A rather looooooooong winter run steelhead report - on the spey rod.
I awoke this morning to the sound of rain. Reading others' reports about their recently caught steelhead had certainly made me happy, but also a little jealous. After having spent at least 7 or 8 long, cold days over the past 2 years chasing steelhead on the fly, I hadn't even touched a fish. Sure, there had been a couple of moments that made my breath catch in my throat, but they either turned out to be snaggy branches or sticky rocks, more often than not. Not once had I felt the tell-tale yank of a fresh steelhead, though with every swing of the fly I could imagine it. I could almost sense the fish was there. Watching my fly undulate past it. But they would not take.
I was ok with it. I knew that getting a winterrun fish on the fly was something of a right of passage. If it was too easy, it almost cheapened the experience. At least that's what I told myself... the reality was, it was tough standing in an icy river with a strong upstream wind whistling through the valley, without so much as a sniff.
But still, I persevered. I knew it was a numbers game. Keep making the casts, keep stepping down the run, keep reading the water, and eventually it would happen. Despite having only caught two steelhead previously on gear, I was confident that I knew what it took - it just hadn't happened for me yet. But it would... some day.
So I dragged myself out of bed this morning - late - and checked the hydrometric graph on the gov't website. The Vedder had jumped somewhat overnight due to the rain, but a quick call to Fred's assured me that the river was still in good shape. So I called my buddies and told them it was on. I grabbed my 13'6" Lamiglas LS 8/9wt, threw my bag over my shoulder, and trudged down to the Forester. The drive out was uneventful, except to share some tips with my buddies. Neither of them had fished steelhead before, and they were both new to flyfishing, but they didn't have any interest in trying gear so we agreed to try our best and see how it went.
Upon arriving at our chosen pullout, I was thrilled to see there were no cars parked there. We geared up and walked in through the thoroughly drenched forest, large drops falling from the cedar boughs onto our heads as we joked about trips past. Upon emerging from the trees, my hope was proven justified - the run was empty. As we finished stringing up our rods, I explained what made this a good steelhead run for flyfishing, and how we should approach it. The guys agreed to split the run into three parts, and sent me to the bottom third while they took the upper and mid portions.
After releasing the blue and black string leech from my reel, I shook off a few yards of line and made my first cast. The rain had stopped, and the swing was perfect. Nothing. Stripped off another few yards, and cast again. I watched the yellow skagit head swing slowly in the current, exactly how I wanted it to, and I imagined the blue and black marabou and other feathers writhing and beckoning seductively to any fish that might be in the near section of the river. Nothing. Eventually I was throwing about as much line as I felt was necessary to properly cover the run I was in, and I began stepping down over the rounded softball- to basketball-sized rocks, two steps to every cast. Each swing felt just right, but then so had hundreds before it.
I could tell I was reaching a particularly sweet portion of the run, and I began watching my swing a little closer. By this point I was about 12-15 casts into the morning. The next cast sailed out into the run, line snapping against my reel as the fly reached it's terminal distance before flopping gently into the water. I made a good mend, and held a 3' loop in my right hand as I followed the swing with the tip of my spey rod. Just like I had hundreds of times before. But then something happened. The 3' loop of line dangling from my right fingers slipped quickly through the guides with a quick "SWISH!" before hitting the reel.
And I set the hook.
The next 5-10 seconds were little more than a blur of blue running-line flying off the old Sage reel, frothing water 30 or so yards downstream from me, and someone yelling upriver at my buddies to bring the camera. Looking back, I suppose it was me yelling at them to bring the camera, but I really can't remember for sure.
After they realized what was happening, they reeled in their lines as fast as they could, and came stumbling downriver trying not to drop their cameras. Meanwhile, I had my hands full with a hot fish tearing the run apart. Short bursts of line would rip off my reel, and then the fish would leap, shockingly, from the water, before running back upstream and forcing me to regain all the line as fast as I could. But the bend of the long rod and a steady pressure eventually wore the fish down, and I turned it upstream of me as it rolled onto its side. The current pushed the steelhead into my waiting hands, and my shaking hand grasped the wrist of its tail.
I'd done it. Finally. After countless casts and unfailing confidence that it would happen one day, it finally had. With a primal whoop of joy, I began laughing uncontrollably. As I held the fish in 18" of water, my buddies snapped a couple of photos.
I knew they were congratulating me and making comments about the fish, but it was all sort of a hum as the pounding blood rushed through my ears and I gazed down at the wild doe steelhead in my hands. I gently slipped the #4 hook from its the lower corner of its jaw, and lovingly held its nose into the current. A quick kick of its tail, and she was gone. We all shook hands, me with a ridiculous grin on my face, and then they want back up to their spots to begin casting again.
Still shaking, I sat on a nice big boulder at the side of the run, and slipped a small flask I'd been carrying with me since I began flyfishing for steelhead. Inside was a little dram of single malt that I'd vowed not to let cross my tongue until I'd finally landed a steelhead on the fly. It was probably the best nip of scotch I have ever tasted in my life.
The rest of the day was uneventful (though the Canucks whipping the Leafs was a nice touch!). We fished the run a few more times without anything else to show, but really I didn't care anymore. I was feeling so good it didn't matter. After reading about it, and studying it, and trying for so long, I'd finally landed a winter run steelhead on the fly. And it was glorious.
The funny thing is, Darryl and I have known each other for years, and he's been fishing with me quite a few times for trout. That morning, on the way to the river (and despite my protestations about how difficult winter steelhead fishing can be), he remarked how he'd never been fishing with me before when I hadn't caught a fish, and then mentioned he was probably good luck. I guess he was right.
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Topic: Chilliwack River, February 18th 2012 (Read 3532 times)