"POW. SSSS"

And with that sound, my fishing trip moved from challenge to adversity--and teetered on the brink of [deep, echoing voice starts here] THE FISHING TRIP FROM HELL. [end of deep, echoing voice]

I was biking up the Deschutes on Tuesday afternoon, planning to camp Tuesday night and ride out on Wednesday. About three miles in, the bike got "squishy" and I could see that the rear tire was low. An inspection of the tube revealed a small hole, and a seam that was starting to go. I patched it and pushed on. Another mile, and the tire was low. So I pumped it up and pushed on. This continued with more frequency until I was about eight miles from my car.

It's a pain to remove the rear tire and all the camping gear, so pumping was easier than fixing. My reasoning was, "I have spare tubes, I'll fix it when I camp." Besides, I had spare tubes. Or did I? Ooops. That's the one thing I forgot to put in. I had only one spare with me. Should be enough, right? After all, I've never had a flat on the Deschutes. And I had a patch kit. So I kept going with the dodgy rear tube, giving it a few swishes with the pump every half mile.

Then there was the POW-SSSS moment. My front tube blew out. Not the rear tube. The front tube. With a sound and suddenness that suggested a hole too big to patch.

I was only a 100 feet from the Bedsprings campsite, which was near my destination anyway, so I wheeled the bike in there and set up camp. By the time I parked the bike under a tree, both tires were flat as tortillas. It was now 6:00 p.m., and the light was leaving the water. I did what any prudent angler would do. I quickly set up camp and went fishing. The bike could wait.

By the time it got dark I knew two things for sure: there were people camped upstream and downstream from me. On the lower reaches of the Deschutes, there's two things you need for good steelheading in prime season: mobility and good camp water. The latter is most important: grab a campsite on a prime run so you own some water for morning and evening fishing. After that, use mobility to get to other water after you're done fishing your campwater. I now had neither mobility nor good campwater. There was a spot nearby that has been productive for me, and most people don't fish it. Beyond that, I was limited by other anglers.

But fishing was the least of my problems. If my front tube was truly split, I was down to the bare minimum: one spare tube and one leaky, dodgy tube. No room for error. Worse, if the rear tube continued to weaken or fail alltogether--and if my spare tube was not in good shape (a distinct possibility; it was an old tube)--I would have to push my bike, loaded with 25 pounds of camping and fishing gear, on its two flat tires down eight miles of gravel road.

Let's see, I walk about three miles an hour. I might manage half that pushing the bike, if I was lucky. That's . . . hmm, five hours and change. Under the hot sun. While watching other people fish. That would definitely turn this into THE FISHING TRIP FROM HELL.

By now it was dark. I could work on the bike under the light of my headlamp. Or I could go to bed and deal with it in the morning--after fishing. I figured the tube situation was probably pretty bad, but I'd sleep better having some modicum of hope rather than know how bad it really was. So I turned in.

[more later; gotta run to a meeting]

THE REST OF THE STORY . . .

So in the morning I went fishing in my one run (no luck), ate breakfast, packed up the camp, changed my clothes, pumped water for the trip home--anything to avoid confirming my worst suspicions about the bike tubes.

About 9:00, with nothing else left to do, I removed the wheels from the bike and assembled my tools. I stretched an old board between two rocks and sat on the board. The front tire came off first. The tube could not have been any worse. There was a four-inch split. It was unpatchable, total toast, history, destined for the garbage can.

I opened up the back tire and examined the dodgy, leaky tube. It was not patchable either, but it might get me down the road, or at least part way, if I kept pumping it up. I tried putting some patch cement around the leaky area; it might work for a few miles, at least. Then I checked out my "B" tube, the old spare that had been sitting around for a couple of years. Tube B or Not Tube B, that was the question. (Sorry.) No obvious flaws, at least.

So I put the spare on the rear tire because that wheel would carry the most weight. I moved the dodgy tube to the front wheel. And off I went, with a patch and a prayer.

About two hundred yards down the road, I braked slightly and realized I had forgotten to reconnect the front brake after reinstalling the wheel. That taken care off, I set off gingerly. I kept looking down, checking the tires. No obvious problems. Half a mile, and I was still okay. Another check. Looks good in back, looks good in front, eyes back on the road . . .

"Acckkkkkk!"

Sound of locked wheels skidding to a halt on gravel. Sound of large snake rattling on the road five feet in front of me, my tires aimed squarely at its middle, its rattles moving at about the same rate as my heartbeat. Sound of me being grateful I'd fixed the front brake, without which I'd probably be on top of said rattlesnake. I have no room for error, and some snake fangs puncturing my front tire will turn me into a pedestrian for the next five hours.

The snake slithered to the other side of the road and I shoved off again.

Once moving, I had no desire to stop. It seemed like I would be okay as long as I kept moving. Landmarks slid by. Washout Rapids, Free Bridge, Kloan. Only seven miles to go. With each mile down the road, I was saving myself 40 minutes of pushing a bike with flat tires. The front tire held, the back tire held.

Gordon Ridge Rapids; three miles down, five to go. Wagonblast with just a few people fishing, mostly on the other side. I was tempted to take advantage of the open water and fish for awhile, but decided it was better to push on. After all, any little thing could end my ride--a goathead thorn, a sharp rock, a misplaced nail, even a discarded Green Butt Skunk could insert itself into a tire and make me a pusher instead of a pedaler. Shoot, I might meet another snake and not be so lucky as the last time. Keep moving; they can't get you if you're moving.

Colorado Rapids, then Rattlesnake (the rapids, not the critter). Less than three miles to go. Miracle of miracles, the tires were holding air. I upped my speed to almost ten mph. I was thirsty and fantasizing about a fruit smoothy from the Holstein Coffee Company in The Dalles.

Soon I saw the Washington hills on the other side of the Columbia, then trucks moving on I-84. Moody rapids came in view, followed by the Deschutes State Park. And finally my blessed truck, with its four new tires full of air. And the trip that had teetered at the edge of hell never went into the abyss. On the way home I got my smoothy, a tall, cool marionberry concoction. It tasted like heaven.



What constitutyes a FISHING TRIP FROM HELL anyway? What was the worst that could have happened? If my patched tubes gave out, probably another biker would have come up the road and given me a tube. Or one of the BLM or ODFW people that drive the road could have given me a lift back. Even if I had to walk all the way, I could have done it.

The whole way, I focused on how many things were right, not what was wrong. It's always a joy to spend a night alone on the river, to wake up to the call of canyon wrens and rushing water, a few stars still hanging in the pale blue of the desert sky. To have a river like this a scant two hours from my home. A river full of steelhead, even if I hadn't hooked one this time. The fact that I'm fit enough to still do a trip like this.

I thought about my friend Bob Jones. He's the perfect person to take a fishing trip with. He's positive about everything. Sunny skies? "What a beautiful day to be out fishing!" Cloudy weather? "Man, this is going to turn on the fish!" And it's genuine, not fake or pollyanna. He just sees the good in everything. And guess what? He experiences a lot of good fishing.

On other hand, I used to fish with a guy whose anger and negativity could put a wet blanket over anything. I once took him on a three-day float down the Deschutes in late June. It was hot, and there were no hatches except very early and very late in the day. Guess who spent three days whining and bitching? Not me, even though I rowed the whole 40 miles, paid for the shuttle, cooked the food, bought the gas. Now that's a real trip from hell. Like I said, I USED to fish with that guy.

It's a cliche, but it's true: We make our own heavens and hells. Attitude is everything. Of course, it helps to carry a few spare inner tubes, too.

Attitude is everything...so true. Glad you made it out of there without having to walk. I have been up the trail without a tube once on a long mountain bike ride in southeast Idaho. It is not a good feeling when you realize you forgot the spare tubes. The exact opposite feeling that I got when I saw another biker chugging up the little used trail before I had walked the bike very far. A huge sigh of relief...especially when I found out she had a couple extra tubes with her.

Ah yes, one of those painful lesson learning trips, and the best part is, that you got to learn a lesson in a gorgeous place. I'm glad everything worked out for you.

I loved that.

What constitutes a fishing trip from he11?

underestimation...
of distance, false memories, unpreparedness...Ahh yes, unpreparedness...which rings like a bell in my head- the boy scouts credo...preparedness

I have a little story about "going back" to a place of wonder, eager fish, a now-gated road,float tubes and gear and a longer trudge than remembered, 95 degrees...a death march, if you will, shared with my bastich buddy Jim...a story told and retold countless times to those who would listen, more funny, and embellished with each successive telling ...the misery quotient, that McManus coining of the phrase- conjures many images burned in memory of adventures hopefully never repeated...Yeah, right!

Scott,

Tube B or not Tube B? Well played, good sir! Now, I hate to say I told you so, but... Okay, maybe I didn't tell you anything when we discussed my Deschutes flat tire woes while camped at Bakeoven in June. But you're certainly right about the attitude part. It's the difference between a bad trip and well, fishing. Nice post.

Best,
Eric

I believe you can tell much about someone's character when things go down the toilet. I've had to improvise on trips with duct tape to keep a reel seat in place or hold my roll table over our heads in a hail storm. We've rendered first aid to horses, mules as well as humans. Gear always breaks when you're using it; oars, frames, stoves, broken cots, lost or forgotten ammo, reels and flies etc. If you're with people who can suck it up and make the best of it, you're with genuine friends.

I've fished and hunted with people who were chronic whiners. I've never gone with them more than once. I've gone on pack trips with guys who thought it was my job alone to deal with the stock, get firewood, cook, clean etc while they found a shady spot to drink all the brown liquor. We found some very clever behavior modification ways to get them to step up, but I don't see any reason to have to baby or coerce a grown man. We now screen any new member that someone invites along. We also take them on an overnight shakedown trip. It's been years since I had to deal with an a$$hole and I don't miss it a bit.

But truthfully, in my book, dealing with adversity is what makes for really memorable stories. Snow storms in June, being chased out by a forest fire, dealing with problem bears, making portages, or two flat tires 8 miles from your truck, all are very telling about your character.

I'd have no problem inviting you along Scott.

Stories about perfect fishing trips can be really boring!
Scott

Who was it who said "Happy fishing trips are all alike; every unhappy trip is happy in its own way?" ***

Oh yeah, I think it was me!


Rolland




*** with no apologies for Tolstoy at all, since I had to spend most of high school trying not to read him.