Quests
April 22, 2026

Checking My Watch, Watching My Fly

Jared Kukura

Executive BIkefisher

I pour half the recommended amount of tire sealant into my stale tires. They always tell you to add more than you need. I accidentally spill a few ounces onto my garage floor. Of course.

I strap my fly rod case to my bike and throw my fishing pack and net into the basket. I check my watch. I won’t be venturing far today.

My legs remind me of my mountain bike ride yesterday after a few pedal strokes. The dry air irritates my throat. I’m probably getting sick again.

I hop off my bike and gingerly walk it down a stack of sharp volcanic boulders. My body feels recovered enough at this point. But I know pushing the loaded bike back up the boulders on my way home will either be the finish line for my recovery or a tragic setback.

I swing my leg over the saddle a few yards from the rocks. I point the bars down and carve my way through the dirt. That was fun. It’s been months since I last rode this trail on my way to the river.

I pedal on with gravel crunching under my tires. The river comes into view below. I search for one of my hiding spots. I pull my brake levers and slide between a mess of downed and scraggly pine trees.

I lay my bike down. Anyone walking down the gravel path can easily see my bike. I pull a cable lock from my frame bag and route it between both wheels. I snap the lock closed and slip the key into my fishing bag. That ought to do it.

The spring flowers mark their arrival at the riverbank. Whites, pinks, and greens replace browns, yellows, and reds.

I’m not the only one to take notice. Butterflies and bees float around me as I unpack my gear. I rig my fly rod, looking down at the cloudy water rushing through the canyon.

I walk upstream to a familiar spot currently guarded by flowering Oregon grape bushes. I sit and take my fly box out of my fishing pack. Nymphs, for sure. I pick a sparkly nymph tied by my friend’s dad and tie it four feet below a hopper.

I carefully make my way to the river’s edge, taking care not to slip down the loose soil and pine needles. I dab the nymph into the water and mutter, “Catch some fish. Have some fun. Don’t hurt anyone.” This ritual of mine holds little meaning to the fish. It’s more of a reminder not to hurt myself – I have a family to get back to.

I cast and watch, cast and watch. I wait for the bloop of the river swallowing the hopper. I like to think that the bloop is inevitable, but it’s not.

I cast into a deep, slow pool and let the hopper drift towards a large boulder. The hopper makes its way around the boulder towards the middle of the river. But just as the hopper clears the boulder, I see it. “Bloop,” I say to my nonexistent audience.

I lift the rod tip as soon as I see the hopper drop below the water’s surface. The line goes tight. A dark shape darts back and forth in the milky water. I strip some line in and bring the fish to my net.

It’s a small rainbow. They’re almost always small. But it’s pretty. They’re almost always pretty. This one’s spotted dorsal fin catches my eye.

The trout swims out of my net without much fanfare. It disappears into the hidden world of the river bottom. I check my watch. No need to rush yet. I make my way downstream, climbing up and over rock after rock.

I cast and watch in pool after pool without success. I continue to a section of the river where large flat rocks make easy landing platforms for an early-season fly fisher. I notice a snagged fishing line on a rock at the end of a run I want to fish. I can avoid that, my brain confidently thinks.

I snag my nymph on the edge of a submerged rock. My flies are gone. I check my watch. Still a little bit of time. There is one more spot I want to fish before heading home.

I turn towards the riverbank and spot something out of place in the rocky shallows. It’s a rubber dog ball. My second and a half of the season. This ball is in better shape than the first ones I found. I’ll try to find it a new home.

The sun is finally starting to drop below the pine trees and canyon wall on the west side of the river. I see small nondescript bugs flying near the water surface. Dry time. I pull an October caddis out of my fly box and tie it to the end of my tippet.

I cast and watch, cast and watch. I wait for the distinctive pop of a trout breaking the surface. It takes a while, but it finally comes. Another small one. I strip in line and shake the trout off at my feet. It swims away in an instant.

I check my watch. Time to go. I clip my fly off my tippet and place it back in my fly box. I’m at my bike in only a few minutes. Pack and net back in the basket. Fly rod back in its case, strapped to my bike. I start the pedal home as shadows lengthen.

I’m forced to push my bike in the final bit of the ascent out of the canyon. I’m sure I’ll be able to ride up this trail in a few more weeks, though.

I clear the canyon rim. I proclaim my body officially recovered. I pedal home with the cool air scratching incessantly at my throat. I’m definitely getting sick again. This will be the second time I’m sick in two weeks. The joys of parenthood.