The Last Day

Seth Burke • 6/21/162/16/19

It was the end, or so people were saying. I decided to find out for myself. I parked my truck and started walking along the highway.

I walked 3 miles, doing my own shuttle and floating the Deschutes river, but it was worth it. I fished by myself, no other anglers in sight and realized that there was so much good water that it was hard to fish it all during prime time. I tied on my special “Clark’s Stone” a homebrew “late hatch” version for picky trout. I started fishing at 6:40 pm and by 8 pm I had landed 9 beautiful Deschutes River redsides. I Caught fish in the flat, caught fish in the riffle, caught fish in the other riffle, they were everywhere I floated down to my secret spot thinking I didn’t really need to fish it, but I tied on a big purple chubby churnobyl and started fishing. Hmmm, how to describe that spot…Amazing! Big bugs hatched for about 10-15 minutes around 9 pm and the fish were going nuts. You won’t believe me if I told you how many more fish I caught, so I won’t tell you. What stood out the most were the three 20″ fish I landed and the 20″+ fish that came off at my feet. One of those fish was so hot he took me into my backing twice. Summer Steelhead hot!
The fishing was excellent and it was nice to be on the river by myself for a little quiet and reflection time, but every time I hooked a screamer I looked around for someone to share it with. There is nothing like fishing with my brothers.

I floated down the river as the weight of the night sky squeezed out the last bit of light and found my take out. I tied up my pontoon boat and started the 1/2 mile hike to my truck. As I walked I thought, yep, hatch is over. A sly grin cracked across my face and I silently thanked all the fishermen who stopped fishing the salmon fly hatch or who trust internet reports. The end is only for those who dare to not go.

A Winters Day

Seth Burke • 1/20/162/16/19

Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes you hook fish and sometimes you do not.

I stepped from the fresh snow into the river and plopped my fly into the frigid water. The dry clump of black and blue fibers sprang into a dance of delicate, tantalizing movements. I worked out my line and lifted my gaze to take in the view—a fresh morning with a dusting of snow and low hanging fog quietly lifting as the sun began to radiate above the canyon walls.

This is where Red said it was going to happen, I thought. As I sent my fly out into the run, I believed him. The soft inside of the run was weedy and my fly extracted rich green plant life from the river. I cleaned it off and laid out another cast. As my fly swam through the run I stayed connected to the tension in my line, the beautiful snow covered hills, and the feeling of the rocks under my feet. The swing ended. My fly stopped moving. It was time to recast. I started to strip when I felt my fly grab some weeds. So, I lifted up my rod and the weeds pulled back. Wait. What? Then my reel starting singing and weight transferred through the line and rod into my hands. Fish on! I could lie and say how amazing the fight was, how the fish thrashed, bucked, jumped and ran. But honestly, after a few rolls and splashes I quickly landed an average fish for this river system. Still, I was pumped. I was bringing home fresh fish for the family.

It was not long before the seductive battle dance of my fly enticed a second steelhead from its lie. A delicate weight detected by the tightening of my line. The fly carried softly in the mouth of a steelhead, like a game fowl in the mouth of a well-trained retriever. Then, instantly my line was ripping off the water, momentarily splitting through the silent mumble of the river, and my fly went sailing over my head. I heard the words before they penetrated the serene surrounding. “Idiot! What are you doing?” I knew I had done it and I was letting myself know it, as well as the cows, ducks, and any other life forms around to hear me. “You totally yarded that fish!” The negativity penetrated quick and deep, but I rallied with the Believe River attitude. I didn’t stick him. Maybe I can get him to come back? So I took three big steps upriver and began to cast again. Four casts then my line came tight. This time it was not soft or gentle. This take was aggressive like the steelhead was pissed off and he wanted me to know that the fly on the end of my line was his. I heard the clicking of my reel and I lifted my rod thinking, Oh yeah, baby. I got you this time! As quickly as this thought entered my mind, reality poked me in the eye. My line lay slack and lifeless in the water. I closed my eyes and dropped my head. Foiled again. I half-heartedly worked through the rest of the run and then reeled in and headed up the river.

I missed yet another fish in a beautiful bouldery run and turned to walk back down river, chuckling to myself. What a great day. Active fish, beautiful creation and good weather. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind kept going back to the fish I had missed earlier. I stepped off the train tracks onto a muddy cow trail and decided to try again. The marrow in my bones told me to keep fishing black and blue, but experience told me, “You need to change flies.” I stood on the bank, looking at the run where I had missed two fish earlier, and changed flies. I started in the same spot, working out two feet of line at a time, as I did earlier in the day. Soon I was in the groove, feeling the swing, anticipating the tug. Swing, step, cast. Swing, step, cast. Every cast I believed, this is the one. But nothing happened. I laid out another cast and let my fly swing and do it’s war dance one more time. My line stopped moving. I am at the soft inside. So I waited because I knew my fly was still moving slowly across where I believed a fish to be. Then my reel exploded in song. The sound ignited a rush of adrenalin and thoughts raced through my mind. It worked. I knew you were there! Laughter, pride, relief. Don’t screw this up. I waited and my reel screamed louder. Now is the time, I thought. I lifted my rod, feeling the weight of a fish. Feeling victorious. The adrenalin-induced acuity sent a message to my brain. I refused to believe it. My line is not slack. Reel, reel, reel faster. My line is not slack. Then reality punched me in the gut and I doubled over.

Staring into the clear water, I was transfixed, confused by the moment. My body warmed as the peek-a-boo sun rays landed on my back. Nothing I could do, I tried to comfort myself. It just didn’t stick…. I checked the hook again and then flipped my fly back into the river. Man, that was a good fish.

High Noon Pay Off

Seth Burke • 8/9/158/9/15

I was down in the count, as early in the morning a Steelhead grabbed my fly on the hang-down. The take was like this: pluck, pluck, grab, head shake, head shake, splash, splash, run towards me, slack. Gone. I’m down 0-1.

I shook my head in frustration as a nice steelhead launched itself horizontal with the river. “Thanks buddy,” I muttered and took a few steps up river to start fishing again.

The morning sun was already beating down all in its path. The sand was hot. The rocks were hot. My dog hid in a shady tangle of brush. The water was warming and I was the last spey fisherman within the two miles of river I covered. Am I crazy? Maybe. Am I confident? Yes. (Read my brother Dave’s article “A confident angler catches the fish”.)

So there I stood, the last spey wielding wizard, in direct sun, with a short head spey line and traditional fly. Just the way I like to fish. “This is the last run. It has to happen here,” I said to myself as I stepped into the water. Pleased that I had the run all to myself, I worked it meticulously. Nearing the last and most promising looking section, a spin fisherman steps in below me. Five cast later, he puts a steelhead on the bank. He makes a few more casts, loses his lure and leaves. Two other spin fishermen step in as well, but further down. “No way,” I mumbled. But as I watched, I noticed they were not fishing the water very well. They left and I kept my rhythm, cast, swing, three steps.

Before long, I was almost to the end. I mean, really–the river turns into a giant white water rumble 35 yards below my fly. Next cast, BAM! Fish on, no questions asked. No plucks. Just all fish mouth. A few minutes later, I had a nice hatchery hen to the bank. I look at my watch, 12:00 pm on the dot.

I could have hung my hat hours earlier with the rest of the spey fishermen, but I didn’t. I could have changed my line and fly, but I didn’t.

I was rewarded.

Always Believe.

Nymph Swing

Seth Burke • 7/19/157/21/15

I love casting two-handed fly rods. Swinging traditional flies on a
floating Scandi line. Standing knee deep in 100-yard runs cobbled with basketball-sized boulders. Stepping up to the challenge when the river taunts me to cast a little farther, a little farther.

Not all rivers are this way.

Sometimes a fisherman needs to sit and listen to the river. Observe. Absorb. Try something different and break the chains of tradition.

Give it a try and you might be rewarded like I was today.

My brother Dave, also known as “Red”, perfecected the Nymph Swing years ago as we began our journey into fly fishing for Steelhead. He started with a single hand rod but now prefers fishing two-handed rods. This technique can be used with either.

Select a long leader, the length of your rod or three to five feet longer, and your favorite buggy flies for the water you are fishing. I like to start with small weighted natural flies fished in tandum. A Steelhead Price Nymph and a Copper John. Start at the head of the pool or run, as summer Steelhead like the oxygenated water. (Don’t underestimate how far up they will hold in the head of a run.) Cast up stream, holding your rod up to keep a tight line. As the flies drift down current slowly lower your rod and begin following the flies. Then lower your rod completley and allow the flies to swing all the way to the bank.

It’s pretty simple, but what makes someone an expert with this technique is their fish sense. Stay connect to your flies. Use a sensative hand. Listen to and feel the river. If you need more weight, you can add a split shot or fish a heavier lead fly. A weighted Egg Sucking Leech can be an effective lead fly. Sometimes Steelhead will grab your fly early in the drift or as your flies transition into the swing. Where ever this happens, be ready. It can be violent.

Enjoy!