The End of My Line: 2020

"A man who has friends must himself be friendly, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

For years I had wanted to take my best friend to my home river ... the place where, as a struggling seventh grader, I learned to cast to wild 'Red band' rainbow trout, using the size 16 bucktail caddis flies I had been taught to tie. The place where I learned to truly love and respect the land.

The remote, unspoiled high desert country of southern Oregon.

To preserve and protect what wildness and purity remains there, I will refer to this place only as The Creek.

My father introduced our family to The Creek in 1971. It is far off the beaten path. You will find no twenty-inch brown or rainbow trout here. The average trout is only ten inches long. If we saw two or three other families along the willow-lined, meandering stretches of the creek in those days, it was a busy weekend. But typically, besides a few range cows, we had the place all to ourselves.

That's how my Dad, and the rest of us liked it—far from the maddening crowd.

There was rarely ever anyone in our family campsite when we arrived. It was at the end of a long, bumpy and dusty dirt road. By the time we reached our favorite spot we were all tired, nerves shaken and ready to get the heck out of the truck; an old early 70's double cab Volkswagen pickup. Five unruly, quarreling kids and Sam; our beloved black Labrador Retriever piled out of the back seat with all speed.

Dad had made a beautiful pair of nesting folding camp tables out of white pine 1x4's, sizing them to fit perfectly in the back of the truck. Loading the truck with enough gear and food for a family of seven for a long weekend was possible only by my dad's skill of precisely fitting each piece of equipment into the bed of the truck like a jigsaw puzzle.

A large forest green & white Coleman cooler, matching Coleman 4-quart juice jug, 3-burner Coleman white gas stove and double mantle lantern, a five gallon water jug, two large 8'x10' light blue canvas umbrella style tents, seven sleeping bags and air mattresses, a few pillows, several duffel bags with changes of clothes, a porta potty, shovel, a Lyle nylon string guitar in its case, several fishing rods and reels, a tackle box, creels, fishing vests, various boxes of pots, pans, and a large portion of food mom had lovingly prepared, took up the remaining space in the truck bed.

Mom liked to make things like chili beans, spaghetti and beef stew ahead of time and freeze them in large red Folgers coffee cans. When it was time to cook dinner she would simply boil water in large kettles and cook the frozen cans of food on the Coleman gas stove until it was piping hot. Super-soft white Wonder bread spread with margarine was typically the only side dish we had to go with our hearty camp dinners.

Occasionally we would have fried pan-sized rainbow trout, fresh out of the creek, for our meal. On other occasions we'd have juicy hamburger steaks with sumptuous fried potatoes with onions; a personal favorite of mine, cooked in Mom's extra large well-seasoned cast iron skillet. All cooked in bacon grease of course. We never went hungry in our camp.

The moment we pulled the truck into camp, the first thing on my mind was the immediate location of my Shakespeare 8ft fiberglass fly rod, Pflueger Medalist fly reel, and my tan poplin fishing vest, full of fly boxes, Garcia dry fly spray, tapered leaders, and my Cutters insect repellent lotion. I still miss the smell of that lotion. It's funny how the memory of different smells can remain with you. But setting up camp first was my dad's rule. Fishing came second, after the work was done. It's always easier to set up two tents and sleeping bags and blow up all our air mattresses before it gets dark.

The mesmerizing sounds of the shimmering water of the creek gently bubbling over the rocks, the wind softly singing through the long needles of ponderosa pine trees, the pungent scent of sage brush and juniper, the smell of lush green willows and sweet meadow grass are a song in my soul that is on constant repeat. A reprise. The smoky wisps of burning lodgepole pine in our campfire remain with me forever.

Each member of our family did pretty much their own thing in camp. My twin brother spent untold hours playing my mom's nylon string guitar. And he got real real good at it. A virtuoso. To this day he is one of my guitar heroes. My mom kept pretty busy keeping her eye on my little sister, and making us snacks and such. My youngest brother, I don't recall what he spent most of his time doing, but likely he was learning some guitar too. He's also one of my guitar heroes. My dad, my other younger brother, and me went fishing. As far as I was concerned, unless there was good fishing to be had, there was no point going camping.

And fishing was what I lived for in those days. Being out in the lush open meadows and pastures, exploring the meandering stretches of The Creek, under the bright blue skies of summer, casting a fly to promising stretches of water where a hungry trout lay in wait, was where I felt alive and free. The only place where I felt that way, truth be told. For me, school was a tortuous prison full of taunting and pain. But out here I was free.

As we all grow up and move away from the big old family house, we go our separate ways, and sometimes we grow apart in the process. But although each of us were unique and did our own thing during those long summer days in camp, at the end of the day, we gathered around the campfire in the evenings and sang songs together after we finished our meal. And though we had our occasional squabbles, I wouldn't trade those family times together for anything, on our many camping trips to The Creek.

Fast-forward 46 years...

My best friend and I had been talking about a camping trip for a few years. The summer of 2018 everything finally came together and he came to Idaho and we loaded up my 2010 Nissan Pathfinder to the gills and set off for the Oregon high desert.

I've always loved road trips. There's something about getting the heck out of town, away from the hustle and bustle, the noise, and the pressures of work and life. Get off the grid with a close friend.

We stopped halfway to our destination in a small town and bought food and ice to load the cooler with and continued on our journey. Even though most people don't appreciate the desert for scenery, I've always loved the wide open spaces. Big sky country. Room to breathe and be alive.

We hit the turn off to the road that heads up the canyon to The Creek. After much exploring and searching for the old turn off that leads to the family camp site the day was getting very late and I was getting very frustrated. Why couldn't I find the right road? I'd been down it untold dozens of times. I was ready to turn around and take a second look at the road we'd already been down when my buddy said, "What about that road?" I wasn't convinced. It didn't look at all familiar. That road turned the wrong direction. It couldn't possibly go to where I wanted to go to get back to my old family camp spot. But I figured at least we could find a nice camp spot for the night, then resume our search for the right place the next day.

We drove for a couple of miles of bumps and twists and turns down a road that continued to look completely unfamiliar.

As we came to the bottom of a hill the road opened up into a huge, beautiful clearing. This looked like a great spot to stay the night. This would certainly do, even if it was not the place.

As we set up camp and walked around a little bit, the country itself looked familiar overall. The large mountain to the east was one I'd seen many times before. That familiar treeline, that unmistakable ridge line. That was the mountain. It was beginning to feel like home...

However, it was not until the next day as I walked the stream banks of The Creek and explored every inch and examined the ridges, the trees, the grassy stream bank, that I began to get a very powerful sense of deja vu... I had indeed been here before, to this exact same spot!

As it turned out, after comparing some photos of this spot, old and new, it became crystal clear; this was the spot my Dad had taken me camping to, 46 years previously. The photo above proved it to me for certain. The specific trees in the above photo. The slanted rocks in the far right of the frame. The soft grass in the foreground. The type of water and riffles. Coincidence? Not a chance. However this kind of thing works, I was somehow led back to this exact spot four and a half decades later. I was floored.

Dad at The Creek in 1972.

What a blessing to share this unexpected experience and memory at The Creek with my best friend. We had a great time talking, laughing, fishing and exploring for the next few days. I would definitely like to return here. I hope my friend would like to join me.