When Steelhead go wild, Part I

Sleet as hard as No. 4 buckshot pelted us as we waded into the lower Platte River.

It was late March, and winter wouldn't die. It was 15 above, the water was 33 degrees, and the wind-driven sleet was as subtle as a body slam.
We chose a hole that was good when I was a fulltime steelhead guide years ago. The water curled to the far bank, bounced off a log-jam, and punched through the tail-out. A hooked fish would be downstream in a heartbeat.

We eased in, studied it, and it hit me: what I thought was bottom was moving around, constantly shifting positions. The slow submerged movement rocked me to my numbed toes.

"Whoa," I muttered softly. "Paul, we just found steelheading's Mother Lode."

"Say what?" he asked. "It's too cold to stand here and tell fish stories."

"No, look!. Watch the water. This hole is wall-to-wall with steelhead."

Paul Kerby of Mancelona needed little persuasion to fish. He knotted a Platte River Special to his six-pound tippet, shook out some fly line and cast above the huge pod of fish. The fly drifted down along bottom, and a lively six-pounder took the fly and Kerby buried the hook.

The fish bounced into the air like a kid on a trampoline, and began a long run downstream. Paul, a veteran of many such battles, stayed close so he could steer it away from log-jams or other obstacles.

"Later," he said, running through thigh-deep water after the wild fish that was bolting downstream.  Orange was hot because they were silver fish from Lake Michigan. An orange fly would imitate free-drifting salmon or steelhead eggs.

A Dave's Special, another orange-colored fly that my brother George invented years before, was tied on (see sidebar). The fish were still milling around. The hole met their needs; it was six feet deep, 600 yards above the mouth and hooked fish would run down toward Platte Bay.

The line was lengthened, and shot forward so the fly landed six feet above the fish. The line was mended once to allow the fly to sink. It twitched and I set the hook. Suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as cold as before.

We did a lively dance downstream. The trick was to stop it before it got into the fast chute of current near the boat launch. The fish, a bright buck, its cheeks and gill covers colored like orange pineapple ice cream, was a fat 10-pounder. Fortunately, it tired rapidly and was quickly released.

"Get him?," Kerby asked as he followed another fish downstream.

"Yeah, a 10-pound male. Unhooked him and let him go. You?"

"Turned him loose. It's too cold to keep fish. The only way to get warm is to follow them and wade back up. Doesn't warm the toes, though."
My next turn was like before. A cast with an orange fly, a sideways line switch, a hook-set and another jog behind a strong mint-silver steelhead.

We landed fish on a nonstop basis until 11 a.m. We quit, went to a local restaurant for hot coffee and chow. Kerby was in a pensive mood.
"How many fish did you land this morning?" he asked. "I hooked 26 and lost four so I landed 22 steelhead to 12 pounds. You?"

My score was just a tad higher with just two lost fish. My biggest, a broad shouldered buck with a kype like an arthritic little finger stuck on the end of its lower jaw, was 31 inches long and weighed 14 pounds.

"Hooked 27 fish and landed 25," I said. "One that got away weighed 15 pounds. I stayed clos to ite, but it still took me into the brush and broke off."

We traded stories and decided to try the Betsie River. We fished a mile of river below the old Homestead Dam and saw only two fish. We worked them hard but they soon disappeared into a deep log-filled hole.

We headed for the Platte River again, looked at each other, and he said: "You know, we'll never have another day like this. We've landed 47 fish so far. Think our friends are home and will want to come out and play?"

Did I? The car, like a horse heading for the barn and a ration of oats, took us back to our hotspot. We didn't see anyone earlier and no cars or anglers were around.

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in.

"Somebody has to do it," he said, wading in. "Might just as well be us."

TO BE CONTINUED....

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors