Jay's leader trails listlessly from the tiptop. The fish is gone. Jay is shaking. "It BIT ME!, he insists. I'm laughing so hard I can barely drag us both back up on the bank. Jay is especially hard to drag out because his waders are now filled with water, without going over the top.
"SEE!" He is pointing to a new one inch V-shaped tear just on the point of his left buttock. Water dribbles OUT in a steady stream. "It attacked me, I swear."
With every protestation I'm laughing even harder. The fish, once stung by the hook, obviously bolted toward the nearest protection, in this case Jay's legs, then proceeded to try to rub off the fly stuck to it's cheek, again on Jay's legs. The hook point must have been exposed, caught and penetrated the latex, and Jay, then ripped free. Jay had truly been "attacked" by a Deshutes reside. I stopped laughing sometime later that afternoon. For awhile.
The best and most interesting fishing partner I ever took down the river was a contemporary of mine, age-wise. The husband of x- wife-#1's best childhood girlfriend, they were vacationing in the states from England. Dave was English. Cockney-english, a Londoner. He had, I found out the first night, never camped out, never missed a night on a mattress in a bed since his graduation from, presumably, a crib. This was, for him, the equivalent of the second Lewis and Clark expedition. Not only was there the
pleasure of listening to the interesting accent, and idioms, and the "english sense of humor", but also of watching someone redefine and analyze from a completely fresh perspective everything we so take for granted. I caught Dave studying a sleeping bag for about five minutes.
"I'm supposed to sleep in that?", he asked. I assured him that it would be warm enough and prevent all sorts of communicable diseases. Trying to explain how to light a Coleman stove was completely beyond me. He was game, willing to try everything, and thoroughly loved every minute of the trip. He was amazed that we could float the river, and survive separation from "pub", telephone and alternating current, for days on end that he showed very little interest in fishing for most of the trip.
Our companions on that fall trip were Kelsy Hobday and Don Marvel, who were in a separate boat. Kelsey is still a member of the club, but Don has dropped away. I've got to be careful here because Don still lives and works in this town, and I see him occasionally. Don is a serious fisherman. He likes to catch fish, takes pride in it, and gets very upset if others are catching fish and he isn't. In short, he is a
