You may have camped with us at Battle Creek on the Snake River, above Wild Sheep Rapid, on the left in Oregon. The big bench up there where we put the tents has depressions left from pit houses where Nez Perce wintered I don’t know how many years ago.

After Wild Sheep, we pull over to scout Granite and if you’ve taken that short walk you’ll recall the pictographs under the rock overhang.

I love that stuff. Just absolutely dig knowing someone stood right in this very spot looking at just this very thing thousands of years ago. “Thousands” is a handy term, but perhaps we’re too used to throwing it out there. I mean….thousands. Hundreds and hundreds of 365s. That’s a lot of 24/7s. A lot of sun-ups and sun-downs and the rock art is still there. You can see where the pit house was. You’re walking the same trail.

Couple days ago some friends took me out to some ruins near Prescott, Arizona that aren’t on the map. Drive two hours. Hike around a knob and bam. Right there. Perched up in a natural overhang, sandstone blocks stacked and stuccoed, log rafters still intact. Small tiny corncob lying on the floor. Discreet sign posted nearby asking you to please respect the site and not disturb anything. Walk down the trail and there are more sandstone wall remains.

This morning I took a walk around Montezuma Castle, south of Sedona. Montezuma was never this far north, the folks who know these things say, but someone hung that name on this place and it stuck.

Note the shade wing in the Montezuma picture. Reminds me an awful lot of river camping.

….speaking of rivers, it was nice to see rafting influence at Coyote Joe’s in Prescott. They’ve got some action photos on the wall of paddle rafts, and a broken wooden oar blade above the bar.

Adios for now. I’m hitching up the Minnie Winnie bound for Sedona to take some peeks around.

Rafting people – hello to you. How you been . . . mm-hmmm . . . O, you’re kidding. She said that? No, no . . . that will never do. Listen, you’re just going to have to sit down and . . . exactly. Yeah. Let me know how it goes.

OK. On to new business. I’m down in Arizona. There’s a bright orb that hurts to look at, I’m not certain what strange manner of aberration this is, but it happens each day. I’ve spent the last I don’t know how many winters in Wallowa County and can’t recall anything like this spectacle in November.

Operation Minnie Winnie is going splendidly. In brief: I developed a taste for Metamucil, bought a motorhome and retired to the southwest for the winter. You can read more at our sister site: jonrombach.blogspot.com.

Here’s the Winding Waters Roll Call: Morgan Jenkins. Last we heard from his tracking device, he was in Virginia. Be prepared to look at birds next rafting season, cause Mo Jenkles is on a birding kick. Talked to him several times recently and it’s blah blah blah, sapsucker, blah, pilleated something-something.

Mike Baird and Sam Macke had themselves a time down in Hells Canyon, not rafting but horseback and muleteaming it. Baird packed in a camp to pursue elk and Samuel went along as administrative assistant.

You’ll have to get the full tale from one of them, I don’t want to tread on their copyright, but the preview trailer goes like this –

“…There is a canyon, so deep, so remote…”

[cut to shot of Hells Canyon, eagle screaming in the background]

…that none dare enter…

[bass drums]

…except Winding Waters River Expeditions, based in Joseph, Oregon, featuring world-class adventure and superior gearboat service…

[shot of Morgan looking at birds]

…and maybe some other rafting companies too, but, uh….

[shot of birds pooping on other companies’ rafts, Morgan rushing to help clean it off, because we’re good about stuff like that]

And then the preview runs out of time, so I’ll just fill in the rest here. What you really need to know is that a mule Sam was leading fell through a portion of the trail and things were sticky there, apparently, for a few instants.

But they got the critter back on the trail and got out of there. There was foul weather, as every hunting expedition should have. And a bear got into the wall tent while they were away. It’s got all the elements, folks. A real rip-snorter of a Hells Canyon story, but it’s not my story to tell so I’ll leave it for the next time you’re in a boat with one of those guys.

Frankly, I’m jealous. Except for the bad weather. And the trails falling away underneath them. But other than that, I would like to spend more time up on the rims. Get to know the canyon more from up high.

Meantime, I’m digging on getting to know the desert around here. Took a nice ramble with my pooch today, so I’ll put up some photos.

Be good.

Well, I retired. For now. Bought a motorhome. Operation Minnie Winnie is a go. 29-feet of sweet vehicular mobile comfort. Queen bed. Kitchen. Little tiny toilet. The works.

Friends Al and Jennifer were trading in their Winnebago and I was outraged at the low price the dealership was offering them. I saw it as an injustice. So I offered them the same unjust amount, which they kindly said OK to.

But I had to get to Yuma, Arizona. Quickly. So I threw my sleeping pad for the river in the back of my truck. Tossed in some clothes, a toothbrush and my dog and set out.

Then I drove for 20 hours, listening to radio shows discuss the dismal economic climate. An economy that some might say is not ideal for investing in a luxury item that gets 7 miles to the gallon. That would have given me pause if I’d had time to pause, but I had to scoot to Yuma.

Got there and Al showed me the basics. The he directed my attention to the gigantic owner’s manual, which is so large I suspect it has a lot to do with this rig only getting 7 mpg.

I didn’t anticipate certain costs for this expedition, like hiring a research assistant to climb around in that owner’s manual. Or how involved it would be to hook up a tow bar so I can pull my truck behind the mother ship.

The tow bar took two days of canvassing Yuma for proper bolts, tools and advice. There’s no shortage of RV places in Yuma, and they answer most questions with a variation of this phrase: “That’ll be two or three hundred dollars.” Variations include, “three or four hundred,” sometimes, “four or five hundred.”

This is not a poor man’s sport, this RVing. And it’s not as carefree as it might seem. Driving a 29-foot box with your truck behind puts you right around the 50-foot mark. Add traffic, tight corners and at some point my knuckles just can’t get any whiter.

I’m somewhere outside of Phoenix right now, surrounded by cactus. My route seems to change based on available big, wide turns. The old song, “Give Me Forty Acres and I’ll Turn This Thing Around,” often runs through my head. Instead of backtracking, I just keep on moving until I come across a salt flat or abandoned airstrip where I can make a corner.

So if you’re in the market for a 29-foot Winnebago Minnie Winnie with a complete owner’s manual, we should talk.

My timing is a little off, by thirty years or so, to be buying a motorhome and retiring. But really, it’s been quite nice and I could get used to this. It’s snowing back home in Wallowa County, I’m told. And while I do have a cactus spine stuck in my left index finger after bushwhacking around in the desert yesterday, I really can’t complain about being down south.

I might just go take another peek at the Grand Canyon. As you know if you’ve floated Hells Canyon with Winding Waters, Hells has the upper hand on being the deepest gorge in the lower-48. That’s not a boast, just fact.

The Grand Canyon is staggering, no doubt. But I still might lean over the edge and whisper, “Hey, Grand Canyon, I got a message for you from Hells Canyon: ‘If you need help reaching something on a shelf, just ask...Shorty.’”

I caught my first steelhead. Penny caught her first steelhead. My buddy Dave caught his first steelhead. Lots of steelhead out here, friends. And the fishing is good.

Here are some pics from yesterday, buddy Dave and Winding Waters Paul with fish. I did not have a camera handy when I caught mine, but here's how it went:

There’s truth in what they say about vast numbers of steelhead swimming their way through this year. One of these fish swam back from the ocean, took a right at the Grande Ronde River and paused to consider the imitation foodstuff I was bouncing along the river bottom. This next part is a rare event for me. It took that fly.

Using my lightning-quick reflexes, I did nothing, assuming I’d snagged the bottom of the river again. I gave the flyrod a lazy nudge to free myself and couldn’t understand why I was seeing a giant fish tail rise from the water. Strange.

The next part was lackluster. I pulled and it came toward me. Reeled in and it came in more. So far, playing my first steelhead was like tugging an old tire out of the river. Then the tire woke up and did a burnout upstream. And I got nervous. There are some aspects of my flyfishing technique that need a lot of work. Like casting, for instance. Remembering knots. Choosing the proper fly. Little things like that. But one thing I have mastered is the long release. That’s when a sportsman avoids over-tiring a fish or harming it through excessive handling by allowing it to get off the hook somewhat sooner than normal. Some hardliners will split hairs and claim you haven’t really caught a fish unless you’ve … well, caught it. These philosophical details bore me. I did know that, just this once – please – I didn’t want another long release. Rod tip up, tension on the line, I very much wanted to land this fish.

Which brings us to a favorite childhood book of mine. Red Tag. It’s about a salmon. A kid’s in the woods. Sees a guy messing around with little fish. Kid asks what’s going on. Guys says, Well, kid, I’m a biologist. I’m putting this red tag on this here baby salmon so when it comes back . . . then there’s a bunch of cool illustrations where Red Tag goes to the ocean and gets chased around and almost eaten. He jumps dams and steals a car at some point, I think. Then the kid’s back in the woods a year or so later and sees Red Tag all grown up, just like the biologist guy said he’d be. Loved that book. Read it over and over.

Years later in Wallowa County I worked for the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. There I was down by the river tagging young salmon, and realized I was in a page from Red Tag. I couldn’t wait for the kid to walk up and ask what’s going on.

The kid never did show up. But I thought of Red Tag again just a few days ago while fighting that steelhead. I wanted to land that fish. Have a look. Heft the weight. Hey, I read the book, I know he swam a long way. Got chased. Almost eaten. Jumped fish ladders. It wasn’t a five-minute fight on a fly rod, it was a trip out to the Pacific Ocean and back that was on the line.

He came in, finally. Bright. Wild. A fine-looking red and silver torpedo. I had my look, removed the hook, he lay there resting, then flipped his tail and shot away. Just like an animated version of the last page from my favorite childhood book, where I got to reach down and pick the fish up off the page. And just like the book, I wanted to go back and start over again.

Paul claimed he was down in Caracas – wherever that’s supposed to be -- fishing with his brothers on a clean, wholesome, brotherly reunion. Mm-hmm, Paul. Sure.

As you can plainly see in exhibit A, which is photo provided by Paul himself, he’s clearly involved in a wet t-shirt contest. For shame.

But he does seem to be the last contestant, which must mean he won. So congratulations, boss. I’m proud of you. I guess.

But apparently they did catch some marlin. Unless that other picture is a fake fiberglass fish they were dragging around in the swimming pool. Probably stole it from one of those cantinas that hold t-shirt contests.

Man, I have got to get in on one of these Arentsen Boys shindigs. They sound like craziness.

I haven’t caught a Caracas marlin, but there’s that old saying that, “the only thing that fights harder than a Caracas marlin is . . .” how’s it go? . . . O yeah . . . “a Grande Ronde River steelhead.”

I think there’s a pound-for-pound clause thrown in there, but you should know that now’s looking like the time for pursuing Grande Ronde steelies. I direct your attention to the Fishing Report back on the main page of this here interweb site.

Penny caught one yesterday, is what I heard from Mr. Wet T-shirt.

And Paul’s talking like I might get dispatched down there on the G.R. soon for some day-rafting missions, hauling work crews to the other side of the river. Which means there’s free time. And don’t tell Paul or the workcrews, but I’ll be bringing a fishing rod. Seriously, don’t tell them.