Fly Lines

With so many biological and geological phenomena locked into one tiny region it is small wonder the Metolius River has become one of the most studied rivers in the state of Oregon.

Research has advanced our understanding of the river and moved us to new perceptions. It has made us aware of aspects of the Metolius that we might not have otherwise seen.

But science has fallen well short of ultimately understanding the Metolius River.

Through the scientific eye we see the river in bits and pieces. We look at the native fish and understand their uniqueness, or we see the springs and understand how they affect the chemical makeup of the water itself. We learn about plants and habitat structures; we see and understand the spawning, where it occurs and when.

None of these things captures the essence of the river - they are only part of the whole.

It isn't until you feel the river that you really know it. If you fish here long enough you will almost certainly be touched by the feeling of the river.

Some people say it is like Indian spirits. I don't know if I believe in such things completely, but I do know that in some places the land can talk to you. The Metolius certainly seems to be one of those places.

Those who have felt the spirit and call themselves friends of the river are usually quite fanatical about protecting it. Governing agencies like the Forest Service and the Department of Fish and Wildlife know that they must tread lightly here. All of the planning and management reflects the concern of people who have been touched by the river.

The world of the river captures you, especially when fishing alone.

On a warm day, a thunder shower passes through early in the afternoon. Down on the river the weather doesn't know what to do. To the west the snow-capped mountains are less then 20 miles away; to the east is the heat of the high desert.

You can feel the two climates mixing. Alternating pockets of warm and cold air pass through. The temperature goes up and down 10 or 15 degrees in a matter of seconds. The air cells are so distinct you can actually walk in and out of them.

The barometer has to be going off the map. The fish, with their little, pressure- sensitive air bladders don't know what to make of it - they go crazy. The feeding activity is incredible. It's a rare mood, but the river isn't done yet.

The pockets of warm and cold air, drifting over the water, are fed by the storm's moisture. Vapors begin to lift and swirl. Then, quite suddenly, ghost fogs materialize; in an instant, a bank of thick fog appears in a forest alcove.

It hovers and swirls for a few minutes. Then in the next instant the temperatures change again and the vapors are just as quickly reabsorbed into thin air.

The mood now is eerie, even a little frightening. The Metolius is like that, always beautiful, but sometimes quite dark and somber. It has a very dark side. You can feel the hair on the back of your neck tingling from it. No question, the spirits are present.

If you wanted to, you could define a moment like this in scientific terms. You could explain how and why the fogs come and go. You could probably figure out why every fish in the river suddenly went on the feed. You can certainly identify the smell of the forest, the pine and the wildflowers, the cool scent of the river. But you cannot accurately capture the mood of the moment. You can't define the spirit that is in the air around you. That can only be felt in your heart. That is the mystery and magic of the Metolius.