We snuck off to the Metolius River for a couple of days this week. This magical place, with all its contradictions, yields its secrets slowly. It's been 15 years now since I first set eyes on what must be one of the most pristine rivers anywhere. This year we got a chance to show it to my brother-in-law, John. Like me, he likes to fly fish, hike, and just sit by the water and watch the stress melt away.
John is a constant photographer so there will always be pictures wherever he goes. One afternoon he and I decided to travel up an unmarked road between two of the public campgrounds along the river. Following it to the end and careful not to trod on private property, we ended up seeing a portion of the river that most never do. It split into two streams at one point as a side channel meandered in a D shape before rejoining the main body.
This time of year the water was at its highest and moving rather rapidly. The fishing wasn't too hot, but John managed one redside (a strain of rainbow trout) at least that's what he said. My luck there usually comes later in the year in the smaller headwaters.
I did see an osprey who decided not to fish that afternoon. This river has essentially remained the same for the last two decades. Strict management for wild fish only and very precise building codes keep it that way. There are, of curse, a number of privately owned homes and lodges in strategically beautiful spots. That begs the question, who owns a river? I know what the law says about the water line and the middle of the river being open to the public...but really, must some people put barbed wire across the stream? Apparently so in one spot.
The Metolius continues to be a real conundrum. I like it that way. A river that beautiful doesn't have to open up to people if it doesn't want to. My hope now is that I can continue to visit year after year. Every adventure there is different. Every fishing experience is filled with surprises and puzzles. The evenings, with or without a fire in the fireplace are restful and renewing. The Fall is my favorite time there. Maybe October.
I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind of person I wouldn't need to talk about it. I'm not. My need to tell it is stronger than your need to hear it. Because, however, there are a number of teachers and former students of mine who may read these meanderings from time to time, I need to tell this story all the more. About 7 or 8 years ago I was asked if I would allow a university PhD. candidate to observe an English class. At first I decided against it because I was scheduled to have a student teacher placed with me the second half of the semester in question. After some urging, however, at the request of a respected colleague, I agreed. Soon I was committing to extra meetings, signing documents and explaining to the class in question who the young woman who thoughtfully pounded away on a laptop in the rear of the classroom three times a week was. I knew that the topic of ...
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