A Tail of Three Brothers

Timothy Burke • 6/6/1711/4/23

The hunt begins with the first swing, hands nestling around the custom handle to release pent-up anticipation with every cast. Somewhere beneath the surface, the giant waits and lingers unexpectedly, minding its own business on the journey to its gravel spawning grounds.

Methodically and strategically, each step through the run is a precise calculation. The game is a matter of consistency, cast after cast, combing the bottom of the river looking for a willing participant. Different parts of the run demand new and innovative ways to present the fly and fool the fish.

A few bad casts rattle your nerves…stepping back up the run provides a second chance, but then a few more snags on a big underwater bolder force you to wade out into the heart of the run or break off the fly.

The line slips down through the glacial-fed 43-degree water. Blind from fish or fly, it’s simply a feel and an impulse. The moment, the reaction, the grab is not wishful thinking but preparation, muscle memory, and many failed attempts. The success rate is never 100% and the one that gets away demands a year of self-reflection.

Friendship with perseverance and a little bit of insanity is the cocktail for success. Every run holds a new opportunity lurking, waiting. Somewhere below the surface lies a chance to capitalize or be left wanting.

The catch is sweet and best shared with the ones you love! Like Brothers!

Steelhead Mentors

Timothy Burke • 4/3/172/16/19

Five years ago my buddy JR Hall took me on my first fly fishing trip on the Olympic Peninsula. I had dreamed of fishing for big wild fish but didn’t know where to start. We left Hall’s house at 330am and made our way west to the land of bigfoot and big fish. It was there on a coastal river in early April that the way I looked at chasing wild steelhead changed.

I drove my 1997 Toyota 4-Runner through the early morning hours talking fishing the whole way with my buddy JR. Once we reached the river we winded along the old gravel road until we reached a rough boat launch and slipped the 17-foot fish craft into the glacial fed stream.

The weather was blustery with wind, snow, hail, rain, and breaks of the sun that peaking through the cloudy sky’s. In the mid-afternoon, a cascading bend JR launched his fly into the head of a beautiful run. As his fly swung down through the choppy drift it paused for a moment and then all hell broke loose. A ferocious wild fish devoured his fly leaping strait up towards the heavens. The fish was so big it couldn’t propel it’s self from the water so it tail walked halfway down the run at lightening speed. The battle was on as I watched JR fight the fish through two sections of the river till we finally landed it, admired it, and released it back into the wild.

Since then I have been fishing the winter wild steelhead run on the Washington Coast. The next season my brother Seth and I caught and landed two steelhead at the boat launch on a different coastal river where I met my friend Todd Sloan who has become a life time friend and steelhead mentor.

JR Hall and Todd Sloan have taught me over the years how to swing flies for big wild fish and there have been so many wonderful trips, conversations, and life experiences shared together. Just yesterday I had the privilege of taking both of these guys down the river in my boat and we had an awesome day. I felt so blessed to be in the presence of two amazing guys and outstanding steelhead fly fishermen. We caught two beautiful wild hens on flies we tied. It was a great day, one I will never forget.

Be Honest

Timothy Burke • 3/31/172/16/19

My brother David and I were fishing our favorite coastal river just after river levels had peaked and started to drop. Honestly, I had a lot on my mind on this trip and spent most of the moments while swinging my fly worrying about some foolish decisions I had made. When we pulled up onto the gravel bar, David, took the head of the run and I fished the gut. It was a long and challenging section of the river to fish (much like my life at that time) with each cast and step only inching me closer to the end of the run.

As I neared the end of the tail out, it deepened causing slowness in the current before the cold winter flows spilled through the rapids. In almost a daze I kept fishing until my fly was swinging through the very bottom of the run up into the grass clumps exposed in high waters. It was then when my fly swung toward the grass clump at the lip of the tail out that my reel let out an ear piercing howl and the battle was on. David, heard me yelling and grabbed the boat floating down to see all the excitement, but the swift current wouldn’t allow him to set the anchor so he drug the anchor over my fly line. I was not happy, but the fish stayed on my line. Trying to next a 20lb wild steelhead from the bank in fast current is not an easy task. After several failed attempts my brother miraculously pounced on the fish with the net gentling sliding it to safety. We couldn’t believe the size and beauty of this big wild male steelhead. And even more transparently speaking my conscience was a message form some bad decisions, but the river was faithful, healing, and the reward forced me to pause with gratefulness. For every angler that reads this story remember that if you’re honest with yourself and the river she will often give you something, you don’t deserve.

Hand Tied

Timothy Burke • 2/21/172/16/19

I am very proud of my brother, Seth. He is genuinely one of the most talented steelhead fishermen that I know. He ties perfect flies, builds flawless rods, and grids out steelhead runs like an excel sheet. However, Seth, who we call Stealth, has been on a four-year journey trying to catch a 20-pound steelhead. It started back in 2013 when we did a float together down our favorite river. Honestly, I still feel kind of guilty because I was taking my time floating down to a really nice piece of water when an older fisherman steps out on the gravel bar in front of us and caught a 20-pound steelhead. I was so frustrated with myself if I would have just pushed down river 10 minutes earlier that would have been our fish. Anyways, this whole experience led to Stealth’s radical pursuit of some very big and very elusive wild fish. Later in that same day, I broke off an upper teens steelhead, “man was I frustrated.” So, fast forward to the next year and Seth comes out from Oregon to hunt his trophy steelhead and gets blanked after three days of fishing, not even a tug. Skip to the following year on the very last day in the cold morning he has a monster wild buck swing up the river with his fly in the same run he watched the old guy land a 20 pounder two years earlier. He explained “the eat” to me as “I heard two clicks come off of my Hardy, felt the line tighten and go up steam, then it just went limp”. How bazaar is that, well, not as unusual as we thought for big wild fish to swim upstream in the soft inside bucket of a run when the river is just above freezing levels. To make matters worse I saw the giant roll.

Now, the Stealth is furious and determined as ever to catch his fish. So in the offseason, he builds a beautiful Meizer 8WT 12’6 Spey Rod, ties up two dozen custom winter steelhead tube flies, and buys a reel called, “The Tank.” Stealth wasn’t messing around. To make the scenario even more dramatic he decides to drive 6 hours in a rainstorm to the OP and wait two days for the river to drop into shape before he could fish.

With only a day and a half to fish and the river just starting to drop we decided to take the boat down one of our favorite sections of the river. Halfway way through the day we pulled over to a nice gravel bar to swing flies and have lunch. It was Seth’s turn to make lunch, but he couldn’t get the BBQ started, so I told him to swing flies and I would cook the hot dogs. Ten minutes later I had some very hot dogs ready to eat and yelled to Stealth, “The Dogs Are Ready”, two seconds later his line when tight, the earth shook beneath his feet and the water exploded 20 yards in front of him as a huge wild fish grabbed his fly. The obese giant skimmed across the surface of the water on his massive belling proposing like a dolphin. The fish was so chunky that it couldn’t jump out of the water it just kind of flopped and burned off large sections of line from Seth’s reel. After a tremendous fight, we landed the beautiful wild buck and Stealth had done it, he had persevered and was given the just reward.

Bonded By Steel

Timothy Burke • 4/2/162/16/19

I absolutely love swinging flies with my brothers David and Seth. From the time the first smile of reconnection is passed to the moment our Simms wadding boots nestle amongst the river bed stones we share a constant joy and brotherly bond.

The river is the estuary where our friendship flourishes. For months on end our group text thread is a constant buzz of river levels, fly patterns, lines, rods, and weather conditions.

This year we spent 5 days together on the Washington Coast pursuing winter steelhead. The fishing was not easy with heavy weather conditions produced by El Nino limiting the fishable days and causing high water flows. The first fish of the trip came at noon from my brother Seth (nicknamed “Stealth) who met us halfway through the day.

The run at the rendezvous gravel bar was the perfect place for a winter steelhead to hold. Seth with less then 20 casts through the head of the run enticed a nice middle teens winter buck to the swung fly. I was late in picking him up, rounding the corner just in time to watch him release the fish. Although I didn’t get a picture of his fish seeing his reaction with the the double fist pump and water slap is the beautiful image left in my mind.

The second fish of the day was in the lower section of the river but came unbuttoned do to a dull hook (note, check hooks regularly).

The first day left us without fish pictures but with a lot of joy and a great start to our trip!

Always Believe!

Tim, David, & Seth

Sunday Swing – 20lb Steelhead

Timothy Burke • 1/26/162/16/19

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.

Always Believe!

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.