Steelhead Country: A Few Good Days
It was a Tuesday afternoon in mid-February, and I was scarcely halfway through a three-hour block of classes, when my phone buzzed impatiently in my pocket. It was a high school buddy of mine, Will Barr, and in an instant, I knew what he’d say if I picked up. As I glanced around the classroom, the professor eyed me suspiciously.
I declined the call and sent a hurried text message when the professor looked away. "What’s up? I’m in class."
Let’s Go Catch Some Steelhead
He replied a minute later. "Let’s go catch some steelhead this weekend, we’ll pack in and fish through Sunday."
I needed little convincing. Will was officially a steelhead junkie. He promised the weekend would be filled with a few good days on the water and some long nights around the campfire, nursing lukewarm Keystone Lights. By Friday morning, we’d cleared our schedules, loaded the pickup and headed for steelhead country.
On Friday afternoon, we set up camp, rigged our fly rods and donned our waders for a quick evening effort. When the sun slipped from the sky on our first afternoon, we’d yet to encounter our first steelhead.
Spirits ran high nonetheless, fueled by the promise of tomorrow and a splash or two of liquid courage.
Rain fell that night, not hard, but enough to soak the ground and any gear stranded outside the tents. The river ran clear though, and by daylight, we’d eaten a quick breakfast and waded into the cold water. Jet-boil cowboy coffee and Clif bars kept our spirits high, but the fishing was undeniably slow. By noon, the river had claimed its share of our flies and offered nothing in return. Several of us had never caught a steelhead on the fly, and the molasses-slow fishing had us questioning the sanity of our persistence.
I Set the Hook
By two o’clock that afternoon, we’d changed locations, switched flies and relocated again with nothing to show for our trouble. I threw cast after cast into the slick water where another angler had told us he had luck. The water was shallow here, and the slight bend in the river kept the fish running on our side. Nearing delirium, I threw another cast and eyed the drift of my indicator. It disappeared. With a movement that can only be described as controlled panic, I set the hook. Suddenly taut, the line cut left and up, a tail broke the surface and dove again, then turned downstream.
"Fish on!?" I hollered with noticeable uncertainty.
He surfaced again, farther downstream now, and I stumbled after him. My buddies came quick, offering advice and encouragement. In the following minutes, the fish kicked my butt left and right, downstream and up. Somehow, my sub-par angling skill kept me with him, and he with me. When he finally came to hand, I was all but played out, and my arm shook like a sapling in a high mountain gale. The hatchery buck wasn’t a monster by any means, maybe 27 inches on a good day, but he was my first steelhead on the fly. I was ecstatic.
That night, the weather cleared and the stars crept out as the open flame slow-cooked the hatchery fish. Sunday came and went without another encounter, but I didn't mind. I suppose that just means we’ll have to head back next spring and spend a few more days on the water in wild country. No complaints here.
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