Anecdote - Exploring Rogue River

FISH STORY 101 - Exploring Rouge River

While returning from a hitch hiking trip to Alaska and back, two kids picked me up in Grants Pass, Oregon. The first thing they noticed was a pair of fishing rods haphazardly attached to my backpack.

The conversation became excited as they were camped out on the Rogue River, and asked if I wanted to join them for a couple of days. I agreed.

Once there, it must have taken a full fifteen seconds before I could detach myself from camp and my new friends to reach the infamous Rogue. A river where legends were made, a river that Zane Grey had loved and fished and made famous in his cowboy stories.

Gorging myself with wild blackberries as I explored the area, looking for the perfect pool. I searched the river for the place where I would be hanging out if I were a large trout.

Selecting a large eddy with pools at each end, my next move was bait. As the tackle was ready to go at camp the bait solution was partially saved when stepping on a large rock by the water’s edge it tipped slightly over, spooking a crawfish out of hiding. A closer examination showed the place to be literally crawling with them.

Removing my shirt and tying up the top with one of my sneaker laces I used my shirt as a net to began the crawfish harvest. An hour later my tees shirts bulged with these tasty little critters, as soft crawfish are the best freshwater bait there is for any fish that swims in it.

It seemed to take forever to barefoot it back to camp. Upon my arrival the duo informed me that they had never caught anything over sixteen inches and most of the trout were state stocked eight to twelve inch fish. All my hopes and dreams were swept away by this disarming news.

Having nothing else to do I picked up the tackle figuring a few small fish were still better than nothing. The sun had just set as I reached the canyon wall. As I stopped to light up a smoke and adjust my gear I glanced into the pool far below and saw a huge fish swirl. Little fish my butt, I thought as I scampered down the canyon.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I snuck noiselessly to the bottom of the lower pool, I finally managed to tie on a 1/0 hook, no leader, no swivel, no weight. I figured to treat these fish with the respect they deserve, a far as wariness. I launched the crawfish into the air, coming to rest on top of the water.

With a small splat, retrieving the line slowly as the offering disappeared below the water. The line started screaming off the reel at the same time I saw the swirl. All hell broke lose for five minutes of jumping and general mayhem. Another five intense minutes of tug of war and I eased the fish up into the shallows and with a final thrust I had a fifteen pound steelhead lying on the bank at my feet.

I had no idea I was being watched as I heard the sounds of my new friends coming down the hill. I quickly motioned them to be quiet as they approached, as I was going to catch some more. I picked up the fish and walked it over to them. They were totally in awe.

I told them to start picking blackberries, which makes an excellent sauce for fish. The menu also included some freshly picked peaches, sweet corn on the cobb and potatoes from a nearby field. A meal indeed, it was a feast in the wild.

That night we talked of nothing of fishing for the next hour and slept like a bear. Awakening the next morning I kicked the two snoring sleeping bags and told them I was going back to the river to catch some more big fish and if they wanted to learn I would teach them how to do it.

An hour and a half later the sun was bright and I was slimed again. I hooked five more fish that morning. Got broke off by three of these, too big to handle, one twenty pounder at least, and landed the other two. One about ten and the other fifteen pounds. We retired to camp, the kids kept the small fish to eat later and I departed later that day, heading home, 3000 miles east.