How I Fly-Fish With a Dog Who Won't Sit Still — What the Deschutes Taught Me About Patience, Cars, and Being Okay With Chewed Waders

The first time I took Socket fly-fishing, I didn't catch a single fish.

I also didn't catch a single break. He spent the first hour running in circles, the second hour chasing sticks into the river, and the third hour lying in the shallows with his tongue out, looking at me like I was the one who didn't understand the assignment.

My waders were full of water. My flies were tangled in a bush. My patience was gone.

And yet, sitting on the bank of the Deschutes that afternoon, watching the sun set over the canyon, I realised something: I'd just had the best day I'd had in months.

That's the thing about fly-fishing. It's not about the fish. It's about the process. The patience. The willingness to fail and try again. And it's about the company you keep — even if that company is a border collie who thinks the river is a giant water bowl.

What the Deschutes taught me that day is the same thing that 15 years of turning wrenches has taught me: You can't rush good work. You can't force a car to tell you what's wrong. And you can't expect a dog to sit still when there's water to be splashed in.

The Deschutes: A Classroom Without Walls

The Deschutes River runs through central Oregon, from the Cascades down to the Columbia. It's one of the best fly-fishing rivers in the Pacific Northwest — cold, clear, and full of rainbow trout and steelhead.

I've been fishing the Deschutes for about ten years now. I'm not a particularly good fly-fisherman. I tie my own flies, but they're ugly. My casting is decent but not elegant. I've never caught a steelhead. But I keep going back, because the river gives me something that the shop can't: silence. Or at least, a different kind of noise.

In the shop, the noise is the hum of the lift, the clatter of tools, the whine of an impact wrench. It's the noise of a problem being solved. It's productive, but it's also relentless.

On the river, the noise is water over rocks, wind through the pines, and Socket barking at a squirrel. It's the noise of a problem being let go.

The Deschutes has taught me that there's a time for fixing things and a time for letting them be. And that the two are not always the same.

Socket: The Unlikely Fishing Companion

Socket is not a natural fishing dog.

He's a border collie mix, which means he's smart, energetic, and obsessive. He's the kind of dog who will chase a stick for hours without getting bored. He's also the kind of dog who thinks that any body of water is an invitation to swim.

The first few times I took him to the river, he was a disaster. He'd run into the water, scare the fish, and then come back and shake himself off on me. He'd bark at the flies I was casting. He'd try to retrieve the fly when it landed on the water.

I tried to train him. I brought treats. I used commands. I even tried leaving him at home, but he'd give me that border collie stare — the one that says, "You're leaving me? Really?" — and I'd cave.

So I accepted it. I stopped trying to make Socket a "good" fishing dog. I let him be a dog.

The compromise was simple: I'd fish for an hour, then I'd let him swim for an hour. I'd cast, he'd splash. I'd move upstream, he'd run along the bank. At the end of the day, we'd both be tired, wet, and happy.

The Deschutes taught me that control is overrated. Sometimes, you just have to let the chaos be part of the experience.

What Fly-Fishing Taught Me About Cars

You might be wondering what any of this has to do with cars.

Here's the answer: Everything.

1. Patience

Fly-fishing is the antithesis of instant gratification. You spend hours tying flies that you'll probably lose in a bush. You spend hours casting without a single bite. You spend hours wading through cold water, waiting for a fish to rise.

Cars are the same way. A good diagnosis takes time. A good repair takes time. You can't rush a timing chain replacement, and you can't rush a customer's trust.

I've had customers walk into Keller Motor Works and ask: "Can you tell me what's wrong with my car in five minutes?" And I have to say: "No. I can tell you what I think is wrong, but I can't tell you what's actually wrong until I've looked at it, tested it, and confirmed it."

Patience is the foundation of good work. On the river, you wait for the fish. In the shop, you wait for the diagnosis. Both require the same stubborn willingness to sit with the unknown.

2. Acceptance of Failure

I've lost more flies than I've caught fish. I've tied knots that come undone, cast into trees, and stepped into holes that sent cold water over the top of my waders.

In the shop, I've been wrong. I've diagnosed a problem as a fuel pump, when it was really a sensor. I've replaced a part that didn't fix the issue. I've had to tell a customer that I was wrong and that the repair would take longer than I said.

The Deschutes taught me that failure is part of the process. You can't catch a fish without casting a line. You can't fix a car without taking a risk. And if you're afraid of being wrong, you'll never learn anything.

3. The Value of Quiet

When you're fly-fishing, you have to be quiet. You move slowly. You listen. You watch.

Cars are the same way. When I'm diagnosing a problem, I listen. I listen to the engine. I listen to the suspension. I listen to the customer's description of the problem. The quiet reveals the truth.

I've watched other mechanics work on cars with headphones on, music blaring, trying to drown out the noise. I've never understood it. The car is telling you something. You just need to listen.

4. The Importance of the Right Tool

Fly-fishing requires the right rod, the right line, the right fly, and the right technique. You can't catch a steelhead with a dry fly and a 3-weight rod.

Cars are the same way. I have a Snap-on diagnostic computer that costs thousands of dollars. I have a set of wrenches that I've curated for fifteen years. I have a scanner that can read every code on every modern car.

The right tool doesn't make you a better fisherman or a better mechanic — but it makes the work easier. And easier work is better work.

5. The Joy of the Process

I've never caught a steelhead. I've been trying for ten years. And I'm okay with that.

The joy isn't in the catch. It's in the process. The tying. The casting. The wading. The companionship. The quiet.

Cars are the same way. I don't fix cars just to solve problems. I fix cars because I love the process. I love the investigation. I love the moment when everything clicks. I love the satisfaction of a job well done.

The Deschutes taught me that the process is the point. The fish is a bonus. And the same is true in the shop — the repair is the bonus. The process is the reward.

The Day I Gave Up On Patience

There was a day on the Deschutes when I decided to stop trying to be a good fly-fisherman.

It was a Saturday in June. Socket and I had driven down to the river in the Outback, and I had everything I needed: a new set of flies, a fresh line, and a thermos of coffee. I was going to catch a steelhead if it killed me.

I waded in. I tied on my best fly. I cast. Nothing.

I cast again. Nothing.

I cast again. My line got tangled in a tree.

I untangled it. I cast again. Socket jumped into the water and chased my fly.

That's when I sat down on the bank and laughed.

I realised that I was trying too hard. I was trying to force the river to give me something it wasn't ready to give. I was trying to be a good fisherman instead of just being a person on a river with a dog.

So I stopped. I put down the rod. I sat on the bank, drank my coffee, and watched Socket swim.

And then, about an hour later, something happened. A fish rose. It was a rainbow trout, about 12 inches long. It was beautiful. And I didn't even try to catch it. I just watched it swim.

That was the moment I stopped caring about the fish. I started caring about the river, the dog, and the quiet.

And that's when I became a fly-fisherman.

What I Tell My Customers

I don't usually talk about fly-fishing in the shop. But sometimes, when a customer is stressed about their car, I'll tell them a story.

"You know," I say, "I was on the Deschutes last weekend. I was trying to catch a steelhead. I tried everything — different flies, different casts, different spots. Nothing. I was frustrated. But then I sat down and just watched the water. And I realised that I was trying too hard."

"Your car is the same way. You're worried about it. You want it fixed. But you can't force a diagnosis. You just have to let the process work. I'll fix it. And in the meantime, you just have to be patient."

Most of them don't get it. But a few do. And those are the ones who become regulars.

Socket's Final Verdict

Socket doesn't care about fly-fishing. He cares about swimming, chasing sticks, and getting treats.

But he also cares about the river. He cares about the walks, the smells, and the time we spend together.

I asked him once, in a moment of anthropomorphic delusion, what he thought about fly-fishing.

He looked at me, wagged his tail, and started barking at a squirrel.

That's his answer. He doesn't care about the fish. He cares about the time we spend together.

And honestly, that's the same reason I keep fixing cars. It's not about the car. It's about the people — the trust, the relationship, the time we spend together.