Swinging for Kings

There are very few moments in fly fishing that can compare to a migratory fish slamming a wet fly on a tight line swing. This moment is only amplified when a king salmon, fresh on his way upriver, decides to have a go and rip the cork out of your hand. Experiencing a big pull has been known to change fishermen's lives and make grown men shake in the knees.  This singular moment has changed our entire style to the point where we cannot experience the tributaries any other way. It literally became a game of swinging or going home.

Suicide Kings

Back in August when news came of the first few salmon trickling into the Salmon River my focus on gold quickly turned to silver. In July and August I experienced the toughest carping ever. So the news of fresh chrome had me excited to say the least. After working twelve hours a day for six days, I hopped in my car for the four hour drive.. to fish for twelve straight hours on zero sleep. You got to do what you got to do...

I fished the DSR for two days straight where there were more people than salmon in the river. But none the less I had a fantastic time. The fish were few and far between and very spooky. My first day I swung the lower section hoping to locate a few fresh fish. Despite there being more people than salmon I still had entire runs to myself. I'd work my way down a run with one fly, walk back up and switch flies to do it again. Around noon I had lost all hope with the high sun and blue bird skies. I had only seen one fish move through all day. Since quitting is never an option while fishing, I swung on. It was around one o'clock when I felt it... Bump, Pull, Weight, Thrash... Holy Shit. My first king of the year grabbed a small pink comet on my first swing past a fishy looking log jam/undercut bank. After thrashing its way out to mid river it decided to go back to its holding lie. It streaked underneath the log and undercut and came back out at the top of the run with four of five other kings along for the ride, safety in numbers I suppose. I tailed the fish and gazed up and down river... Not a single soul in sight. It was magical. Later in the day I did find a small group of fish in a tailout that were so over worked through out the day they would scatter every time my fly swam past.

Day two I tried a different strategy. I started at the top of the "run" and worked my way down actually looking for fish instead to swinging empty runs and wasting my time. Its not as exciting as getting a take that your not expecting but I gave it a shot. There were ones and twos moving through fast water areas and staging in the tail out of the next run/pool. Since I had the river pretty much to myself again I watched these fish move up and let them rest in the tail out for ten minutes or so then I'd show them the goods. They were stubborn for the most part, ignoring my fly on every swing. Then there was a player. The fish tracked my wet fly for two feet or so my first pass at it. I got so pumped I shot another laser down and across and watched as the fish commit to my fly. I watched "the tug" from start to finish, it was pretty sweet. It was the only fish to commit on day two, but a one fish day is a good day.

See you on the river...

12' 7 wt. Cross S1 did some awesome work...

Judging by this fishes' mouth it was caught a dozen times out in the lake, but still willing to grab a gaudy wet fly.

My Annual Migration

I’ve lived at least a few thousand miles from my hometown for going on four years now, but have returned during each of the past winters to spend the holidays with family and friends.

A midnight suicide run to the tributaries of the great lakes has become a tradition.  Late December isn’t the most productive time on those waterways, but the weekends spent on them with my brother and Adam, and occasional guests like our friends and fathers, result in some potent memories.

I’m drawn back for many reasons, but the scenery, moments and fish captured in the images below will explain better than my words ever could.

The River Keeper

Day two brought us back to the lower end of the river to see if the fish were still coming in. Despite some early morning pushes of fish, things died down considerably for the rest of the day. On the previous day, we were lucky enough to catch the tail end of the main run. However, there were still a lot of fish to be had and we made the most of our chances swinging wet flies in water that was much lower than the day before. We had several chances, losing fish from long runs, putting too much pressure on them, and a few from people following fish a few hundred yards downstream. 

My best fish came at the tailout of a run that I knew fish were holding in. I'd take a few casts and vary the speed, direction, and length of my swing each time. I'd take a break, maybe change flies, and repeat the same scenario. On one particular cast, I had a nice short pull on my fly and knew a particular fish was feeling a bit grabby. I spent some extra time with that fish, making minuscule changes to the swing attempting to get it just right. It paid off when I felt a big pull and some deep head shakes. The big hen head thrashed at the surface before careening downstream into the heart of another run. I did all I could to keep her on in that moment while letting her tire a bit. I relinquished some control to get her to come back upstream to a small eddy where she was easily tail grabbed for some quick pics. Adam named her, "big momma nook".

Downstream, and much later in the day, Adam got his. He followed the advice of a new friend: the river keeper. The river keeper monitors the run and this particular man was seasoned beyond his years. "Chartreuse comet," he told us over and over. He proclaimed that, "It's worked for the last fifteen years". On his hikes up and down, he stopped to talk to each of us several times. We remarked on the beautiful day, the amazingness of the week's run, and on simpler things such as swinging and steelhead. He parted from us with one last nugget of knowledge: "you guys are the only people I've seen all day that are actually fishing".

Touché river keeper, touché.

Runners