The passing of former Oregonian reporter and business editor Steve Carter was not the first death of a good friend. At my age, deaths of people I know sadly occur with discouraging regularity. But Steve’s passing from the ravages of ALS at age 78 touches me especially deeply.
I don’t know many people who seem never to utter a bad word about anyone. But that was Steve. In our years of friendship, I not once heard him insult, complain about, or criticize anyone. Steve was proud of his family — his wife Madeleine and son Lee, and other relatives I don’t know — and was quick to share his pride in their achievements. His friends came next.
I remember Steve not so much from The Oregonian newsroom, where both of us worked. Rather I remember him from the rivers, lakes and streams, in which he stood waist deep in his waders, expertly casting his fly line into a pool or riffle where a cutthroat or rainbow trout might be lurking. It didn’t so much matter whether his fly came back with a fish attached, although he met with more success than most. It was the joy of fishing that energized him.
Steve had many interests — following his retirement from the paper, he became involved in several civic activities. But I don’t think it’s much of an exaggeration to say he lived for fly-fishing. I was among those privileged to fish beside him and learn from him over the years. Indeed, he helped my wife, Candise, pick out my first fly rod.
In the final weeks of Steve’s life, during which he grew progressively weaker with terrifying speed, we reminisced on some of our early experiences. We laughed about the time we caught a duck, or rather my nephew, Wes Hulden, caught a duck. We had gone with Wes and Steve’s son Lee, then small boys, to a camping and fishing outing at Trillium Lake on Mt. Hood.
Nothing was biting that day until Wes suddenly felt something jerking furiously on his line. At first, we thought the obvious, a great fish, a great catch. But as Wes reeled in his line, the thrashing of feathers in the water suggested it was not a fish at all, but a duck.
Sadly, it was thoroughly caught, and we had to reel it all the way to the bank. After we cut away the badly tangled line, we released the duck, hopefully not significantly worse for wear. But that poor duck was all we caught that day.
One of our first memorable experiences, which had nothing to do with fishing, occurred on the tennis court where we were doubles partners. Steve was a good tennis player, and the two of us had played ourselves into the finals of a tennis tournament at the old Eastmoreland Racquet Club.
We were playing well, and the championship was in sight when Steve, positioned at the net with me farther back, suddenly stumbled to the court. “Why did you hit me?” he demanded. He thought I’d hit him from behind with my tennis racket. But it took only moments for us to realize his achilles tendon had snapped.
Steve fished in style. In our early outings, we slept in a tent on air mattresses. Steve had all the camping equipment anyone might need, and then some. To my delight, he early on produced cigars and a Mason jar filled with martinis for relaxing post-fishing evenings around a campfire.
As we grew older, we exchanged our sleeping bags for motel room beds.
Steve fished in many streams throughout the West with many different friends. He would research the rivers and the best fly pattern to use — he knew his flies — and kept detailed notes about the results.
Jack Ohman, the former Oregonian cartoonist, now with the Sacramento Bee, fished annually with Steve and others on the North Fork of Idaho’s Clearwater River. While sadly reminiscing about Steve the other day, Jack praised his knowledge of flies and skills as a fisherman. But one memory that stood out also had nothing to do with fly-fishing; rather, it had everything to do with friendship.
Jack was alone on a Christmas Eve, depressed, struggling through a difficult divorce — he has since remarried. “I was a ruin … I could barely eat then.” Aware of his distress, Steve invited Jack to join him and Madeleine for a holiday dinner at a downtown hotel. Jack accepted, and by the end of the evening he was laughing. “It was perhaps the most meaningful and memorable Christmas I had in decades.”
One river Steve and I liked to fish — often joined by a friend from Washington, D.C., Mike Shanahan — was the Wallowa River in northeast Oregon. The last time the three of us went out, we all caught multiple fish.
Indeed, one of the largest trout I ever hooked on a fly, probably impressive only to me, was caught on that trip. Soon after that outing, Mike, another dear friend — a Vietnam War vet and from all appearances in excellent health — died of a stroke at his home in Washington.
The last time I fished with Steve ended in fishing disappointment. We scrambled down a steep bank along the Wallowa River to a spot where we’d caught a large number of fish the year before (or two years before when Mike was with us; memory fades). Steve dropped his fly into a riffle near the bank and instantly brought out a 8-inch rainbow.
“Going to be a good day,’’ Steve said. But it wasn’t. That was the only fish either of us caught that day.
Although Steve continued fishing many more times with Jack and other friends, it was my last time, as scrambling up and down steep river banks had become more and more difficult, if not downright dangerous. On this last outing, Steve caught me before a fall down the bank that could have resulted in serious injury.
While my stream fishing days were over, Steve continued fishing with Jack and others. I’m sure he’s still fishing now.
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