How NOT to wade a steelhead stream

Larry Winans once posed for photos of an out-of-control angler.

 

Water is great stuff. It's wonderful to drink, the right stuff for showers, great to wade in, fun to fish in, and a necessity when hunting ducks in the fall.

However, it is not fun to swim in at cold times of the year. Here's what happened when I needed a story and photos on short notice for a newspaper story. It turned out to be a great column..

The Betsie River has strong currents in certain locations and dark water. High early spring  water complicates things even further because it dirties up once the spring run-off occurs. Seeing bottom can become nearly impossible.

Certain areas can only be waded with extreme caution. I knew where two early-spawning steelhead were spawning on a bed, and proper positioning had me in the key location to cast a wet fly. Time after time the fly passed their nose, and time and again the male and female parted to allow the intruding fly to swing past.

It may have been the 50th or 60th cast when the male separated early, moved toward the fly, and sucked it in. The hook was promptly set and the fish jumped once. It darted upstream, and fought hard until it began to tire.

The buck steelhead, his cheeks and gill covers the color of orange-pineapple ice cream, put his broad side to the heavy current and started drifting downstream. I was fishing a familiar area, one I knew like my backyard. Or, so I thought. I had forgotten to take in mind the higher water level and that brush could have washed in.

It was necessary to stick very close to the bank, and with the river swollen with run-off, I knew it would be tippy-toe as the fish tugged its way downstream. The first six steps took me into waist-deep water.

"Cool," I thought. "This isn't too bad. The bottom shelves up 10 feet from here."

 

That 10 feet was a real treat. Five feet into it my toe bumped against a submerged log that had washed in on the high water, and with the water pushing hard on my back, over I went with a mighty splash. I never felt bottom again for nearly 150 yards.

The strong current turned me upside down, rolled me around, sent me feet-first and then rump-first, down around the bend. The fish was still on, tugging at my rod as it was held up out of the water, but a one-armed breast stroke just wasn't cutting it. The river carried me another 100 yards around the bend, and as I came to a shallow gravel bar, I heaved my rod up on shore.

My waders were filled with water, and the current ground me into the gravel bar with considerable force, and finally I was able to get to my hands and knees and crab across the gravel to shore where I floundered like a beached whale. I grabbed a sapling, pulled myself to my feet, and bent over to dump out  some water.

My butt plunked onto the bank as I pulled my waders off, and emptied them back into the river. The temperature was in the mid-20s with a 10 mph breeze, and I had to get my rod and head for the car. Shivering had already set in.

My rod was pulled from the brush, and as I reeled in my slack line, the rod came alive in my hands. One hundred yards downstream the steelhead bolted into the air, flipped its tail like a farewell salute, and we came undone.

There was a steep hill to climb, and as I reached my car another angler stopped to ask about the fishing. He then noticed I was soaking wet.
"Fall in?" he asked. Here was a man with a magnificent grasp of the obvious.

"Nope," I said, "a big steelhead took me water skiing. The problem was he couldn't pull quite hard enough to keep me up on top. He got away, and all I got was a short but wet and wild ride down the river."

It had been a neat experience. Mind you, but it's not one I wish to try again anytime soon, but one that has carved a special niche in my memory.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors