We climbed back into the boat and continued downriver. Rice, a 30-plus-year veteran of the Deschutes, was at the oars, while Amy Terai, my fishing partner, and I scouted for more trout. That sipper had set the tone for the trip, and I was hoping to spot another just like it. That first encounter had also been a quick lesson in how the Deschutes’s no-fishing-from-a-boat law ensures that you heavily engage with its waters. Once out of the boat, there was no time for idle thought. We were on a hunt, waist-deep and determined. This type of chase differs drastically from fishing in, say, Montana, where, from sunup to sundown, rafts full of anglers will drift flies through covetable stretches of water, without ever once shucking on wading boots. Before arriving in Oregon, I’d figured we’d be slinging bugs in a similar fashion on the Deschutes, especially since we’d planned to float 35 miles over just a few days. But no.