Quests
April 15, 2026

A Man Who Cannot Freely Walk the Riverbank is Not a Free Man

Jared Kukura

Executive BIkefisher

I stare at my bike hanging on the wall. It’s going to be ok, I think to myself. Only a few more days until I fully recover from my hernia surgery and get back on the bike.

I grab my 3wt fly rod, reel, and sling pack. I’m traveling light without my trusty mule to carry all my gear.

I strap my fly rod to my pack and head out the front door. My neighborhood stroll turns to a hike once I make my way past the last row of houses lining the rim of the canyon.

I head down the canyon with dirt under my feet. The signs of spring are apparent. I see the yellow flowers of Oregon grape pickpocketing the river’s edge. A lupine’s star-topped stalks emerge from the soil to the right of the trail.

Three large boulders lie in my path. Lift the left leg. Extend the right arm. Climb. That didn’t feel bad. I feel relieved.

I continue to my first fishing hole of the day. As I sit on a boulder imagining where the hungry trout lurk, I hear an osprey overhead. I’m not far from a dead ponderosa pine that sits halfway up the canyon wall. The pine housed an osprey nest last year. I hope this year is the same.

I rig up my fly rod for the first time in months. It feels good to feel the cork in the palm of my hand again. Ants find their way up my sleeves. I should have packed some ants in my fly box.

I normally fish dry flies with my 3wt. But I tie on an orange-tailed streamer. I’m a terrible streamer fisher, but my neighborhood fishing buddy told me streamers were working well in this section of the river. “Maybe things will turn around for me today,” I mutter under my breath.

I dust the ants off my sleeves and make my way to the water’s edge. My first cast will be on a boulder in the middle of the river.

Outstretch the right leg. Place the right hand on top. Swing the left leg. Up. Down. Hop across. Up. Down. No pain, great.

I find myself in the middle of the river at the top of two runs. One run to my right. One run to my left. Both runs hold fish. But I’m armed with a streamer. A more competent fly fisher would land several trout here with a streamer. But not me.

I see one fish dart up from the murky depths and nibble my fly. Nothing more. Time to move on. I reverse the dance back to the riverbank and head upstream. I try half a dozen more pools without a single bite. Time to move on.

I lay my rod between rocks and clip off the streamer. I pull out my fly box to find a suitable replacement. I should have brought ants. I pull out a rusty parachute. You can tell I tied it because it looks scraggly. I like scraggly flies. I think trout like them, too.

I scramble back downstream, hoping things turn around. It’s midday. The sun is overhead. I temper my hopes.

I find myself at the top of a pool worth prospecting. I cast across into the faster-flowing water and let the fly drift towards the corner of a downed pine and a boulder. A bite. I miss the hookset.

I reposition and cast directly downstream. No bite. I cast again. A bite. I set the hook. It’s a small rainbow. I admire its parr marks and send it on its way.

I work my way further downstream. I hop from boulder to boulder, confident that my body will be back to normal soon. I land two more rainbows. All are small today.

I make my way back to the middle of the river, ready to call it quits. The water is low. There is trash for me to discover. A dog’s ball is trapped under an exposed tree branch. A lighter sitting atop a smooth rock. Half of another dog’s ball is floating in a small pool.

I cross to the other side of the river along a log that’s submerged ten months of the year. I make my way up the rocks and find more trash. I should have packed a trash bag. I start the mile hike to the nearest trash can.