Another Visit to Steelhead Alley

Combining big fish and great friends in a beautiful setting is the perfect recipe for a memorable steelhead fishing adventure. This story is about the area, the people, and how they made the trip down “Steelhead Alley” unforgettable.

The Author holding a nice steelhead

The Fall fishing trip to northeast Pennsylvania was going to be a daunting task this year, which unfortunately coincided with the extended 2025 government shutdown. Flying there posed many challenges, but compared to a steelhead in Lake Erie searching for one special tributary and all the obstacles it had to evade to finally reach its destination, my journey felt simple.

It was the large fish on a small tippet that clouded my judgment, making me focus on catching the fish first rather than worrying about the traveling. After 12 hours in airports, I finally arrived in Pittsburgh and met up with my friend Jack Barr for a week of adventure. We headed to his cabin in Springfield, Pennsylvania, a convenient starting point for two trout bums on their way to Elk Creek.

For the next week, the plan was to immerse myself in the area and the fishery. From Springfield, Fairfield, and Lake City, Pennsylvania, this rural community revolves around steelhead fishing. The surrounding community made this charming, rural area feel like a quintessential small town. The setting has its own unique country charm. Seeing the trees showcasing their fall colors of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows helped set the mood. Along the county roads sat clusters of houses, beside them freshly harvested soybean and cornfields.

Wildlife was abundant. Between driving from one fishing spot to another, deer could be seen regularly strolling along the field edges at all hours. One afternoon we observed several flocks of turkeys strutting around and doing whatever turkeys do. One group of gobblers had apparently chosen one to perch as a sentinel on top of a fence post. Meanwhile, the others casually fed around and displayed their tail feathers in a ritual of dominance. When we stopped to ask the lookout gobbler if we could buy a ticket to watch their show, he got upset, flew down, and hurried the others away. On another occasion, a pheasant was seen sidestepping pickup trucks and slowly walking down the white line on the passenger side, probably wishing for a sidewalk.

Our adventure began at the same spot where I had visited several years ago. Walking along the river and taking in the scenery before getting everything ready, my pent-up excitement and memories of previous fishing trips quickly intensified. Tying on an old Appalachian fly pattern, my fingers trembled with anticipation. Finally, I pinched myself to confirm that I was really there and this wasn’t a figment of my imagination, and I had indeed survived the airport chaos. Gathering my composure, I shifted into steelhead attack mode. I hoped I would never lose my excitement for catching a fish on the fly.

It didn’t take long for us to realize fishing would be challenging this week. The fish were sparsely scattered throughout the river system. But fortunately, the layers of shale along the riverbanks made wading easier. Compared to our freestone river rocks in Appalachia, this felt like walking on a sidewalk with a few slick spots to keep it interesting.

After scanning the water, stopping for a quick blind cast or two and constantly moving, we located a few fish several miles downriver. When each of us finally landed the first steelhead midafternoon on the first day, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a moment of temporary satisfaction. It was crucial to catch that first fish, land it, and end the “skunk” on this trip. Not catching a fish can bring high levels of fishless anxiety and sleepless nights, with only one cure.

That first fish would not be the biggest of the week but was still beautiful in a thousand ways. For two years, I had dreamed of coming back up here to fish again. An emotional calmness took over me as the fish frantically scrambled for obstructions to unsnag my fly from its lips. Chasing the fish around the fast water and attempting to lead it to a pool below, I could feel its powerful thrust as the fish frantically tried to become unhooked. Looking upstream, I noticed my net lying on the bank. The hooked-jaw male would have to be beached. Steering the fish around the shale outcrops, I waded down to a gravel beach and then walked backwards, pulling the worn-out fish with me. Both the fish and I lay down beside each other, exhausted. My return trip to Steelhead Alley was just beginning.

It’s interesting how I can work so hard to catch that first fish, hook it, and finally land it, only to feel thrilled and relieved for about two minutes. Realizing it was everything I had imagined, I immediately wanted to catch another one to satisfy this craving. What a remarkable, chronic sickness.

Over the next week, we did a lot of hiking and caught a few steelhead, which kept us focused, engaged, and made the days enjoyable. Finding steelhead with their mouths open was tough. But it didn’t take more than a few fish each day to stay positive. Fishing with good friends, combined with the bucketloads of BS, made time pass quickly.

The Green Wiggler tied by Mike Fleege

It’s not just the fishing that makes a trip memorable, but also the people you meet along the way. One shop we visited multiple times was the Fly and Tackle Shop at Folly’s End Campground, where we chatted with Mike Fleege. Mike’s local knowledge of this area was extensive. He had been tying flies for nearly 50 years; together, we shared a century of stories. It was great to reconnect and exchange a few unique regional fly patterns, such as the “Green Wiggler” and the “Sheep Fly.” Fly fishing is a sport rich in history and tradition. Not knowing at the time, I would get to meet another good friend who would also help make this trip memorable.

Shore of Lake Erie. Notice the crowd down below

Jack told me years ago that Lake Erie steelhead pull harder in open water than when they’re confined to tributaries during spawning. As Jack discussed 100-yard runs and their explosiveness, with only the Canadian border as a barrier, it became an obsession and a bucket list goal. Unfortunately, high winds kept this from happening most of the week. When sustained gusts exceeded 40 mph on Wednesday, my hopes diminished.

Then, on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, divine intervention calmed the winds, making Lake Erie fishable and smooth. The water around the tributary mouths also cleared up. These perfect conditions fueled my ambitious bucket list goals.

Early Friday morning, we drove to a popular tributary to try our luck. By the time we arrived, the word had already spread about the changing conditions. Fishing rumors can spread faster than butter on toast when the fishing gets good, and the spot is easy to reach. Schools of people had already gathered at the river’s mouth, standing almost arm’s length apart, casting their spinning rods into the lake by the time we arrived. But that’s alright, and if I weren’t such a die-hard fly fisherman, I would have squeezed in among them.

Jack and I walked east along the shoreline to avoid the crowd. Looking down the bank about two hundred yards, we noticed one person fishing alone. There was plenty of open space to accommodate two fly fishermen who could cast without hooking anyone else but ourselves. I couldn’t imagine casting a fly rod with two flies in the middle of that crowd, as something other than a fish would probably have gotten hooked.

As we approached this solitary angler, he and Jack recognized each other, and for the next few minutes, I felt like a newbie being welcomed into a family reunion. There were no strangers here, just a big fishing family that happily embraced a lost soul from the South.

Frank Scicchitano and the Mike Watts on the shore of Lake Erie

Talking with my new friend, Frank Scicchitano, I discovered he was ninety-three years old and had been steelhead fishing since 1972. He reveled in telling many stories about this fishery, and his passion for these fish was evident. Listening to his fascinating accounts of years past was captivating, which also makes the sport of fishing so special. When asked about his secret to longevity, he mentioned that he visits a gym three times a week to maintain his fishing stamina and has been married to the love of his life for 70 years. He has truly had a rich life.

The author holding a steelhead

It wasn’t long before he learned about my bucket-list steelhead. Lipping one in the lake was essential. During our conversations, one of Frank’s spinning rods started to sing, and Frank just stood there motionless. Looking at me, he pointed to his bent-over rod with the whining reel, started laughing, and asked if I was going to grab the rod or not. The kid in me took control. When a rod is bent with that much force, and I have the chance to grab it, it doesn’t matter what kind of tackle it is.

Grabbing the rod, I immediately felt the brute strength of this fish. The rod bent inward as I pulled back firmly, careful not to candy-cane it too far and listening to the reel sing its fighting song. There was nothing else to focus on but battling this fish. The world could try to end now but would have to wait until I landed this monster first. Its powerful tail caused the rod tip to pulsate side to side as it fought its way in the open water. Completely focused on the entire ordeal, I felt like a ten-year-old inside with the fish’s every surge.

Fighting this fish gave me a taste of what I had imagined, and it was even more thrilling in real life. Frank walked over and said the reel was meant for a lefty with the handle on the opposite side. Smiling, I teased him, hinting I had already figured that out and had fished with backwards equipment before.

The tenacity, determination, and strength of this steelhead could be felt as I stood knee-deep in Lake Erie, hoping not to be pulled under or slip on a slick rock. There were no enclosed areas to keep this fish contained; instead, it was swimming in a vast, open body of water with plenty of space to escape. After tussling for what seemed like an eternity, I finally landed it, took pictures, and released it. This fish was truly a rainbow trout on steroids. Its glossy, olive-green top was separated from the opulent silvery-gray bottom by a faint, wide red strip. The vibrant, wet scales glistened in the sunlight. And I thought how lucky I was to be part of this adventure. Exhilarated, I simply stood there watching it swim away, feeling connected to the fish and this fishery. Encountering this fish fueled my chronic desire to catch another.

Intoxicated with admiration for my quarry and grateful for the experience, we continued our conversation when suddenly Frank’s second rod was nearly jerked from its stand. Frank smiled, pointed at it, and said he needed a break and was too tired to walk the twenty feet of shoreline to handle the bending rod. Within milliseconds, the child in me smiled, grabbed the rod, and set the hook on my second steelhead. I will never tire of feeling their powerful surge and the melody of singing line leaving the spool or of watching the reel’s drag system being exercised.

After Frank left, we went back to fly fishing. Eventually, with Jack’s expertise, I managed to hook and land a steelhead on the fly. It fought hard, trying to swim across Lake Erie to Canada, but I managed to wrestle it to the bank. Every fish I caught is burned into my memory to be brought out and replayed again and again. A sizable rash of goosebumps had broken out earlier and still remained. My bucket list wish was fulfilled, but what I remember most about that morning was Frank’s act of kindness in taking a grown kid fishing.

Mike Watts is the publisher of riversandfeathers.com, a freelance writer, and the author of two books: “Riverbank Memories” and a children’s book, “Pond Fishing with Papa,” available on Amazon. His upcoming children’s book, “Fly Fishing with Papa,” will be released soon!