Big Fish Stories
In which Jennifer shares a memoir of happy times near the beautiful secret spots close to Troy, Oregon. Jennifer does not write memoir.
Fishing Tale
My husband used to take me fishing on the weekends when it was warm in an old blue VW van he had customized for me. It had a daybed and a bathroom and room for all our camping, photography, art and fishing supplies plus my guitar. It even had a plug-in cooler. We had a great big canopy we'd stretch out from the door of the van so we could sit in the shade or sleep all the way outside. It was a fantastic vehicle; what it lacked in horsepower, it more than made up for in style and grace. I never felt his love for me more than when he was working on that beautiful van and later, when we went camping in it.
He liked to fly-fish, and I liked to be outside. I usually took my guitar and some books and some stuff to draw with. We would pass the lazy days away, he in his waders in the river, and I in my bikini writing or drawing or singing. He was a fine fisherman and he fished for steelhead salmon with barbless hooks using flies he'd tied himself.
One of the things I loved best about him was the way he treated animals: for example, he only used barbless hooks. I don't think it was a showing-off thing; I think, for one thing, he really thought it should be a fair game, and for another thing, he didn't want to hurt anyone whether or not he planned on eating him. We never ate the female fish; he always gave them back to the river. Since then, I have become pretty picky about the way my fish are caught: the ones that aren't hurt just plain taste better.
I don't know how he killed the ones he kept, but he told me he bonked them on the head right away so they wouldn't suffer. And on a good day, one or two great big fish did not suffer in his creel & fern, and several smaller ones did not suffer after being gently turned back into the current.
If it wasn't fire season yet, we could build a safe fire and cook the steelhead for dinner. It was the best food I've ever had, except maybe for the elk I ate once when my husband got an elk tag and a clean shot to the heart. He knew how to cook outside, and he made dinners that filled me with great affection and nutrition. In the spring, we'd sit around the fire drinking his camp-brewed coffee and talking or not talking and looking up at the millions of stars I had never, ever seen before. Soon after dark, we'd put out the fire and go to bed.
He was very tall and slim, and we fit perfectly together in the single bed in the van. He was like Ned in the Dr. Seuss book: I think he had just grown accustomed to having the bottom half of his calves sticking out of the bed all night. I imagine him now, in a bed with holes cut out of the footboard for his feet. So we'd leave the door open and take the canopy down and we’d sleep close under the glittering glass sky.
In the morning, I'd wake up to the sound and smell of my husband making our coffee. We'd wake up and get a slow start to another day. He was so kind to me on those trips; he let me laze about doing nothing for days if I wanted to because he knew how tired I was from my job. But after a day or two, I'd want to start doing things, so I'd learn a song and play it for him on my guitar in the afternoon, or we'd go out to shoot photographs in the early morning light, or I’d practice drawing rocks or I’d write. Or I’d just watch the grace of his two hands and his arcing line over the river. There was always plenty for me to do.
When we'd start to feel like we were the only people on earth, we'd drive up to Troy, at the confluence of the Grande Ronde and the Wenaha. I loved to watch the rivers spray their jewel-colored mist on the sky. There was a little store there and my husband would talk to the other fishermen about which flies the steelhead were after and where the best spots were. Of course, no-one told where their best spots were, so those were just more big fish stories if you ask me.
Behind the store, there was a place where you could clean your fish and then you could have them cooked up for you even during fire season, so it was not really necessary to brag about how big the fish you had caught were; you could see everyone's fish right there on the huge grill, and all the steelhead were enormous and beautiful. People did like to brag about how long they'd fought a fish and how hard it had been to catch it, and I liked listening to those tales because I had seen my husband fight plenty of fish. The way they talked about all it made it sound like they were bull-fighting, which I thought was hilarious. I have always loved a good fish story.
There were a few women there but not too many fishing wives like me. Most of the women wore waders and fished themselves. I don’t know if I ever met another woman who was just there to keep her husband company and to take a vacation, but that was fine with me. My work was at home.
We'd get tired enough of the people pretty soon and we'd go back to our camp or to another of my husband's secret spots, make a new camp and spend a few more happy days, loving everything in the Oregon desert sun.
—Jennifer Woodworth ca. Once upon a time
"glittering glass sky." Magic.
You are such a good writer. I loved this one.