The Lure Of The Steelhead

The earliest of the winter-early spring runoffs swell the river, and a steelhead holds motionless off the river mouth. The first hint of slightly warmer water creates a growing sense of urgency in her ripening ovaries. Slowly, she pushes upstream.

Close behind trail the males, some as dark as spent salmon; others wearing silvery flanks with a bright red sash along the lateral line, with cheeks and gill covers wearing the crimson and  pink blush of a soon-to-spawn buck steelhead. The spawning run, slowly and tentatively, has begun for just a very few fish.

Most of the run is still months away. There are always a few fish that get an early start on the run, and will winter over in a deep pool or run, awaiting the warmer water of a January thaw or the more rapid warming days of late March.

Oneness with a winter steelhead stream.

Far upstream a fisherman ponders, remembering rivers and seasons past as he looks over the snow-clad shoreline brush and waits for the first fish to show up. It’s an annual ritual for him as he patiently waits for the big fish to arrive. It may be a two or three months before they work up onto the gravel bars  to spawn. For him, this is a waiting game and he know the odds of catching a steelhead now are slim.

Spring steelhead fishing has a certain magic of its own. It’s more than just a fish plucking softly at a passing wet fly, tail-walking across the river’s surface, hitting a fierce current, and heading downstream like a runaway horse heading for the barn.

This is a grand sport, all wrapped up in mystique like a Christmas gift draped in colorful ribbons. It is a mood, as well as a happy form of winter or spring anticipation and enchantment. Not everyone can be a steelhead fisherman and not everyone wants to chase these fish. For those who are addicted to the sport and the fish, it’s as addictive as chasing wild turkeys on a still spring day. It’s enough, today, to just be here on a mild winter day to check the river for fish.

The angler treasures his relationship with this streamlined trout which has enough power to bring an ache to a strong wrist. Steelhead fishing is not for those bent on a limit catch. Fishing success is often poor. Instead, it is an opportunity to fish streams that have been only pleasant memories during the year-end snows that test one’s mettle against the most prized trout of all.

 Someone once said that anticipation is 75 percent of a fishing trip while participation offers only 25 percent. I often succumb to anticipation during the long winter months as my thoughts soon turn to cold, crisp spring days on my home stream.

Dreams of steelhead, past and present.

It’s those dreams that keep me fired up when days are short and evenings are long. I relax before a flickering fire, and reminisce about fish that have fallen and those, with luck, that will provide a long run and a jump or two once hooked.

In the early season anglers may risk life or limb dodging shelf-ice floes that hurtle downstream with the force of a jackhammer. Then again, sometimes shirt-sleeve weather prevails as if spring forgot to come and summer arrived instead.

A winter fisherman often forgets the bone-numbing days when his only luck is to watch the aerial dance of a woodcock towering high in the dawn or dusky sky to impress his mate. When I think of spring steelhead, I see a solitary angler walking a river bank, studying the stream through Polaroid sunglasses for a sign of fish.

A canopy of snow-shrouded cedars and pines muffle his steps. The rapid putt-putt-putt of a drumming ruffed grouse sounds like a far-off drum roll  of a generator running wild as the best part of winter-spring temperatures rise slightly.

He knows he’ll find some fish, but perhaps not on this day but sometime within the next three months. It would be too much to expect to find a Christmas steelhead in his favorite hole but it has happened before. That’s fine, because the ritual of looking forward to spring fish is as dear as family love, respect of one’s peers or a secure living in this sad economy. Any fish taken will be a bonus, and something to be cherished.

Steelheading has many devotees, who all have differing techniques but a shared love for a day on the water. A river-mouth addict might brave snow driven by Arctic winds, or share a lineup with a dozen other hopefuls, as  they work wobbling plugs, spinners or bait through deep holding water.

Boat fishing is a practical big-stream fishing method. The craft that plies steelhead on big rivers are often heated jet boats, although some anglers favor West Coast drift boats or aluminum car-toppers. From a boat an angler can see wildlife working river banks for the first hint of an early spring. One never knows what may be found around the next bend or what the next hole or sweeping run might offer.

Fishing the smaller and lesser-known streams.

Many fishermen, myself included, associate steelhead fishing with small, intimate streams. The chuckle of a riffle flowing past rime ice that tinkles in the early-morning stillness; an impossible wading area where currents slice deep under wind-topped trees to form tremendous log jams; a scrubbed-clean gravel bar with white redds formed by spawning fish—this, to me is the epitome of early steelheading.

I think of reading stream currents in deep areas to tell where fish hold, of seeing a hen steelhead accompanied by dark male fish, fanning redds from a hardscrabble bottom. It’s a one-on-one duel with fish more intent on spawning than striking.

Steelhead fishing is not a meat sport. The challenge of pitting winter dulled skills against a righteous and honorable warrior is real. These fish, often so silvery they blend in with the bottom gravel on clear-water  streams, are a breed apart from anything else that swims in fresh water. They can turn grown men into babbling idiots, weak men strong, and fish hogs into dedicated and capable true sportsmen.

The challenge of a single splendid take, a long run highlighted with a belly-whopper jump, and the eventual beaching of a noble fish is but part of the winter-spring steelhead allure. Dealing with a fish reluctant to strike, sharing a favorite  fish-holding pool, meeting old friends on the river, the thrill of just being there, and the glimpse of a 12-pound buck steelhead darting under shoreline cover; all are just another small sample of the story as well.

Above all, steelhead fishing is a livable dream. Some anglers dream about taking fish under the most difficult circumstances while others relax with a refreshing daydream about rivers, rods, reels, flies or lures, and of course, big steelhead.

Lonely cedar-shaded streams that bubble merrily, spacious gravel bars teeming with stocky fish with no other angler in sight—that’s what I dream about at this time of year. In truth and reality, crowds are more the rule than the exception these days, but this too is a part of the annual ritual.

Dreaming the winter-early spring steelhead dream.

We will cold nights away with thoughts of headstrong fish that will snap at any offering, and we long for those days when the morning mist rises from our favorite stream like a gray wool blanket to reveal deep fish-holding runs, log-lined pools, and gravel bars awash with silvery fish.

Steelhead fishing is a distinct and much different way of life, an experience, a happening; it means much the same to winter and springtime anglers as a decorated tree with presents underneath on Christmas morning does to a young child.

Spring means a rebirth of the stream and the fish that swim in it, the nearby lands and forest, and a new generation of tiny steelhead fry we hope will survive and return to spawn in the years to come. It also means a faint touch of steelhead fever that will only increase in intensity in the months to come.So, if you’ll excuse me now, I need to feel water pressure squeezing against my legs as I fish a long run in hope of hooking an early steelhead as it hugs the bottom.

I don’t care if a fish is caught or not. Simply being there today, and other future days, is enough for now. It’s enough to keep the fever alive until a fish is hooked, races downstream, hangs for a brief moment in mid-air before it is gone. No matter as we know more fish will arrive in the near future, and we can wait a bit longer.

You see, we are steelheaders and accustomed to brief flurries of heart-stopping action and many long periods of inactivity. It’s all a part of this fervor that captures our heart, soul and imagination, and leaves us breathless after every encounter.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors