There are often many thoughts that enter our mind standing knee deep in a beautiful cascading run. Tumbling through the fly box to find the perfect colors and size to present can be a bit of a guessing game. At times a certain fly stands out from the rest and ends up attached to your line.
With the right fly secured it’s time to start fishing but you have been swinging all morning and feel the mid morning fatigue. Do you work the run half exhausted just pushing through trying to find that fish or hit a quick refresh? I think being as relaxed and comfortable as possible makes a big difference. Grab a peanut butter and honey sandwich, drink a half cup of warm coffee, take a leak, relax for a moment then confidently work through the run.
Now that you’re comfortable it’s time to get back out there. Stepping into the water you notice everything is changing. It’s late season winter steelhead fishing and the days are growing longer and warmer. The trees are speckled in newly emerging leaves and the sun pops in and out of the clouds warming your skin with its gentle rays.
During this time of the season, I find myself switching between dark and bright flies on these partly cloudy and somewhat sunny days. With more light, I put on a brighter fly and with less light, I go darker. Different fishermen have different theories on fly color depending on water visibility and overhead conditions. I like to fish darker flies on darker days with lower visibility and brighter flies the rest of the time.
On this particular day my, brother and I were both working through a run together and we picked drastically different colored flies. He chose a darker intruder and I put on a brighter pattern with lots of flash. We had about 20 inches of water visibility and broken skies just after lunchtime. We swung through a beautiful bending run together. Midway through the run, my fly was hammered by a magnificent winter fish. The fight was unbelievable with cool aerial displays and big long powerful runs. I spent most of my time fighting the fish in the backing, it was awesome! Seth and I landed the fish just at the head of the next run. I thought for sure we would have to chase it through the rapids but we got off easy. One of my favorite lines from Seth came as we admired the beautiful creation. He said, “thank you so much I really needed that”! It was cool because Seth and I had been fishing for two-day strait and this was the first fish we landed, so I totally understood his excitement. I also know my brother really well and he has a deep deep love and admiration for these fish. They are so amazing and it really is a privilege to have an encounter with one.
Early morning came quickly after dawn to dark fishing the day before. The river had just turned and started to drop between weather systems. We decided to fish the lower river where we had found fish just 12 hours earlier. As I launched the boat my two brothers David and Seth made their way to the gravel bar above the put in. The run they would swing flies through had produced a very large fish the previous day and been home to the highest numbers of steelhead we had hooked in the past.
David stepped into the head of the run. The deep rich currents ricocheted off large black boulders used to protect the roadway. This created a sloping gravel bar at the top carving out the perfect resting place for traveling fish. Methodically Dave combed the lid of the run with his hand tied marabou fly. As his line sunk down into the drift and softly meandered its way towards the shore a sudden hesitation and violent pull was the split second signal that the fly had made its way in front of a willing participant. The battle erupted with shouts of joy, reel drag blaring its tension-filled song, and eager fisherman waiting to connect with the wild.
After many brilliant and powerful runs the wild buck finally tired and unwillingly made it’s way to the inside water’s end. Seth the youngest brother gently reached down and slide his right hand around the fishes tail. Universe size grins covered both boys faces. The fish was held in the shallows with it’s gills in the current to increase the fishes rate of recovery. Seeing all of this in slow motion I was still making my way over from the boat launch sprinting up the bank just at the perfect moment to see the majestic fish. We high-fived, hugged, and admired the winter buck for a few moments before releasing him back to the wild.
Our rivers and fish are a wonderful gift. This natural resource deserves our utmost love and stewardship. Over the years fishing for these beautiful fish, I have learned that consistency is so important. This starts with belief, you must believe a fish is waiting for you below the surface. Next, comb the run in small sections (the size of a steelhead) presenting the fly slow and the same every time. Make sure the fly is swinging at a depth that is mid hight from the bottom cobble so the holding or moving fish can look up and see the fly in the currents. This is a combination of understanding the depth of the run and water’s visibility. Fish the runs you have caught fish in and fish them slowly, confidently, and thoroughly. Chances are if you have caught a fish there before you will catch a fish there again.
Stepping out of my car at first light the heavy rain was so thick I was instantly covered with a blanket of moisture. It bonded to my fleece pants before I could reach the back of my 4-Runner to wader up. After wrapping myself with Gortex from head to two, I pieced together my 13’6 #8 weight Redington Dually. With anticipated larger than normal flows and the need to throw heavier tips and flies I left my favorite rod buttoned up for more permit-able conditions (Bob Meiser’s Custom 7 weight). It seemed like a good idea to line the rod with a 620 grain skagit rage compact, to this I added a 10 foot section of T-14 and a 2 1/2 ft 15 lb maxima leader. The unweighted pink and purple intruder pattern tied by my brother Seth was the starting fly.
So many thoughts fluttered through my head that morning, like why did I get up so early, should I have gone to this spot or the other one I was thinking about, should I fish through the Seahawks Game or wrap up early and head to the cafe, will I get eaten by a cougar walking through the forest, how miserable will it be out there? My caffeine-fueled mind spun over the questions like a zealous spider wrapping itself into a web of over thought confusion. As I finish lining my rod I hear a giant snapping sound behind me, I jumped to see a large tree come crashing down just across the road. Wow, that would suck if the tree fell on me, I thought to myself.
With every zipper zipped tight and my hooded jacket keeping me dry I started the short walk through the rainforest. Picking my way through a maze of ferns, downed logs, and old stumps my mind wondered off to deeper thoughts. Perplexed by why I spend so much time and money focused on comfort from the kind of shoes I wear, to the car I drive, to the home I live, a paradox seems to exist in the inner souls need to endure the elements. Suburban life is controllable, the environment was created for my comfort, but on the river, there is a sense of unbridled vulnerability. It comes from the bone-chilling cold tugging at my core temperature dropping it every minute I stand in th43-degree water. Heavy winter flows creating the most challenging fishing conditions. Rain pelting me in the top of the head playing its soft and constant rhythm. Maybe its an ancient sense of survival that is evoked, a test, the faint-hearted would flee, but the strong and brave will survive. I am sure this is just as true in a spiritual sense, those who preserver receive a different kind of reward.
With the river in sight, my mind immediately drifted back to the current conditions and what the best approach would be. Slipping down a muddy bank to the gravel bar I scaled a few washed out logs, waded a side channel, and tiptoed out on the finger of gravel that was left to the rising flows. Starting with short casts my fly combed the soft inside water. As I extended more line something didn’t feel right. I didn’t like the size and speed of the river compared to the type of fly I had on so I removed the unweighted intruded and put on a purple and pink dumb-bell eyed bunny leach. Instincts and countless hours whispered in my ear that with high flows and only 2+ feet of visibility in the glacial water every cast would need to be down in the zone. In these conditions most of the fish sit in flat runs and tailouts, the bigger fish don’t mind the heavier flows and that’s where you will usually catch them if you can present your fly correctly. After the quick change, I stepped back into the top of the gavel finger below the two downed logs and started to swing. Once the shooting head was fully extended I could feel that heavier fly working with the T-14 to bite down into the current working its way to a foot or two off the bottom where the fish typically hang out. The run averaged 4-6 feet deep I had checked out the run in the summer to determine the couture of the river bed.
A half dozen casts and my line was fully extended across the run. Held tight by the current I could feel the tension in my fingertips. In a subpar speed, the line made its way to the inside of the flat. As it met the halfway point something changed instantly. Instead of a soft swing, the monofilament blistered through my fingers. I quickly clenched down with my dominant hand and lifted the rod to the bank. The energy from my reaction traveled down into the water igniting aerial show of power. The angry fish burst through the surface of the water, furious it walked on its tail for a few feet and disappeared into the cloudy flows. With a bullish head shake the mighty steelhead ran for its life peeling of the dacron backing at an unbelievable rate. Its next move was a counter sweep across the run to the soft inside pocket and then a burst of authority sent it up through the soft water leaping into the air just feet in front of me. Prayerful about my fly staying in place I buried the end of the rod deep into my growing hunching over and holding on. With a brave move, the fish jetted upstream barely evading a downed log. From there it danced several more times with explosive jumps coming sideways out of the water slapping down with a loud thud. Minutes seemed like hours as I held on for dear life. I started to wonder who would wear out first me or him. Then I thought just how powerful this fish truly is, I am a 38-year-old man who weighs 205lbs and works out 3-4 times a week. Within a matter of minutes my arm was cramping, the fish had caused me to question my own strength. I guess we don’t know until we are truly tested. His next move was to settle into a tug of war. He sat midstream and shook his head in fury. Keeping constant side pressure I did my best to hold my own. Finally starting to tire the massive steelhead made his last move of desperation. He turned sideways in the heavy current and let the pressure of the river on the broad side of his body keep him in the game. This tactic work but over time the angle moved him into the softer water and I was able to make up some ground. Finally, in exhaustion he turned on his side and I reach down locking my fingers around his broom stick tail. I couldn’t believe it, the rose colored side, deep copper slitted eyes and silver body captivated me. The back shoulders and forehead were so well developed for the heavy river flows the fish looked like a lineman. Measuring him on my rod he was an easy 38inches with a 21.5 inch girth. I was still in shock everything had happened so fast and now for the few second he lay in the water at my feet, I thanked him and wished him a wonderful life. For me it was other worldly, a moment of joy, thankfulness, and satisfaction. He had given me his greatest fight and I had given him mine. Two warriors met in battle to depart in peace. I don’t know what his thoughts are but I looked into his eyes with complete admiration.
After saying goodbye and the clinched grip from my right hand loosed from around his tail, he swam back to continue on his journey. I was so glad we met. A chance to peer into eachothers eyes. I hope he finds what he is looking for because I did.
Winter fishing is the most challenging time of the year to pursue steelhead. The ever-changing patterns of mother nature, snowmelt, heavy rains, and freezing cold conditions can make it a guessing game for even the most skilled angler. With years of experience under his belt, I headed to the Olympic Peninsula with my fishing buddy and top-notch angler Todd Sloan to target big steelhead. When everyone else was at home cozied up by the fire Todd knew exactly where to go. A majority of the rivers were blown out of shape due to heavy rains but this just meant some of the smaller tributaries would fish perfect.
With the small stream rising, we picked the perfect window. After releasing a small native steelhead we made our way to one of Todd’s favorite runs. He put me in the sweet spot and holding in the tail-out was a bruiser buck.
Thanks to years of experience it was a banner day for Sloan and me on the river.
Where the road ends the adventure begins. A short hike through sitka spruce and red cedars the river makes a sharp bend on its way to the pacific. On the inside of the rapids rests a soft blanket of slow moving currents perfect for a traveling steelhead to catch its breath. With a bright fly for the sunny day and a slow steady swing from the 11ft Meizer Switch it feels like heaven is near. Drifting off in a mid morning slumber I am instantly awoken to a disappearing loop and the throb of my rod as lightening strikes. A split second later the Hardy reel screams a frantic cry for help as an invisible river thief tries to steal the fly.
With thick under brush, high banks, and a variety of black berry bushes the game of endurance leaves one picking thorns from sleeves and fingers. Below the barrier of briers is a gentle soft cobble strewn corner. With one simple swing over the top of a riffle covered bar the magic happens and a giant tug indicates a willing participant on the other end. With the battle in full swing it’s anyone’s game. At the end the feisty hen is returned to lay thousands of eggs.
With heavy rains and fish on the move staying in one run paid off for Todd and I. A willing hen tucked on a gravel shelf in the head of the drift and a lively buck in the belly of the run kept swung flies entertained and fisherman happy!
Not sure the last time I heard “fish-on, fish-off, fish-on” all in the same sentence. I wasn’t sure who was more confuse, me, my brother, or the chrome lighting bolt trying to steal his fly.
“Just put me on a gravel bar and let me swing flies” were the exact words from David Brandhagen from Pendleton Oregon. He made short work of this bucket and found a nice steelie hanging in the soft seam.
Compassionwacky is a term he uses to explain the feeling of “swinging gravel bars”, makes sense right…
Its one thing to start fishing behind someone and catch a fish but its another thing to do it twice. Although my catch was not as big as my brothers he’ll never let me fish behind him again.
