutes is chosen with these conditions in mind. While the fish are not huge, and six weight tackle would be plenty for most of them, the wind often dictates the use of 7- , 8- , and even 9- wt. systems. Double-handed rods, particularly Spey-actions, have become very popular of late, and Spey-casting really helps cover the water when you're fishing down a bank solid with alder. Floating lines and near-surface flies are preferred by many for the twilight fishing, while sink-tips and lightly weighted flies are used while the sun is on the water. Leaders for the dry lines run about nine to ten feet; for sink tips, about four feet. Maxima or similar stiff nylon is preferred by many for tippets, with the breaking strength at about eight to ten pounds. Reels should be large enough to carry the fly-line plus about 100 yards of backing. The Deschutes is a large, fast river, and there is nothing to prevent a fish from taking off downstream in the heavy current. They often do.

	There are several recommended fly patterns for the river, but almost anything will work. A friend of mine has found that clipped deer hair, passed under an egg-loop and drawn tight, makes a perfectly acceptable bug, and he has caught many fish with these things.
Some take a strong exception to this utilitarian stance and fish lovely, slender Dee and Spey patterns that take time and artistry to tie. Then, there's everything in between.

Black is a good color, and so is purple. Early in the season, bright patterns are favored; later on, more somber ones. Large-silhouette dark patterns are used first thing and last thing under lowest light conditions. The old rule: dark-day, dark fly; bright day, bright fly applies. Nymph patterns can be effective any time, and become the lure of choice once the water temperature plummets in late October. Local fly shops sell hundreds of Green-Butt Skunks, Macks Canyons (an orange-butted skunk), Signal Lights, and Street Walkers. Mostly in sizes four and six, but larger flies (up to 2/0) and smaller, "low-water" reduced dressings also catch fish, depending on the circumstances. One of the most popular flies recently has been the bunny leech, mostly in black or purple. My personal favorites are the Thunder & Lightning (tied with a hair wing), Deschutes General Purpose, and the General Practioner, natural or purple. As I said, almost anything will do. 

As far as technique for fishing these flies goes, there are two basic ones, with countless variations: the down-stream, wet-fly swing, and the up-stream, dead-drift nymph presentation. For the down-stream presentation, you need to keep in mind that you're hunting the fish and must keep after them. The fish can lie anywhere along the hundred yards of bank you've chosen to fish, and the idea is to show the fly to as many fish as you can (or to places they might be) in the hopes that you'll run into a player somewhere along the way. It's not that you have to race through a drift, or not fish hard at the obvious holding spots, but you do need to keep moving methodically through. Cast, fish out the cast, and wade down a step or two and cast again. Just keep at it. 

Nymphers will sometimes work their way down through holding water in the same manner as the wet-fly swingers, but their casts are shorter and are aimed quartering upstream. Many nymphers, though, prefer to peg away a single spot and will stay unmoving for hours, much to the annoyance of the more traditional grease-line types. No matter what you do, it seems, there are ethical dilemmas.

Dry-fly fishing, while not as common as wet-fly fishing, is effective, particularly in the evening, and most particularly, once the October caddis start hatching. This technique is most often done as a variation on the wet-fly swing: a high floating bug is cast quartering downstream and then brought back across the current under light tension, so that it creates a small ruckus and a definite "V" as it moves in the surface. This type of fishing is not for the faint-hearted, as, often as not, a fish will make a series of boils at the fly before actually inhaling it. It takes an enormous amount of cool to let the fly continue fishing until the fish has it, rather than ripping it away at the sight of the first rise.

For those of you who have been thinking about a trip to the Deschutes, this looks like it might be another good year. The number of fish, particularly wild fish, has been increasing over the past several years, and fishing has begun to resemble what it was back in the 70's and 80's. The reasons for this may be due to the excellent water conditions we've enjoyed lately, an improvement in the nurturing qualities of the ocean, or a combination of synergistic factors, but, whatever the reason, look forward to an excellent summer. Time your visit for late August or any time in September to be sure of the maximum number of fish spread over the widest possible stretch of river. If you are interested in a guided trip, it would be best to call no later than mid-June, although it is possible to arrange a trip at the last minute, due to cancellations. Guides can be located through the Oregon Guides and Packers web site (http://www.ogpa.org/) or through the Central Oregon Recreation web site (http://corw.com/fishing/). The fly shops in Maupin, Madras, The Dalles, Salem, Eugene, Bend, Sisters and Portland will have all the latest information. Visit the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife's website (http://www.dfw.state.or.us/) for the latest information of fishing conditions.

Since I first stood in that drift so many years ago and felt the power and excitement of a Deschutes summer steelhead, I have plotted and schemed to get as much time on the river in late summer and fall as I possibly could. Jobs, responsibilities, the headaches of the real world are forgotten just as quickly as the boat carooms off the trailer into the water.  Images take shape in my mind as I lug the gear out of the van and pile it on the landing. I can see myself winding through the golden canyons, pushing hard against the oars, listening to the rumble of an approaching freight. I'm home. 

	The site of a beloved camp, standing empty and waiting; the mad rush to unload and set-up; the scheming over which drift to hit first in the evening; the sure knowledge that I'm going to sleep so well that I'll be eager to be up at four; the friends upstream and down to fish with; the heat, the sagebrush, the wind-all have combined over the years to make summer steelheading a way of life.
The river has changed over the years, for the most part for the better, and its grip on me is stronger than ever. If you do come to central Oregon and float the Deschutes, you may notice a boat named "Nimue" pulled up on the shore. Row on over and say "hi"-- there may be a wee dram o' Cragganmore in for you. Just discount the worthless chatter that goes with it. Petri heil.