Straight perfect at the Crooked

We left the Owyhee on a stormy Saturday after nearly two weeks of fishing and painting, and just as weekend crowds arrived. An annual May Owyhee trip will probably make its way into the van rotation — it was unlike any place we'd been, and like all those once-lesser-visited places, I hope it stays as wild and protected forever. 

We have John Ljung to thank for inspiring this trip. Years ago he told us about this magical river, and I thought of him when we used flies he had tied for us back in 2018 to try for those big browns. 

Brown town & trout pants FTW.

On our way west and north we took a slightly longer route so we could pass through Mitchell, Oregon. It's a one street town a short drive toward the coast from John Day. We went through Mitchell so we could go back to Tiger Town Brewery. It's a quirky little place where we had stopped to eat out of desperation last spring, and found it to be one of those surprising gems with great beer and delicious food where you'd least expect it. The fish and chips are worth driving to Mitchell for. We'll be back again next year. 

Welcome to Mitchell, Oregon. This is the whole town. 

Tiger Town Brewery is on the right in this picture.

We love Mitchell.

Tiger Town Brewery fish and chips.

With full bellies we continued west to Prineville, then made our turn into the Crooked River Canyon. And everyone, this place is absurd. 

Stunning volcanic canyon walls of lichen-covered columns, cobbles, and flows. A billion swallows eating and drinking all around you. A hatch of some harmless winged bug, and little redband trout hitting the surface in slow seams and along the far edges of the river, and nice feisty white fish lurking at the bottom. Flocks of wester tanagers. Magpies. Canada geese and their adorable goslings. Bald eagles, robins, herons, kingfishers, osprey. 

The campgrounds are empty, and right on the water's edge. We've had a fire every night with wood leftover by other campers. Greg fishes all day. 

Empty campgrounds at the Crooked River.

My fisherman.

Some evening work at another campsite, with a perfect view down to a riverbend and no one else in sight but the swallows.

It is another perfect place. I really hate dams. When I get to stay in places like this, where the canyon once stretched for miles and miles upriver but is now a dammed reservoir of silt and speedboats, I think of Vaughn Short's poem Floyd's Void (which we first heard from a river rafting guide on Grand Canyon). 

But there's a breed of men both hardy and free

Who lie at night on the lonely bars

And there beneath the glittering stars

They dream of TNT, they do

They dream of TNT.

Not sure where we're headed next, but so far these Oregon rivers have been hard to beat.

Love,
Allison, Greg, and Teddy