Chris Corbin: the Future of the Deschutes Depends on Us
Keep them wet: Chris Corbin’s prize for the arduous pedal up the lower Deschutes River.
The Last 10 Miles of the Last 100 Miles
This week’s blog post is written by Bend resident and ardent DRA supporter Chris Corbin.
I was sunburned, wind-chafed, dehydrated, and bleeding the first time I visited the last 10 miles of the Deschutes. A fellow angler and a total stranger had told me to bike up from the mouth on a scorching August day, promising me I might find a willing anadromous rainbow trout. Instead, I found pain.
But for six perfect seconds, I watched a dime-bright steelhead tail-dance its way back to the Pacific before spitting my fly. I limped out of that canyon, a changed man.
Over the weekend, I watched The Last 100 Miles. It’s a must-see. Shortly after the show started, I realized—I’d been on every mile of the lower Deschutes, from the Pelton Round Butte Hydropower Project to its confluence with the Columbia. That’s not a humble brag. That’s a real brag. It’s arguably the most unique coldwater fishery in the Lower 48, and I’ve seen it all.
But as breathtakingly beautiful as the first 90 miles can be, it’s the last 10 that keep me up at night.
The Last 10 Miles
This stretch of canyon in late summer is rough. You could fry an egg on the rock walls while 30 mph winds try to rip your tent from the ground. Grass fires ignite without warning. Rattlesnakes coil in the shade, and the slick volcanic river ledges are just waiting to break your kneecaps.
But through it all, the azure waters (or what we hope one day soon will return to that brilliant shade of blue) of the Deschutes keep flowing—carving its relentless path to the Columbia. Below the water’s surface the first steelhead of the season are making their way upstream to complete a journey we can all admire. And every once in a while, one of those fish will rise and take my waking muddler. In those rare, hard-earned moments in the canyon, there is nowhere on earth I’d rather be.
How It Started
The stranger told me to fish the mouth, but he didn’t tell me how to prepare. On that fateful first trip, I earned five flat tires from goat head thorns, with a few more stuck in the palm of my hand. Ran out of water. Slept in a pile of cheatgrass. Nearly killed my dog and gashed my shin deep enough for stitches.
I also watched, in disbelief, as a fresh steelhead made one violent run before throwing my fly.
I learned the hard way. Then I got smarter.
I bought an old Trek off Craigslist, strapped on a couple of steel baskets, and taught my dog how to ride on the back. I devised a hammock system that works on nearly any pair of streamside alders.
And then I went back. Over and over.
On the lower Deschutes, a fish doesn’t need a bicycle, but an angler might. Chris Corbin’s version of a two-wheeled access road taxi.
Some days, I swore steelhead were extinct. On other days, I danced by myself under a moonlit sky after an eight-pound miracle arrived at the end of my line. I’ve paid my dues on this water. I know it well.
I’ve even shared it with a few close fishing friends, all sworn to secrecy. To my surprise, most of them didn’t like it nearly as much I did.
Too windy. Too hot. Too much effort. Too many jet boats. No fish. Some fishing friends didn’t even appreciate my post trip ritual of biscuits and gravy at Dinty’s in Biggs Junction, the best rendition of this decadent breakfast I’ve found in Oregon, and maybe a long way beyond.
Me? I love it, the whole package.
Where It’s Going
Okay, like a true steelhead angler, I may be slightly exaggerating the brutality and my heroic efforts near the mouth. But here’s the truth: all my time spent in the last ten miles has been in the last ten years. I wasn’t there before the PGE mixing tower started screwing things up in the last 100 miles, so my perspective is a recent perspective. But even in that short window of time, I’m seeing change.
In some years, ODFW closes the fishery entirely. Other years, it’s been open, but the numbers were so bleak I closed it for myself. My smallmouth bycatch on swung flies has skyrocketed. The sub-surface volcanic spines that once gave me the perfect swing are almost unrecognizable under a slick of algae.
The water quality problems the DRA is actively monitoring in the first 90 miles hit hardest in the bottom ten. The problems associated with PGE’s mismanagement of water releases are only compounded near the mouth.
In 10 short years, the last 10 miles of the Deschutes are noticeably different than they once were, in a bad way.
How Will it End?
I don’t know what the future holds for the Deschutes. But I know the Deschutes River Alliance is fighting for it, and I plan to fight with them. They’re working hard to fulfill a simple promise to future generations: to protect clean, cold water—because without it, the last 100 miles won’t be worth losing sleep over.
Ten years from now, I want to bike up that old canyon road, find a copse of alders to call home for the night and watch a wild steelhead rise to my fly.
If that future exists, it will be because we all showed up in support for the river we love.
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