Dawn breaks with dew heavy on new-mown grass. I sit on the deck of a rental condo at Eagle Crest Resort and stare at the Deschutes River while our 14-year-old Corgi licks my breakfast plate clean of crumbs. A sky filled with smoky haze turns the sunrise into a glowing orange ball.

An advertisement headlining a tourist rag on the breakfast table reads, “What is a Harmonic Egg?” Choosing not to spend the day in an egg-shaped chamber that uses the power of sound, light, and sacred geometry to “realign your energies,” I ponder choices. For me, wellness is best achieved with a fly rod in hand.

Just last year I fished the nearby Metolius, a crystal-clear stream gushing a constant 50,000 gallons a minute from two springs that emerge at the base of Black Butte. A well-trodden trail the width of a county road, stately cabins, and public campgrounds run parallel to much of its forested banks. Securing a place to cast a fly between other eager anglers is not easy, but I managed to land a nice trout on a No. 16 Purple Haze after trying a dozen patterns. If nothing else the day taught that purchasing a proven pattern from a local fly shop increases your chances of success.

However, been there, done that. What other choices exist in this central Oregon trout mecca?

It’s less than an hour down the road to Prineville. The once bustling mill town where our daughter was born almost 50 years to the day. (My how time flies!) At the time, I worked as a seasonal fish checker for the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Spare hours were spent drifting a Tied-Down Caddis below a single split shot when the sun was high, switching to a PED when canyon walls shaded deep runs. Nostalgia calls me back to wet a line, but hot weather, drought, and low flow threatens a trout population that deserves a break.

That leaves the Deschutes River, “le Riviere des Chutes.” The lower 100 miles attracts the most anglers, particularly during the summer salmon fly hatch. Half a dozen float trips taught me to fish early, fish late, and save the midday for napping. Time being of the essence, I don my fly vest, grab a 5-weight rod and hike down an engineered trail to the river. The sharp, resinous scent of juniper penetrates my nostrils. A gray-haired woman with a Doberman on leash and a bearded man wearing polyester running tights nod polite hellos as they pass. The golden bloom of rabbitbrush lends a festive look to an otherwise subdued, high desert landscape.

The shadow of a turkey vulture soaring high over the narrow canyon passes over me. Hopefully, not an omen. It’s peaceful in the narrow canyon with only the sound of rushing water and the thought of rising trout to consider.

Forcing my way through a snarl of wild rose, red osier dogwood, and brush willow, I wade out to where swift current swirls around a volcanic boulder the size of a pool table. Ten minutes later a pan-size rainbow trout straightens the curl in my fly line. A No. 10 Golden Stimulator proves to be the ticket.

Navigating the tricky shoreline requires grabbing onto overhanging branches and avoiding drop-offs in the stream bottom. Several missed strikes later, I tie on the same tiny purple fly that fooled a Metolius River trout and validate the experience with a foot-long native “redside” trout.

A flock of two-striped grasshoppers up to 2 inches long struggle to avoid me in their bed of reed canary grass. I toss one into slow-moving transition water and watch it float out of sight with nary the sign of a hungry trout. Later that evening, at my book signing in nearby Sisters, a local flycaster shares, “Not many people fish that part of the Deschutes, but attractor patterns generally work well.”

The scenic route home follows Ochoco Creek to its headwaters, past meadows lush with field grass, and winds over three mountain passes. A circus-like gathering of Cycle Oregon bikers greets us at Mitchell, many wearing “Painted Hills” T-shirts. Three bikers taking a roadside break inform they are halfway through a testing 70-mile loop. “Too much first gear pedaling on steep hills for me,” I tell them.

We stop for lunch at Service Creek where the John Day River meanders below muffin-shaped hills and basalt-rimmed buttes. Long languid pools and ankle-deep riffles are in evidence following the 2019 flood. I am tempted to cast a fly, but don’t string up my rod because the native rainbow trout population has been replaced with invasive smallmouth bass.

It’s been a good road trip, but familiar Blue Mountain waters and the October caddisfly hatch are now on my mind.