Search for Big, Fall Brown Trout

The Owyhee River at the far east side of Oregon has been on my radar for some time, but it is just far enough away to require a little more planning than a simple day trip. After Dad's burial in Utah, I would be driving home alone and had bereavement time from work, so I decided to take an extra day for a little time alone in a beautiful place, with my thoughts, my fishing rod, a beautiful desert canyon, and a stream (supposedly) full of fish. We each grieve in our own, personal ways.

I left Sunday morning from Salt Lake after visiting my oldest daughter and son-in-law. Having all day, I took a circuitous route, driving back roads to The City of Rocks in Southeast Idaho, where I spent a few hours exploring in solitude, then continued on my way, arriving at a gravel bar on the banks of the Owyhee River well after dark. I set up my bed in the back of my "RV" (i.e., my RAV4 with a memory foam mattress topper and a sleeping bag) and walked down to the river, where I spooked a good sized brown with the light from my headlamp. It was hard to go to sleep, with the mix of emotions from the weekend's activities in Utah coupled with the excitement that always arises with the sound of a tumbling stream on the other side of a wall of willows.

Morning came late at this far end of the time zone, and first light found me at the head of a stretch of running water that flowed through a couple small bends with deeper stretches before entering a large, deep pool. While the water was fast moving and mostly clear with just a bit of color, the rocks were largely covered with moss/algae. I started with large streamers, thinking that the browns would be aggressive with the approaching spawn. But fishing through the moving water, I didn't have a strike. I reached the pool with the sun finally rising above the walls of the canyon, and saw many large browns, rising, swirling, jumping clean out of the water. Fishing around the edge of the pool, I had two strikes on the streamers (one on a white bunny leach, one on a purple), but no hookup. Reaching the outlet of the pool, there were a couple dozen large trout visible, with others moving up from the running water below, but no interest was shown in any fly I tossed their way, or even an 8-mm peachy-pearl bead. Moving down from the pool, I found another fisherman on the fast water below, so retraced my way upstream to the inlet of the pool. I noticed a number of small flies above the water, and thinking of the Provo River tailwater below Deer Creek dam, tied on a size 20 baetis nymph below a size 12 caddis green psycho prince nymph. I immediately had action all the way up through the run I had fished down through at dawn. Many decent rainbows, all 12" to 13". Some strikes that may have been larger fish, but nothing hooked. 

With more confidence, I moved upstream past a long stretch of slow water to where the water tumbled over and around basalt boulders into the head of the hole. Again I found similar sized rainbows, a small brown, and a big brown that thought my indicator looked better than the flies. Most were on the small fly, but a couple took the psycho.

It was well past mid-day and time to start thinking about starting the 5+ hour drive home, but I couldn't quite leave without trying another place or two for one of the big browns found here. I hopped in the car and headed downstream, carefully scanning the river for likely moving water between the long stretches of flat water found on this river (I have always told my family that if I die in a car accident on a road winding along a river, they will know without a doubt it was because I was distracted watching the river rather than the road). I stopped once and found moving water, but only a few more rainbows and no sign of browns. Not ready to give up yet, I checked the satellite image downloaded onto my phone for more likely spots - longer narrow stretches where the water would be moving faster - and made my last stop at such a spot a couple miles further downstream.

Climbing down to the river, I found a fast, narrow chute spreading into a still narrow stretch of  moving water with overhanging brush on the far side. It ran 18" to 24" deep for 20 yards or so before it began to broaden and slow. I quickly found several rainbows on the flies, but could see a larger brown or two holding in the water in front of me. They had no interest in the flies, so I switched back to a bead, this time a 6-mm bright pink one left over from Alaska. First cast, a brown in the range of 20 inches or so grabbed the bead, exploded out of the water, and spit the hook. This happened three or four more times before I finally got one to stay on and come to hand.

The next hour was amazing, with about ten browns to hand, all 18" to 20", fat and healthy, and many more lost as they spit the barbless hook with the first jump.

I found a few more in the next run upstream, and when I finally broke off on yet another big brown, decided it was time to call it a day and head for home. A magnificent desert canyon, a stream full of trout, and peaceful solitude have wonderful restorative properties. Though I can't call Dad and tell him about this day, he will be there with me as today's memories join in my mind with all those of past trips together. Always, he will be there with me.

Return to Childhood

I always say that every trip is an excuse to fish. This was one trip that we knew we would someday make, but when it came, we wished it had not come so soon.

Our family gathered on October 28, 2017 in Smithfield, Utah, to bury our dad in the town that filled the memories of our childhood during our frequent vacations to visit grandparents. It was on those trips that I have my earliest memories of fishing with Dad. At reservoirs in southeastern Idaho with really old relatives, chumming with cans of corn, sitting in lawn chairs, and waiting for the tip of the rod propped up on the forked stick to start bouncing when the fat rainbow grabbed the worm and marshmallow on the other end of the line. Crawling through brush and hanging tightly to Dad's leg in the rushing torrent of the streams running down from the mountains to the east. Dad dipping worms behind the rocks, then handing the rod to me or Rob (or a sister) to bring in the wiggling trout. As we grew older and the torrential streams became tumbling brooks, we graduated from worms to flies, from tiny creeks to the somewhat larger rivers. Almost always finding fish. Always loving the time together.

Marianne (our sister) and Dad at Smithfield Creek

As the time came to make the plans for the burial service, Rob, Tom, and I talked of visiting these streams that had been such a big part of our childhood memories. Tom had a family commitment, but Rob and I determined to visit a couple creeks in the afternoon following the graveside service. I bought my license online the day before leaving, and found out Utah only offers a minimum of a 3-day license. At first I was bothered by the extra cost, but then realized if I left early enough, I could fish Friday evening too and visit another of our favorite streams. So Mom and I left early, getting to my cousin's in Logan about 4:10 pm. By 4:35, I was rigged up and heading up the Logan River, stopping near Red Banks. Alone on the stream, the sunny, fall evening and the crystal clear water tumbling over the boulders made for a perfect respite from the challenges of the last few months. I found ample numbers of beautiful trout, then cried that night with the realization that for the first time I couldn't call Dad and give him a report from my trip.

Logan River cutthroat

Matching brown

The next day dawned clear and calm, but chilly. Family and friends gathered at the cemetery, a juxtaposition of joy and grief, joy from reunion with family we had not seen in many years, grief at our temporary separation from Dad. After the service and a luncheon at the home of one of Mom's childhood friends, Rob and I changed and slipped out to the nearby Summit Creek (or Smithfield Creek as we always called it growing up). Driving up the canyon, areas we had fished as kids were now lined with homes, backyards abutting the creek. But we soon reached a brushy stretch of creek next to the road, I am sure one where we had fished with Dad as children. Rob and I parked at the side of the road, walked downstream, and entered the stream.

Rob entering the creek

How could this tiny stream have been the fear-inspiring torrent of my childhood? But shin deep on me now would be a fearful thigh-deep on a young child, and I saw in my grasping Dad's leg while wading across the creek as a child, a metaphor for the strength a parent brings to their children as they help them pass through the experiences of life that can at times seem challenging and overwhelming, a strength that I must now find fully on my own.

Me, crossing Smithfield Creek (it is a little smaller late in the fall when we fished it this time)

Taking turns tossing our flies into the likely looking pockets, we wondered if there were still fish here. So much had changed in the fifty years since we had been those young children fishing with our dad. But shortly after entering the stream, a small rainbow darted out and grabbed Rob's renegade. A short time later, a nicer one grabbed my elk hair caddis. All was going to be OK.

There are still fish here!

A beautiful rainbow on the EHC

We continued up the stream, laughing with joy at each fish we brought to hand, like those little brothers years before. We may no longer need Dad's strong leg to grasp onto as we wade through the streams, but we know it will always be there for us as we wade through the challenges of life that remain ahead of us. His memory, his example, his love, will always be there for us to grasp and hold on to, even though he may be gone. Love you Dad! 

At High Creek, the second memory we visited

Dad's Last Trip...

For the last year, Dad had been planning a trip to Bear Trail Lodge in King Salmon, Alaska, a place where he loved to go to fish with his boys. This time, however, the trip was not just for the Merrill boys. He wanted the whole family there, including our mom and two sisters. Plans were made in the fall of 2016 for a trip the following year, but Dad’s cancer, which had been under control with medication, returned with a vengeance in April 2017, sapping his strength and taking away both mobility and independence.

Dad working to keep his strength up for Alaska

It was clear that Dad was dying, but he wanted more than anything to take this last trip together. So the family, with the tremendous help of Dad’s caregiver, Billy Byington, did everything we could to work towards that goal. As dad lost the ability to walk, to independently perform many of the simple functions of daily life, and sometimes to even think clearly, all of the family began to question whether this trip could happen. Some of our spouses seriously questioned our sanity, and even Tom remarked to his office staff the week before our departure, “I’m 51% sure this is a good idea.”  But Billy was confident it could be done, so we clung to his confidence, and on September 4, Labor Day, we boarded our various planes to begin Dad’s last trip. And what a trip it was…

I arrived in Seattle on my flight from Pasco, and made my way to the North Terminal for the connecting flight to Anchorage, where I texted Tom to check on their arrival from Wenatchee. Tom responded back, “Dad’s blood sugar tanked. 37. Fire department is on the plane.” The early morning schedule had messed up Dad’s blood sugar, which crashed during the flight and left him completely unresponsive on landing. Just as the firefighters were preparing to take him off and admit him to the hospital, the emergency glucagon shot finally took effect, and he woke up. 

Into the wheelchair and through the terminal, Rob and Dad made it to the gate a few minutes before the boarding door closed. We were on our way to Alaska! While the morning’s events may have led us to question the wisdom of this trip, our text exchanges show our family’s characteristically morbid sense of humor in dealing with such challenges. Rick: “We are now officially on a fishing trip. If Dad dies en route, we just tell them he is sleeping and put him in the cooler at the lodge.”  To which Tom responded, “I’m not sure if they make vacuum pack bags that big.”

Billy sat with Dad in First Class, and kept him plied with food and drink. After the debacle on the flight from Wenatchee, we decided on a much higher blood sugar target for the remainder of the trip. Arriving in Anchorage, we met our sisters, Marianne and Kristi. As Dad rolled off the plane and saw everyone together, he said, “Where are we?” to which we responded, “Anchorage airport.” “What are we doing here?” he replied. “We’re on our way to Bear Trail Lodge,” we said, to which he responded, “Is this a surprise?” We explained that this was the trip he’d been planning for the last year. 

The Merrill boys waiting for the flight to King Salmon

He was still a little foggy for most of the layover in Anchorage, but as the flight to King Salmon took off, Billy said he raised his arms in the air in a triumphant cheer. He had made it!

On the flight to King Salmon - a triumphant smile!

We were met at the lodge by our gracious hosts, Heath and Nanci Lyon, with whom we had fished since our first trip here. They were amazingly helpful and accommodating in meeting Dad’s needs.

Nanci greeting Dad and the family

Well, despite all the sentiment expressed in the previous paragraphs, this is still a fishing blog and a fishing report. One thing Dad had insisted on was that he wanted the boys to fish, not just worry about taking care of him. So Tom and I inquired of Heath if the silvers were still in the river in front of the lodge. They were, so we dropped our suitcases in our rooms, quickly rigged up, and made our way down to the river. Tom and I each found a couple silvers, Kristi, who came along with spinner gear, couldn’t interest any. But a good start to the trip.

Tuesday the boys split up to fish with the girls and target silvers, Rick with Mom, Tom with Marianne, Rob with Kristi. And the girls learned of the whims of Alaska fishing. The silvers that had been schooled in Big Creek had disappeared with none to replace them. We fished all morning, and saw many boats in this small tributary of the Naknek River, but almost no fish. Mom and I didn’t have a single fish hit, but Mom was a trooper and kept casting and reeling, casting and reeling. After lunch, we headed back to the Naknek in front of the lodge for the incoming tide. I saw a number of bright silvers jumping in the channel near the shore, and quickly landed four silvers. Mom had one on briefly but lost it. And that was all for the day. The others found a few fish, but fishing was very slow.

Kristi and a big, red silver

Dad came out a little later than our 7 am start time, getting up as we were leaving. Billy got him layered up for warmth, and had him down to the dock at 8:30 am.

Ready to go!

Once at the dock, Billy and Heath lifted Dad and his wheelchair into the boat, where Heath had a heater set up to keep Dad warm.

Dad and Billy, without whom this trip would not have been possible

We figured Dad would be able to fish at least part of the day, and maybe rest in the lodge some days. Instead, he was out fishing all five days, from 8:30 to 5. Sometimes he was not completely clear about where he was, but once the rod was in his hand, he knew exactly what to do, and caught many fish through the week.

Handicapped accessible boat (as long as you have a big, burly guide and Billy to lift the wheelchair)

Dad still knows how to find them!

Tuesday, Rob, Tom and I flew out to the Kulik River with Rylie Lyon, Heath and Nanci’s daughter to guide us, while the girls would fish together to try to find some more silvers on the Naknek. As we landed on the lake where the 1.5 mile stretch of river starts, there were five float planes already there. As we unloaded, five more were arriving. Apparently rain had washed out a number of the other rivers that the area lodges fly out to, and everyone was funneled into the few remaining fishable rivers. So we found ourselves competing for a limited number of areas to fish in the short stretch of river between the two lakes. Weather is another of the vagaries of “wilderness” fishing in Alaska that can impact plans dramatically. We stopped and found some fish in the top of a run, but found that power boats from the lodge on the lower lake had staked out the run ahead of us. Moving downstream was iffy, as we could easily find all the good water taken with no way to move back upstream. Luckily, we were able to move to a side channel behind us that was overlooked by everyone else, and found enough fish in the 150-yard stretch of water to keep the three of us busy most of the day (when reporting the number of fish caught to our guide at the end of the day, we each said “fifty” although it was likely substantially more than that). Beautiful scenery and beautiful fish. It was a great day.

Tom fighting one of many in our little back channel

Beautiful rainbow, with Rylie, Heath and Nanci's daughter guiding us for the day

Rob and a nice Kulik rainbow

Rob on the beautiful Kulik River

As we approached King Salmon in the float plane, Tom’s cell phone started beeping like crazy with arriving texts. Earlier in the day, the wake from a passing boat caused Mom to lose her balance and fall, splitting the back of her scalp on the side of the boat. Kristi applied pressure, with blood everywhere, while Mom, not realizing the extent of her injury, tried to get back up and keep fishing. “My head doesn’t hurt.” she said. “I can keep fishing.”  (aka, “it’s only a flesh wound”). The guides rushed to King Salmon, where Mom got 11 staples to close the wound as she apologized to the nurses for getting blood on the sheets (that’s Mom!).

Taping things up; good thing the doctor was around that day (she isn't always)

Mom had to wear a headband the rest of the week, but fished like nothing had happened!

As we read the unfolding story in texts, once we realized Mom was OK, we three boys immediately asked ourselves, “Wonder if the girls went back out fishing…” We arrived at the lodge, and found that they had indeed gotten Mom settled at the lodge, then returned to the river for an afternoon of fishing. And they caught lots of silvers.  Our sisters made the Merrill boys proud!

Marianne on the way to find more silvers

Dad and Billy were out the whole day, and found more silvers

Heath hits the tail and sends the silver jumping

Another nice silver

The remainder of the week was, thankfully, uneventful, except for catching more fish in the day and enjoying the comforts of the lodge in the evenings.

Around the lodge in the evening

Gourmet appetizers

All you can eat king crab legs one night

Kristi ruled the girls, catching many silvers on her own. Mom and Marianne caught them with help from the guides, but their last day Mom caught three on her own in King Salmon Creek, and Marianne even got one on her own.

Kristi with the girls' catch for a day

Mom and her silver

The boys had another fly out to the Kvichak River, along with several days on the Naknek. Dad fished the Naknek every day. We found many beautiful rainbows, the biggest at 29” along with ample numbers of silvers.  

29" Naknek rainbow

Tom fighting a silver in King Salmon Creek 

Rob and a nice Naknek rainbow

Rick and a 29" bow

Tom and I fished every night in front of the lodge and found at least one or two silvers every evening. The girls only wanted meat they could take home, and fished for silvers every day, successfully. Kristi, when asked if she wanted to do a fly out with the boys for catch and release fishing of rainbows, channeled our Grandpa Merrill (Dad’s father) with her words, “I’d rather fish all day for something I can keep and catch nothing than catch a bunch of fish that I can’t keep!” Billy even found ample time to fish while Dad was busy catching his own. At the end of the week, we had 400 and some pounds of silver fillets to take home, enough for our families and for Dad’s upcoming salmon barbecue.

Kristi's carnage

 

The last day, as we unloaded our gear from the boat for the last time, everyone else left to pack for our flight home, while I stayed to make a few last casts into the channel by the dock. Sure enough, a few strips into one of the casts, the fly abruptly stopped and a 10-lb silver exploded out of the water, jumping, twisting, and ultimately coming unhooked. With forty-five minutes until we had to leave for our flight, it was time to reel it in and pack up. I remember Dad’s smile as I told him about that last fish and his knowing chuckle that at least one of us would be fishing to the very last minute.

The following weeks, Dad could do little else but talk about the upcoming salmon barbecue that he puts on every year for his church congregation. Mixed in with the barbecue plans were plans for a follow on trip to Alaska next year. One day as I was sitting beside him, him in his wheelchair where he spent all his time now, he told me how wonderful it had been to walk along the banks of the Naknek again, catching the beautiful rainbow trout. Then, in a moment of clarity, he said, “I didn’t really walk along the banks, did I?” I told him he was just merging all the wonderful memories from our past trips into one.

Two weeks after returning from Alaska found Dad surrounded by about 200 friends at his annual salmon barbecue, Tom and I having cooked the fish in his place.

The salmon barbecue

And just three weeks later, on the morning of October 12, 2017, Dad took his last breaths and passed away peacefully with memories of his last trip fresh in his mind.

There is one less Merrill boy plying the waters with his flies today, but we are sure he is scouting out the heavenly waters where we can once again fish together when we finally join him there…

Love you dad