The extra car was an old, old, cult classic, the pug equivalent of vehicle genetics — an early-2000s Subaru Baja. Because I am bad at hiding boredom and my girlfriend’s family is awesome, I had been granted access to the dented, navy blue miniature truck they parked down the street from their house in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Its divisive aesthetics, questionable utility, and general one-of-a-kind vibe were all mine for the duration of our stay.
Any car that gets me access to fishing that I otherwise couldn’t access gets bumped up a few points in my book. Even so, I was a little apprehensive about this temporary rig — word on the street (girlfriend’s family) was that the Baja had some quirks (was on its deathbed) and didn’t care much for long drives anymore. The noises and smells it emitted on some short spins around town suggested the car also agreed with that sentiment. But the idea had been planted, and within the aroma of burning oil I got a whiff of freedom. So on a lighter weekday at work I busted out early, packed a light bag and an extra bottle of 5W-30, and babied the truck over Santiam Pass.
Not much has changed in downtown Bend from when I lived here, which is more than can be said about its perimeter. It seemed that the suburbs appeared a little earlier on the way into town than they did the last time I had driven this route just a couple of years before. The roadside desert outskirts now hosted a Costco and a couple of new upscale apartment complexes, all linked by fresh roundabouts made to spoil my car’s blazing pace. City center was largely recognizable and still cut through by a lazy Deschutes.
That evening, I dropped in on a couple high gradient sections of the urban river. I spotted a few small blue wings and even some skwalas, but I was on a schedule — there would be no messing around. Jig nymphs and eggs hit every good piece of winter water, and the redband came as rapidly as the night. I peeled off my waders leaning on the Baja’s bed like any good truck angler, then joined friends in town for overpriced bar food and beers like any good Bend tourist.
There would be work again the next morning — early. It would take a good chunk of the day, but from here it seemed like I could dream through it, come out the other side with tasks finished, the laptop hidden from myself under the backseats, and a front fender aimed toward the Metolious.
I found a few fish there, too. They were redband and whitefish and bulls, at home in quiet sliding waters, feeding unbothered on a weekday from deep pools as blue as my vintage truck. I jumped spots often through this stretch, whizzing through the ponderosas and playing music through the bleeding speakers until I ran out of daylight and river.
I was 24 when I left Oregon. I was about 6 when this car was new. I wasn’t sure what that meant to me, but I had a few hours of driving to think about it. Questions like:
“Should I have checked the oil again before I left?”
“Was the fishing always this good when I was here, or did I just get used to it?”
“Is there still time to turn around?”
“Does a compact pickup really have a purpose in this world?”
“Do I?”
Headlights flickered on and the car whined back onto the asphalt, the rods clattered and shifted, radio came on. The pull-off in my rearview, a blanket of pine needles and dusty red sand, settled as if we were never there.
