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Fishing the Upper Rogue with Todd Ostenson

By Scott Richmond

How can two rivers so close to each other be so different? But first--an embarrassing moment

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wo days after fishing the North Umpqua with Frank Moore (see Fishing the North Umpqua with Frank Moore), my wife, Barbara, and I are in a car head for the Dodge Bridge boat ramp on the upper Rogue River.

Todd Osterson, owner of Trophy Waters fly shop in Medford and a guide on this river, is driving. I've known Todd for several years, but it's been too long since we last fished together and I'm looking forward to a day on the river with him. But first, I'm in for a dose of embarrassment.

"So this guy comes into the shop," says Todd, sneaking a sly glance at me out of the corner of his eye, "and asks if I can take him fly fishing for chinook salmon."

I slump a little in my seat and look out the window, arms across my chest.

"I told him that I don't do salmon trips," Todd continues. "But he says, 'I read in a book that you could do that on the Rogue.' I said you could, but it was not reliable. Salmon go on and off the bite, and you never know why."

I can tell where this conversation is going, and feel my ears getting warm.

"I asked him what book he read that in," Todd goes on, steering his rig into the parking area at Dodge Bridge. "He says, 'I think it was by some guy named Dennis Richmond.'"

Gotcha.

I wagged my head back and forth. "Well, yeah. I'm used to people getting my name wrong. When I wrote 'River Journal: Rogue River' ten years ago, I included a section on fly fishing for salmon on the Rogue. You can do it," I said defensively. "I've done it successfully, and watched others do it too." I spread my hands; what could you do? "But I admit it's a tough game. I gave up on it and stick to trout and steelhead."

A Different Approach

We launch the boat and head downriver. "Will we be using shooting heads like we did on the North Umpqua?" Barbara asks.

I know the answer won't make her happy. "No, this is all nymphing with weighted flies and an indicator."

She grimaces. She just started fishing with me again, and the last three steelhead trips have meant three different tactics: swinging flies with a floating line, casting with a heavy shooting head, and now nymphing with an indicator. I know she'd like to stick with one technique and get better at it, but that's not the plan of the day.

Although it's only one drainage south of the North Umpqua, the upper Rogue is a very different river. In this section, it's seldom constrained by a canyon and is wider. You're usually fishing around structure, but it's not like the North Umpqua's ledgy bedrock and massive boulders. On the Rogue, the steelhead are usually in slots, channels, and alongside rocks. They don't stack-up below a pour-over, like the Umpqua's fish do, and there are only a few long runs suited to swinging a fly with traditional tactics. The Rogue is ideally suited to nymphing with an indicator, and you don't have to suffer the guilt you should have on the North Umpqua.

Todd anchors the boat and starts to rig up. While he's tying on flies, Barb points toward shore. "What's that," she says. We look, and two otters are chasing each other around. It looks like more than play.

"Must be the mating season," I say. Throughout the day, we see many otter--perhaps eight or ten--along the water's edge.

Rigging for the Rogue

Todd prefers a polypropylene yarn indicator with a right-angle leader system (See Dead Drift Steelheading for a description of this rig). This technique was pioneered in northern California and migrated north. It's sensitive and quickly gets the fly near the bottom where it belongs for winter fishing.

"Will we be using Egg Flies?" I ask.

"Not at this time of year," Todd says. "For late winter steelhead, I prefer a big stonefly nymph with a size 12 Prince or other nymph on a dropper." Todd ties 12 inches of leader off the point fly's hookbend and pinches on a couple of split shot. "I don't tie a knot in the end of the leader with the split shot," he says. "That way, the shot just slips off the end if it hangs up in the rocks. You lose the shot, but not the fly. We hope!"

Todd shows Barb how to cast. "Just like a wiper blade," he says. "Put the butt of the rod in your left hand, then swing the handle across from downstream to upstream." He demonstrates for her. "Just like a wiper blade."

Casting like this creates a big, open loop in the fly line. If you were casting a size 18 dry fly, that would be a bad thing, but with heavy flies or weight on the leader, the open loop keeps the flies from tangling with each other.

Todd demonstrates his technique for casting from a boat. He's a good teacher, with a ready explanation. "It's the Rogue River three-step," he says. "When the fly is all the way downstream from you, lift the rod and swing it so the fly lands upstream. Then cast it behind you on the other side of the boat, downstream. Then cast again, upstream to where you want it to be. Watch each other so you don't do it at the same time and tangle up with each other."

"And manage your slack line," I advise Barbara. "You need to tighten quickly when your indicator goes down. Really quickly."

Finding Fish

We continue to drift downstream, sometimes letting the flies drift along with us, side-drifter style, sometimes anchoring and working a run thoroughly, sometimes rowing the boat back upstream and drifting through prime water again, and sometimes just reeling up and floating through shallow, fishless sections.

As we neared a major rapids, I asked Todd, "Has the high water changed Rattlesnake?" I haven't been on this river for several years, and things are different.

"Oh yeah!" he replies. Rattlesnake is a line of boulders that extends across the entire river. The only passage is a narrow slot on the right side. "It's worse than before. There're rocks at the end of the slot now. In summer flows, you can't get through without banging a rock."

Today's flows are on the high side, nearly 2,400 cfs; summer flows are near 1,000 cfs or lower.

Todd expertly maneuvers the boat through Rattlesnake. We continue to work every likely slot, depression, or bouldery section where steelhead might lie. Fishing is slow today, perhaps due to the somewhat sunny weather.

My indicator goes down often, but usually when I tighten up I feel meet no resistance, or get hung on a rock. Finally, I tighten and feel a solid pull back. I soon land a steelhead of about 19 inches. Many of the Rogue's steehead, like steelhead in northern California streams of the Sacramento drainage, have an unusual life history. A large proportion of the juvenile fish migrate to the ocean in spring, but don't go far. They return to the river as sexually-immature "half-pounders" in the fall. They hang around through the winter, then go back to the ocean. On their next trip to the river, they are sexually mature and ready to spawn. But because they spent less time feeding in the ocean, they aren't as large as a steelhead that spends all its post-smolt life in the saltwater.

About 90 percent of summer-run fish, and about half of winter-runs, have the half-pounder life history. That's why the Rogue has a large run of small steelhead.

Still, I never met a steelhead I didn't like, and if you use the right-sized gear, the Rogue's steelhead are plenty of fun. And you never know when you might tie into a much larger fish.

I land one more fish, a nice cutthroat, and we're done for the day.

A Tale of Two Rivers

It's always enlightening to fish the Rogue and North Umpqua within a couple of days of each other. Despite being near neighbors, their structure, the life cycle of their steelhead, and the tactics that are appropriate to each river are as opposite as night and day.

Fishing these two streams is a good reminder that every river is unique.

Scott Richmond is Westfly's creator and Executive Director. He is the author of eight books on Oregon fly fishing, including Fishing Oregon's Deschutes River (second edition).

Uploaded 05/23/2006.

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The upper Rogue in spring: broad and gray. Changes in water color often signal changes in depth and point the way to steelhead lies.

A late winter-run steelhead from the Rogue. The half-pounder life history--true for 50 percent of winter-runs--means your catch can vary from two pounds to ten pounds.