Sports Injury Part 2

I tried to finish up this epic tale months ago, but fishing got in the way.
Read the first episode: I'm Calling it a Sports Injury.

Sunset view from camp

My New Quest

Black was the color of the sky as we pushed our way back towards Hood River. An extremely long day capped off with a lengthy four hour drive through the night had turned into a challenge just to keep the eyes open. Our neck of the woods was still ninety minutes away when we were both forced to pull over our rigs for a power nap, caution won out over the thoughts of sleeping in our own bed.

Getting home at four AM, was it worth it I wondered as Mike’s rig turned off towards his street and I finished the drive back to my house. A cooler with a seven pounder and two five plus pounders, battled on a fly rod, sitting on a bed of crushed ice was the answer to that question.   I counted the days; no make it the hours until I could point my truck south to be out on the waters of Davis Lake again. It was my new quest...

I'm Calling it a Sports Injury

Davis Lake, Oregon

So let’s go back to early June, when high in the Cascades, snow still lingers under tall pines and nighttime temps hover around 30 degrees. This is the Oregon we all love to play in: hot, sunny days followed by whiskey in your coffee as night settles in. I couldn’t resist the rumor that Davis Lake holds monster largemouth bass anymore than one of my buddies, no make that all of my buddies, can pass up a free beer. A huge 5000 acre fly fishing-only trophy bass lake that’s only a few hours’ drive is enough inspiration to have the truck fueled and ready weeks before the trip. But did I mention, that it was high in the mountains? So as we were enjoying 70 degree days, the lake was getting fresh, let’s call it bass-lethargic, snow.

Our local fly fishing bass expert (we will question his credentials later) kept reading his weather reports and proclaiming too cold, too cold, and too cold. I would reply too old, too old, and too old. I am getting too old waiting for this band of warmth that, by his calendar, would finally arrive sometime in late September. Ah, but using fishing logic I hatched a plan that would get us there now and if the fishing sucked, the plan would allow us to fish several other nearby lakes where huge brown trout lived like the Loch Ness Monster, seen by a few locals with grainy photos to back up their claims, but never really verified.