The May That Never Was and the May That Was...

The May That Never Was...

For the spring of 2025, my friends and I had mighty expectations for a productive dry fly season filled with hunting large brown trout on mayflies. The anticipation came from a mild winter and early spring that brought some nice specimens to hand. What wasn't on our bingo card was 12" of rain in the month of May. For weekend warriors like us, that level of rain is a death sentence for finding a hatch and trout willing to come to the surface in high and turbid conditions. Thus, Dan coined the spring season, "The May That Never Was". Despite that moniker, we still went fishing with mixed results. The streamer bite was solid, but also difficult when the slow water is tucked deep into the trees. The trout spey action was also decent, but having done that most of the winter, we kept those rods safe in the confines of their tubes. Therefore, we went out in the high water anyway and parked our rafts on slow seams and waited for rises that more often than not, never came. When they did, we landed some nice fish. The positive byproduct of all the rain meant that the season was extended into the second week of June, which is a rare event on this river if you actually care about trout. Our best action came when the water finally receded to slightly elevated levels in the first week of June. I can recall one evening where Matt and I finally went out fishing together and found sulphur action and a few 20" browns. On another outing, I took my young cousin out for his first time dry fly fishing and got him on some nice fish to close the 2025 season. In general, May is my favorite time to be on the water with a trout rod in hand. I feel it reveals the true character and trout population of a river. 

In contrast, the winter of 25'-26' was absolutely brutal. The consistently below freezing temperatures, anchor ice, and severe storms created cabin fever and an extended period of no fly fishing. When March and April came, we found ourselves targeting smallmouth bass across the Keystone state instead. All the while, the anticipation for May hatch season and rising trout slowly built to a crescendo. When I finally made it out in early May, I drove through Friday rush hour for several hours so I could launch by Watermaster solo and fish magic hour. That evening was special and erased the negative feelings associated with the prior season. The subsequent weekends produced some river magic with copious amounts of large browns eating mayflies all evening. Each night my friends and I were serenaded by amphibians and entranced by nighthawks and swallows eating the bugs. In between, we drank, laughed, and enjoyed one another's company in one of our favorite places. 

The May That Was...

The Ole "One That Got Away"

The alarm buzzed at 3 a.m. in Wilmington, Delaware. I got up, dressed, and grabbed a few items that I didn't want to leave in my car overnight before hitting the road. I was driving east north east to the promised land of smallmouth bass fishing: the Susquehanna. Along the way, I past through the "wedge" between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware and into Amish country. After about an hour of driving, I made a pit stop at the last Wawa on the route for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I was early enough that the night crew hadn't refilled all of the coffee containers. I was left settling for their "regular" flavor that may have been sitting there from the prior day. It was tasty nonetheless. Leaving Wawa's territory, I drove on down the highway entering Sheetz territory. Rural Pennsylvania has a very different vibe, but also one I am familiar with. I was raised in Sheetz territory. At the end of the drive, I stopped at a riverside Sheetz to provision ice, lunch, and drinks for the day's float. I made it to the launch at sunrise and began the process of preparing the watermaster, rods, and the rig. I took extra caution to remember everything and to keep it concise. An Uber shuttle awaited and I needed to be dialed for immediate extraction. 

False Spring Smallies

Dan with a "PB"

The annual pre-spawn smallmouth bass season can best be described as a "false spring". Our action began in mid-March with a three day trip hitting three different rivers in Pennsylvania. Here, the water was high and dropping with one float on the verge of being blown out. That first outing began with water temperatures in the upper 40s with down jackets, beanies, and wool gloves. It ended with water temperatures creeping into the upper 50s with t-shirts and sunburn. The smallies were still in winter mode with most holding in the deepest slots and holes in the river. The action was considerably slower but we still found some larger fish on big swim flies. The weather continued that pattern through April with periods of summer temperatures followed by winter like conditions. This yo-yo had a noticeable impact on fish behavior and fishing conditions. Spawning smallmouth were spotted earlier than normal with an odd overlapping of pre-spawn, spawning, and post-spawn fish in the middle of April. Our second major outing, known as "Smalliepalooza," occurred in the second week of April. This trip brought warming conditions and low/clear water conditions. Longer downstream presentations were necessary to keep the fish from spooking and some fish were a little non-committal until water temperatures warmed up to the seasonal norm. By the end of the trip, the fishing was on fire as more and more fish poured into the tributaries. My final outing was a solo float in mid-April where water was so low I fully committed to topwater. Whether it was skating a gurgler or dead drifting a dragonfly, the fish were looking up, and multiple large fish were taken. With the spawning action kicking into another gear, that was the end of our season. 

Got bronze?

$10 "Steelheader"

I'm a $10 dollar steelheader, baby that's a fact...

There's a particular Charley Crockett song entitled, "$10 Cowboy," that is incredibly catchy and well-written. Like you, I openly wondered what in the hell a $10 Cowboy actually was or is. Since the song's release, it's been a staple on my steelheading trips both near and far. In fact, I openly called the boys a bunch of $10 Steelheaders on our Deschutes camping trip. Like you, they were like, "what the hell is a $10 Steelheader"? That got me thinking about the makeups of either character and the traits they would exhibit. What would their respective lifestyles look like in the pursuit of their dreams? Is anyone actually a $10 Steelheader?

Well, to me, a $10 Steelheader is a self-made angler in the pursuit of anadromous fish. It is someone that lives a deliberate life that focuses on consistently putting themselves in the moment as much as possible. This is an angler that has put in a lot of work on improving their casting, fly tying, and fishing skills through trial and error. Rather than rely on someone else to show them the way with lessons and guiding, they've put in the time themselves through actual fishing time and their own personal experiences. When they book a trip, they aren't going to some fancy lodge where a guide takes them directly to the "spot," tells them how far to cast, at what angle, and when the fish is likely going to eat. This is someone who is scouring Google maps, tying too many flies, and living out of their vehicle on some backcountry road. Rather than paying for the moment, they are experiencing a journey through their own sweat equity. For them, the moments are the steps along the way, not just the end result. They value the time invested, the skunkings, the failures, and the missed chances because they know that when that fish is tailed it will be all the sweeter. Afterwards, they are appreciative of the experience and are humble. Numbers don't mean anything to them and they don't openly brag about length and weight. They don't really even care about it because they don't measure their fish. A $10 Steelheader doesn't have social media, doesn't do podcasts, and you probably don't even know they exist. They exist entirely in their own world perfectly at peace with the moment they find themselves in. Like the fish they pursue, they are a ghost. 

Does that angler exist? I'm sure there are a few out there...

"Yeah, when I was out there on them river bends, learning to cast this spey rod, ten dollars was a whole lot of money. Steelheader. Steelhead swinger. Both highly addictive occupations. Look out!"

The Hoh

Into the Realm of Possibility II

Believe...

A few years ago, I found myself with a morning of solo fishing on the Deschutes. I wanted one more session before I drove back home across the country to make it in time for the new school year. As I exited the canyon, I had a predetermined spot in mind to try my luck. I aimed to fish a mid-river seam that I lost a steelhead at a few days prior. In my attempt to wade out to it, I spooked a larger chrome steelhead in the micro tailout I was trying to cross. Unable to reach my intended location, I looked upriver and decided to try and fish the bank that the steelhead moved into. Back up on the road, the spot looked deep but definitely had the prerequisite characteristics of steelhead holding water. So, I descended down the bank, bushwhacked through some tall grass and stickers, and reached a classic Deschutes spot. I found myself waist deep with half my body in the grass. There was zero margin of error between standing in a casting position and going for a swim. On my first cast, I was throwing my long leader out into the glassy current and my black muddler was skating quickly towards the grass. Unexpectedly, a large whooshing sound snapped me out of my stupor as a steelhead attacked my fly on the surface. The attempted eat was so aggressive that a wall of water splashed into the bank. I stood slack jawed in the silent aftermath of the encounter as that was the first time I raised a Deschutes fish on the skated dry fly. In that moment, I finally entered into the realm of possibility where a confidence inducing moment made me realize that there was, and will always be, a chance. It marked a pronounced shift in my confidence when it came to this river and the skater. That is sometimes all it takes for your perspective to shift. Despite the boost, I failed to hook a Deschutes fish on the skater over the next two years...

Nonetheless, I was persistent..

Quite the place...

Eat it...

Perception and Reality

It is the same game...

Amidst the sport of fly fishing, there is an omnipresent ranking system of superiority within the hearts and minds of fly anglers. A lot of people seem to put their specific pursuit on a pedestal and lambast any technique, species, or region as being "unworthy". I am certainly someone that has partaken in this over the years, but knowingly or unknowingly, all fishermen are hypocrites. This hierarchal caste system of pursuits has never been more in your face than with the arrival of the internet and social media. The meme culture that has exploded with Instagram loves to poke fun at specific niches within fly fishing like Tenkara, Euro-nymphing, or using an "indicator". I'll admit that I have laughed at the expense of these anglers too, but I respect them as skilled and productive techniques. However, I typically have the opposite reaction when the target is the potamodromous rainbow population of the five major Great Lakes. Hitting closer to home, there seems to be an utter disdain that exists for Great Lakes "steelhead," and those that pursue them. Out west, I've had anglers, fly shop managers, and guides go out of their way to let me know that Great Lakes steelhead aren't steelhead. Typically, they will bring the topic up unannounced at the mere mention that I live on the east coast. Based on internet views, you would think that anyone that pursues the migratory fish within these lake systems isn't worth their salt as an angler and that the intended quarry isn't worth anyone's time, energy, and effort. Overall, this perception of Great Lakes steelhead is damaging because it divides us an an angling community at a time when we need to present a unified front. 

Woah, big gulps eh?

Beware...Alligators

Birthday Party on the North

The North

The North Umpqua is well steeped in the traditions and history of the swung fly. Known as the "graduate school" of steelheading, it has drawn anglers from all over the world to its unique emerald green pools, runs, and tailouts that flow over vast ledge rocks. The river is flanked by tall pines and volcanic features that add to its overall beauty and appeal. Old school legends like Zane Grey and Jack Hemingway, and more modern ones like Lee Spencer and Frank Moore, have all waxed poetic about the river over the years and have done a lot to protect it. Almost forty miles of the river is a "fly only" section that requires anglers to basically only fish a dry line. That is highly appropriate for the surface oriented summer steelhead that call the water home. It also provides them a catch and release "sanctuary" of sorts as they wait out the high water of the fall. These fish are special, and like others in the region, are threatened by a host of natural and human variables, including the god awful Winchester Dam. The North's beautiful wild steelhead hold in deep waters along ledge rock, their surface orientation and preference for a skated fly produces a moment in fly fishing that is hard to replicate elsewhere. Combining that moment with the surrounding beauty is what creates the vast appeal and continually brings anglers back each season. 

Renowned PNW guide, Rich Zellman, once said that the North Umpqua has a habit of providing a "gift" to anglers plying its waters for the first time. I was a recipient of one such gift, as I had a beautiful hen smash my skated muddler in the tailout of Log Pool about 90 minutes into my first ever session on the river in 2021. That moment left an indelible impression upon the direction of my future fly fishing pursuits. That summer on the North produced only 400 or so summer steelhead on the river due to high temperatures, drought, and intense fires that took out most of the Umpqua's surrounding forests. It forced me to heavily self-reflect on my angling pursuits and the value of a single fish. I've been back a few times since, but was never able to bring another steelhead to hand like I had on that early day one dawn. I've had several chances, but never sealed the deal. The river and its silver kept calling me back. On the morning of my 39th birthday, I found myself driving to the river. The only gift I wanted was a dry fly chrome steelhead out of the confines of this iconic river...

Looks nice, maybe I'll skate a fly...

Wild Beauty...

The White Whale

The Deschutes

Swinging flies for wild west coast steelhead is a difficult proposition that is well known within our little niche of a sport. With declining population numbers from a myriad of circumstances, the chances of encountering one of these elusive anadromous trout has dwindled, especially when faced with the climatic changes from a warming planet. For a fish that doesn't eat when entering freshwater, it can also be challenging to illicit the necessary reaction to trigger their predatory instincts from their time spent in the ocean and as a smolt. So for a two handed angler swinging some feathers on a hook, it takes a lot of time, effort, and energy to find the intersection of all the variables at play. If one's life does indeed cross paths with the migration of a steelhead, will your cast be pure? Will the angle of presentation and the speed of the fly get noticed by the fish? Will the fly even matter? Will the steelhead make the final commitment to the fly or peal off never be seen again? Will you stay patient and wait for the weight of the fish or blow the hookset? If hooked, will you be able to keep the fish pinned on a barbless hook or will it shake free on a jump, head shake, or landing attempt? There are so many variables and obstacles to overcome for a few precious seconds admiring one of the prettiest fish on earth. For some, this challenge defines their angling adventures. For others, they are simply hoping to catch one. It is one of our sport's white whales...

Austin Tighe Dropping a Bomb...

It's All About the Hang...