Single Digits

As the alarm sounded and we began to wake up from our two day fishing comas, we quickly realized that it was a little different outside. Arriving from Canada was a cold front that erased the 30-50 mph winds and snow from the day before and replaced it with single digits. In addition, the river was raging around 1300 cfs. We decided to head back to bed for a few hours. 

When we arrived the lower fly zone parking was pretty desolate save for a few locals gearing up. Not one to drive away from a prime location, we decided to give it a try before heading home. For a few hours we had solid action on the inside seem at the head of cemetery pool. With the high water, the seem was a little swirly but an experienced mender of line can get a long dead drift if he plays his cards right. 

One of the reasons we decided to spend the third day on the river was to get Dan and Ben their first steelhead on fly. Dan knocked the door down halfway through our morning session with a nice fish. This occurred after losing several. It's always interesting watching the steelhead win those first few encounters. It takes me back several years when I was experiencing the same things. I had flashbacks whenever Dan and Ben would lose a nice fish downstream, on a jump, or simply from applying too little or too much pressure. I hated whenever I lost one, but it happens. You just can't land them all. As we left the river, Dan was super pumped. Meanwhile Ben was less than pleased. Considering the circumstances, I could only offer sympathy and the hope that the next time he hooks up, it will be his time. 

Meanwhile, we overstayed our welcome fishing well into a system of lake effect snow. The snow left I-81 south looking more like an ice skating rink full of spun out cars, trucks, and fender benders. It was the longest drive home from the SR I could remember. Good job driving Ben. Surely the steelhead gods will be in your favor next time. 

The Hunt for Winter Steel

For various reasons and excuses I've fished more on the tributaries this Winter than I did in the Fall. After putting in some extended time, I have come to enjoy the experience more. There are less people, everything is usually covered in snow, and the fish are still willing. The big variable in the equation is the weather, but every now and then, windows of opportunity present themselves.

A few friends of mine decided that they wanted to experience some winter steelhead fishing on the fly. We settled on an extended weekend and before I knew it, I was a passenger on someone else's planned fishing trip. I can't say that very often and I didn't even have to drive (thanks Ben). I even got to sleep for an hour on the ride up. On the downside, my tributary routines that had been honed and established over the past five years were challenged, but I excepted that fact and rolled with it.

On day one, we fished unfamiliar water between some familiar sections of real estate. With the temperature reaching into the high 30s, we had high expectations for some increased activity. It ended up being our least productive day. While Ben and Dan actively nymphed the runs and pools, I split my time evenly between indicator nymphing and throwing a skagit line and a medium sized intruder in brown. After day one, we all hooked up with nothing to show for our hard effort.

On day two, we experienced a hellish day on the water. Temperatures in the mid-20s with snow showers and 30-40 mph winds, gusting to 50. In other words, it was really cold. Despite this, we were able to find a few fish in some overlooked nooks and crannies in the lower fly zone. If you can even call them "overlooked".

That night, Dan and I were content and wanted to head home. A cold front was moving in and the temperatures were dropping into the single digits. Ben wanted to stay so we did. We headed back to the Mike's Mid-river Motel, and tied a new set of eggs for the next morning. Ben's decision to stay and freeze ended up being a wise one.

The Pursuit of Happiness - Day 2

We slept the sleep of fisherman who had spent the previous day staving off hypothermia. The waders dripped in the shower, the heat on full blast, our faces and hands red, stomachs full.  We awoke to a fresh 20" of snow covering the world.
The forest on the riverbank was a silent as an abandoned house and the snow covered everything like a thousands years' worth of blinding white dust.  We broke trail and stumbled over the muted shapes of logs for a mile, finally arriving at an undercut bank formed by a bend in a tailout.  There was room for two to fish at a time.
The snow depressed and conformed to our bodies as we sank into it, finding the most comfortable of seats from which to rig or take in the silence.  Two did each.
It was cold and the fish weren't going to move much.  The snow was comfortable and the forest was at its most beautiful. We'd already landed some screamers the day before, so we weren't going to move much, either.
We took turns fishing each run.  Experience and patience won the day, but luck showed up as well.  Each person fishing concentrated for 45 minutes or so before yielding the water to someone else.

We caught a few fish, at least one for each of us. Included was a larger fish that surely pissed off a previous angler by breaking off a beautiful blue intruder that still hung from its jaw.

Parry continued to learn on each and every cast as his improving mends brought to hand a smaller brown.

We retraced our prints back towards the truck but passed it and continued upriver to the honey hole from the previous day. We pulled one out of there as the sun sank.

Surely satisfied, we returned to the lodge, plugged a few DVDs into the TV and gorged ourselves on pizza and wings. There was one more full day to go.

The Pursuit of Happiness - Day 1

You would think a fishless five months would alter your perspectives towards some aspects of the pursuit of fish with a fly rod.  If it did for me, those alterations occurred in how I daydreamed about it.

As I stepped into the 33 degree water of the Salmon River with my brother leading the way, Adam close behind and a great friend along for his first experience, there wasn't much else I was aware of beyond the silently falling snow, the pull of the river on my legs and a general feeling of contentment. 

Pulaski, NY in late December could not be more different from the East African coast if it were populated by martians.  The snow-laden pines and the sounds of the river made the dusty, chaotic and drowningly humid city fade so quickly in my memory that I wondered if I'd ever been there at all.

I claimed that any bend in the rod would suffice, but I was happy enough just being there.

Along for the ride was Parry, a best mate for some 15 years who had somehow avoided a fishing trip with us up to this point.  He grew a fine steelheader's beard for the occasion, and was as game as could be.

After posting up in some prime real-estate, Adam told Parry that he could have the first 60 casts into the hole.  While Parry struggled to make his first cast, Adam dropped in one dead drift and hooked up with maybe the largest steelhead of his life to date.  The day was 15 minuted old and Adam had his screamer buck.

In the act of demonstrating the proper mend for a dead drift, Mark hooked up with Parry's rod, and gave it to him to practice playing a fish for when it would really count.  The small fish was dropping eggs in the net, and quickly released.

The morning then slowed down and we all settled into the zen trance of willing an indicator to drift dead.  The fish were not going to move far for a meal on this day.

On the hike back to the truck to move downstream, Mark pulled up for one cast into a deep swirling eddy just offshore.  He hooked up with what at first felt like a small resident fish, but gave its size away on its first leap.  Another screamer.

The fat fish was netted and it was Parry's turn in the confusing eddy.

Under Mark and Adam's close watch and encouragement, he hooked something for a brief moment, until the tippet broke as Parry misplayed it.  Adam's turn.

We all knew what was about to happen.  We felt it.  He hooked up almost immediately.  The fish didn't jump or run.  Adam said it felt pretty weird.

I was ready just downstream with the net a few minutes later, when the fish rose and slashed.  Mark and I thought 'monster brown' at the same moment and yelled it out, but it was just the stained water and coloration that threw us off.

The fish was actually a monster steelhead.  The largest any of us had ever seen in person.

As I slipped the net under the fish, we were laughing and hooting and hollering and marveling at a fish that might have survived 4 years of the crowds on the Salmon river to meet us on that afternoon.  It was awesome.

Parry was up again, and he hooked up with a good fish that he played well.  We brought it to hand and everyone was very happy.

I was up again and hooked up with a fish that popped off after a few minutes.  It was my first fight in 5 months.

Adam again, with predictable results and another of the largest steelhead he'd ever caught.  It was an insane few hours spent at that one hole on the river that my brother had thankfully decided to quickly probe with an egg pattern.

As the afternoon drew to a close, I landed my first fish since July.  It was small, had only one nub for a pectoral fin, and may or may not have been hooked just outside of the mouth, but I'll take it.  I was happy.

Changing in the parking lot, we tried to explain to Parry that today was as outlier, not your typical day fishing for Great Lakes steelhead in late December, but we hoped aloud that the fish would stay cooperative for the next day, and the day after.

A Better Chance of Seeing Sasquatch

Another slow day on the river as we failed to land any fish. For the second consecutive day, we were left shaking our heads with our misfortune. Nonetheless we perservered and fished on. As the day progressed, Adam began fishing less and less. He became content with the comfortness of a mossy bed on the bank. During the last hour of light, I swung flies on my favorite stretch of the river. An olive sculpin was my weapon of choice and I swung it slow and fast and short and long. As we neared the truck and I continued to fish, Adam proclaimed, "that we had a better chance of seeing sasquatch". No more than a minute later, I hooked up with a brown as the sculpin slowly hanged in a soft spot off the bank. Things have a way of happening when you least expect them to. I anticipated catching a fish on every swing I made that day. For a brief few seconds after Adam questioned my resolve, I wasn't really thinking about anything. The pull and head shakes of the brown woke me up and I eagerly brought him to hand. We left the river with a walk off homer on the swing and began our long car ride home for the holiday season.

Stubborn Love

I awoke in the bed of the truck several times that night. I thought that 36 hours without sleep would have me sleeping like a baby until my alarm woke me before sunrise. I was wrong. I felt wide awake and soon found myself checking the time on my phone. 3 o'clock. Way too early for anything. I felt the truck rock back and forth as Adam tossed and turned in the front seat. He was having the same problem. The chilly temperatures instantaneously made me need to use the bathroom as I exited my sleeping bag and got dressed. It was raining outside and I headed into Walmart to meet the night shift.

We ended up arriving in Pulaski a few hours early with no where to go but McDonalds. Cheap coffee and a few chocolate chip cookies warmed our bodies as we waited for the first sign of light in the parking lot. A few humorous sketches and fly fishing videos fresh off the Internet helped pass the time. A quick check on the river levels revealed a dam release doubling the flow of the river. Any steelheader knows that sort of news can be a good or bad thing. For one, it can trigger a fresh run of fish inspired by the heavy flows or it can mean that the fish were going to be a little confused and disoriented. The day ended up falling in the latter category.

Hoping for some fish movement, we headed to the lower sections of the river and fished a mile of unexplored water that was really inviting. Long stretches of riffles and runs kept us at it all day long despite little to show for our efforts. The river and its fish were stubborn on this particular day despite our success the day before. We were left shaking our heads. However, in one particular run, by some divine intervention, Adam was gifted with a small one that hardly put up a fight.

Some days on the water don't go according to plan. This seems to happen a lot winter steelheading. Faced with a stubborn day, changing water conditions, and incredibly slow fishing we headed down river looking for some fresh fish. We found new water and some good company from Canada but never found the fish. It just wasn't our day. That's steelheading.

The Escape

A long, hard, and cold week had me looking for an emergency escape hatch around every corner. Not finding one, I sent Adam a text with a semi-desperate plea for him to stop thinking about carp, and instead think about accompanying me on a trip north for some steelhead. It had been two months since our last hellish trip. With no switch rod, waders full of holes, and zero preparation, I finally pulled the trigger and decided to go. A few freezing days with wet feet would be well worth my first steelhead of the fall.  A suicide run and six hours of driving later, I found myself on my favorite stretch of the Salmon River swinging flies for anything willing to oblige me. I finally found my escape.

Adam struck first hardcore nymphing the head of the run with a single hander. The fish blitzed downstream approaching the backing knot before turning back. When Adam slid the net under the fish, he arched back and let out a roar of approval. A rare display of emotion from a certified "carpologist," who claims he'd rather fish for carp, than slay a tarpon. I don't think he means it. I think he just likes having a bend in his rod. A short time later, he had another fish on the line. This time, he even cracked a smile. He was actually enjoying himself.

I was using my Loop Yellow Line 8124 armed with a Rio Skagit Short and a 2.5/7.5 T11 MOW tip. I experimented with a few different flies before settling on something I tied a few nights before, a miniaturized version of Pat Cohen's Squitruder. I heard he had a few good hookups on it, so I set down and tied two smaller versions with basically the same materials. It looks awesome in the water and I highly recommend checking them out. After making my way through the run without a tug, I added a bead in the loop knot. On the first cast, as my fly made its way into the slack water, I had my big pull. The chromer jumped twice before succumbing to the net. I was pleased to say the least.

From there on out, Adam and I took turns swinging flies. Neither of us really enjoyed destroying our shoulders nymphing single handed, so the swinging became the preferred method for the rest of the afternoon. When it was my turn, I worked my way down to the tailout where I had a good bump but nothing on the end of the line. I re-casted and put a nice belly in the line to speed up the swing. In the exact same spot, a chromer hammered the fly. It ran and cartwheeled through the air and dislodged himself from the hook. I missed my second fish but I had my pull, and that was enough.

On another spot in the river, Adam hooked up with and landed a nice fish on an inside seam.  I repeated the feat a little farther out in the hole. However, mine failed to find the bottom of the net. I didn't mind one bit.

A two month hiatus from the tributaries really tested my resolve as an angler. During this time of year, there is no where else I'd rather be. I felt demoralized after that last trip and had spontaneous urges to go  all the time. However, I remembered that my switch rod was in pieces and my waders leaked. That brought me back down to earth quickly. My last urge couldn't be stopped and as I wrung out my socks on the back of the truck in below freezing weather, I realized I should have been fishing during those two months. I let excuses get in the way and that is not going to happen again.

My feet were lifeless and my legs felt like stumps as I got in the truck. That night at Walmart I bought some extra tall trash bags and rubber bands. I had high aspirations of delaying frost bite as long as possible.