he is a competitive fisherman. This was the first time down the Deschutes for Kelsey and Don, and the fishing was frankly difficult, and made more so for the two of them by their absolute unwillingness to drift more than 100 feet away from me. I would keep reassuring them there were no rapids for 10, then 8, then 5 miles, to find their own water, but every time I would pull for shore to fish, Kelsey would point and gesture to Don who was rowing, and they would frantically thrash their way to the shoreline as well. Whitehorse Rapids and it's reputation used to do that to people. The gist was that I would stop on fish and they would be stuck with whatever nearby shoreline they happened to grasp and cling to until I shoved off again. In the evenings Don would ask me exactly how many fish I caught, how big. I tried to be vague. He was getting frustrated. On the day we were going to hit Whitehorse everyone knew it. Kelsey and Don reduced the maximum allowable floating distance from me to about 25 feet. I pulled in to fish a favorite spot, and for once I could recommend that Don take the shoreline above while I walked downstream and around a stand of trees and was going to work my way back to the boats. Dave was going to sit in the boat, as usual, just enjoying the scenery. He happened to be parked in a spot near where fish often would rise. Once I had circled around, I had a clear view of the whole scene from about 500 yards, the boats, Dave sitting there, and Don working his way progressively up the shoreline. After about ten minutes I was getting closer to the boats, and Don further away. I saw Dave climb out of the boat, take out one of my rigged fly rods and begin waving it as though to cast. I fished up some more before looking up again. Dave's rod was bending and bucking and I could see the telltale splashing below him of a fish. "Way to go,Dave", I yelled from the distance. I wondered if he even knew what to do next. Upstream I saw Don stop and stare down at Dave for about half a minute. Then from a distance I heard his voice. "What did you get it on?" Dave did his best. "A fly", he yelled back. Don shook his head and went back to fishing, more excitedly. I got distracted by a few fish, and when I looked up again ten minutes later, Dave's rod was bent over into a fish again. "Hey Dave, thatta boy!" Don heard me, stopped and stared again, slamming his rod on the water.
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