Quests
May 4, 2026

Golden Rainbows Under a Deschutes Salmonfly Hatch

Jared Kukura

Executive BIkefisher

I pass a moustached man riding a unicycle on the bike path. He’s juggling. Who says you need to venture far to see wild things?

I’m not going far today. My destination is just across town and right off the bike path, but it offers a small slice of adventure.

The pavement under my tires turns to crushed gravel. My bike yearns for dirt, as do I. I’m sure this small taste of gravel excites it as much as it does me, or the summer quests looming on the horizon.

My legs aren’t happy, though. The ride should be an easy roll downriver, but there’s a headwind, and my bike is heavy. I’m sure I’ll get a headwind on the way home, too. That’s how it always goes.

I crest one final hill and see my destination come into sight. The Deschutes River lies below me, deep in a rocky canyon. I hop off my bike to take a quick look before the next phase of my journey.

I coast down the gravel path for just another minute more. I get off my bike and walk it down a trail practically hidden from sight. I won’t have to worry about anyone finding my bike here.

I grab a few bites of a PB&J sandwich and remove all my fly fishing gear from the bike. I’m anxious to start fishing, but it’s going to be a while until I actually make it to the water’s edge. I’m still near the top of the canyon, and the trail down is steep, loose, and often non-existent.

My first decision of the day is whether to descend the scree or the boulders. I choose scree. I slip on my first step on the scree. I’m wearing sandals, and my exposed toes take a beating. Wrong choice. I’ll find a different way back to the bike later.

The scree comes to an end. But the hike isn’t any easier. I carefully pick my way through trees and bushes, using my fly rod case to keep thorny branches at bay as much as possible.

I make it to the riverbank in relatively good shape. The pain in my toes quickly fades once I start to rig my fly rod.

Something crawls up my calf and frightens me. I swat at it and turn around. It’s a salmonfly. I wasn’t expecting this. I thought I would be nymphing. I didn’t bring my dry fly rod, though.

I hesitantly tie a hopper-dropper setup to my line. I’ll stick to my original plan. The water is kind of high right now anyway.

I make my way to the top of a boulder. I cast into a seam between two rocks. A fish strikes my hopper. I miss the hookset. I cast again and drift the flies towards a boulder at the end of the seam. A fish strikes my hopper again. I miss the hookset again.

My third cast across the seam gets the same result. My fourth cast downstream is no different. I stop. This is dumb. I’m dumb, I sigh.

I climb down the boulder and snip off my hopper dropper setup. I pick a fly I tied that resembles a salmonfly. I realize I only packed one of these flies in my box. I’d better not lose this.

I head upstream where slow-moving pools are hidden between large boulders. I see salmonflies on nearly every boulder I climb. I should have gone with this fly from the beginning.

I plant my feet on top of a boulder overlooking a few small pockets of water. I pull out some fly line before casting across the river. I land the fly with a hard thwack and instantly see a fish rise from below. But the fish only gives a quick nibble before descending.

I cast again, this time slightly upstream for a longer drift. Another fish strikes. A bigger fish this time. I set the hook, but the fish rocketed under a snag of branches and got off. Yep, I should have gone with this fly from the beginning.

I turn downstream and cast into the top of another run, letting the fly drift to the end. I leave the fly in the water at the end of the drift and twitch it by moving my rod tip back and forth ever so slightly. The fly’s movement entices another bite. I set the hook, and the line stays tight. There we go.

I land my first fish. It’s a rainbow trout. I haven’t caught anything but rainbows in this part of the river before. But this rainbow isn’t what I came here for.

I make my way up and over more boulders. Salmonflies flutter overhead. I like this.

I stand above another series of pools. I cast downstream. Thwack, drift, twitch, bite. My line goes tight again. I net another rainbow, but this one is different. This is what I came here for.

The trout in my net is a golden rainbow. I don’t know what gives them their distinctive hue, but they’re different from the rainbows in my part of the river.

I let the golden rainbow swim from the net back to the depths of the river. I turn and continue my scramble upstream.

I see a salmonfly touch down on the water not far ahead of me. A trout circles below, darting in and out, nipping at the bug. The salmonfly flutters but can’t seem to get airborne.

The scene reminds me of sharks that wait offshore for fledgling seabirds to make their splash landing during unsuccessful flights. But this salmonfly gets lucky. It finally breaks free from the river and escapes the predator.

I try my luck and toss in my fly. The trout circles and nips, but it doesn’t give me enough to set the hook.

I look across the river and see a boulder just below the water surface. There’s a fish there. I land my fly with the thwack that’s worked so well. I don’t see an immediate reaction. I let my fly drag in front of the boulder. Wait, twitch, wait, twitch, bite.

Now is a good time to head back. I head downstream to pack up my gear for the journey home. My feet stop moving at the last pool before the trail back to my bike. One more fish wouldn’t hurt.

I cast behind a boulder and let my fly drift out of a seam. A fish rockets up and grabs my fly. It’s a big one. The fish disappears between two boulders at the end of the pool faster than it appeared. I don’t react in time to keep the fish in play. I can feel the fly caught on something. It outsmarted me.

I know I should leave, but I want a shot at redemption. I tie on the hopper dropper setup I started the day with. I pick my way through riverbank branches and snags to a fresh spot downstream.

I cast upstream to the top of a run down the middle of the river. The hopper drops below the water surface. I set the hook. Ok, this is my last fish.

I net my last fish of the day. I see the hook in its lip just below its eye. I overfished my welcome.

I anxiously pack up the net and fly rod in preparation for the trek up the canyon wall. I turn left up a dirt trail instead of turning right up the scree field. I’m so smart.

My bike comes into view. I’m relieved to see it. I didn’t think anything would happen to it. But I’m relieved, nonetheless.

I throw my pack and net in the basket, strap my fly rod to the bike, and finish my half-eaten sandwich. I notice the sky is much darker now. Clouds block the sun. I push my bike up the trail to the gravel path.

I feel the wind at my back when I start pedaling. No headwind home, after all. I use every ounce of the wind and pedal out of the saddle at every hill. I see the sky getting darker.

I don’t want to get wet. I should have left sooner. This is what I get. Maybe there is a god – who else would punish me like this?

I roll down my street into my driveway. I sit down on my bench. There is dried blood on my toes and a dusting of dirt on my legs. Thunder rumbles overhead, but it is too late. Ha, I knew there was no god.