Caught on the Bulkley River, British Columbia
By Jerry Kustich
In the mid 1980s I noticed a photo hanging on the office wall of our local country doctor and avid steelhead angler Bruce Beithon while he treated a fishing related injury to my hand. The fish in the picture was a 40” steelhead taken from Idaho’s Clearwater River. After expressing my enthusiasm for that fish as well as the desire to possibly catch a steelhead on a fly somewhere, Doc drew up a map that led to his favorite fly fishing run on the Upper Salmon River just 125 miles from my small Montana hometown of Twin Bridges.
Along with the Clearwater and Snake Rivers, the Salmon River is a tributary to the vast Columbia River system and the Salmon’s entire 425-mile length flows through Idaho. At one point a section of ideal fly fishing water passes close to the southwest corner of Montana, and it’d be there where I would pursue my quest. Just a little over two hours in my well-traveled pick-up, the journey through the upper Big Hole Valley and down Chief Joseph Pass into Idaho is not only close, but beautiful.
So on a pleasant early October morning in 1985 I made the scenic drive to where the highway met up with the river at the bottom of the pass. Once there, I easily found the run Doc detailed. The clear blue Salmon was stunning as it flowed through a steep canyon of yellowed grass and earthen rocky hillsides contrasted by the autumnal golden glow of cottonwoods all along the river bottom. The run was long, sweeping, and could not have been more perfect for swinging the “green-butt skunk” classic western steelhead fly Doc gifted me.
Slowly and methodically I worked the water, my casts easily covering all the likely holding breaks visible in the stretch. Cast, swing, step. Cast, swing, step. About halfway through the pass, and to my utter awe, I felt a tug and then watched my line peel down river with a steelhead attached. After one jump and then another, the magnificent 31” hen with a blush of pink accenting her otherwise silver flanks finally came to rest at my feet. In less than an hour of fishing I had landed my first ever fly rod steelhead. This was a fish that had ascended ladders up and over six dams while swimming 800 miles from the ocean to get to where our two lives intersected at that precise moment in time. It was pure magic! That fish hooked me, and for almost three decades afterward I became a pilgrim in relentless search of steelhead wherever they swam up and down the West Coast, Idaho, Great Lakes, and even Russia.
Little did I realize then the ongoing perils that the steelhead of the Columbia River and its tributaries were facing to survive as a species. Before the time of white settlers, the Native tribes of the region led a life of plentitude harvesting only the fish they needed for sustenance while expressing gratitude for the natural realm that provided their good fortune. But as settlers gradually made their way to the northwestern territories, the fishery got increasingly exploited for food while spawning habitat was destroyed through farming, logging, development, and the erection of six dams to the point that the tribes were eventually left with little to sustain their life and culture.
Despite efforts to fairly include Native peoples in treaties that would force them onto reservations with ample access to the fishery resource, by the early 1920s the salmon and steelhead stocks were so depleted that restrictive measures were federally mandated to help restore a fishery vitally important to the growing population of the region as well as maintaining the culture of the local Natives. At one point during that time, however, steelhead were recognized, apart from the salmon, as an important sport fish and subsequently were prohibited from being caught and sold by commercial salmon fisherman.
By the second half of the twentieth century Native Americans became restless when their original treaties were not being honored since they were unable to harvest fish in accordance with former agreements. Thus, in the mid 1970s US District Judge George H. Boldt of Tacoma reviewed the treaties and sided with Native American tribes claiming that fishing for them was a natural right while for settlers it was just a privilege. Consequently, a decision by Boldt gave Native Americans the right to harvest 50% of returning fish (including steelhead) after an arbitrary escapement number was met for spawning purposes. And though non-Native commercial interests and sportsmen protested loudly, the righteous decision is still in place despite it being one more factor contributing to dwindling steelhead numbers.
After getting educated about the numerous hurdles facing steelhead survival throughout its entire Pacific range, for me it was imperative to support the efforts of so many dedicated fishery biologists trying to properly manage the stocks from California to British Columbia. Addressing the many pronged threats, there was a period in the 90s and early 2000s when the steelhead population seemed to stabilize thanks to their efforts. But those good times eventually faded.
In the shadow of a troubling past, disturbing trends throughout the Pacific resumed over the past ten years. When returns of steelhead to the massive Columbia River system hit historical low numbers in 2019, the Clearwater River was closed to fishing. Other rivers along the entire coast up into British Columbia reflected the same dismal downward spiral as well. Though it is difficult to assess what additional negative variables may be at work, all those concerned about steelhead keep monitoring the situation. On yet another positive note, the West Coast runs seemed to have rebounded a bit in 2024. In spite of all the impediments deterring its continued struggle to survive, steelhead still hang on — if only out of defiant tenacity.
Although I don’t chase steelhead anymore, I owe this noble fish a debt of gratitude. They once profoundly touched my life, and hooking one always seemed to be a transcendental experience. These days we can only hope that steelhead of the future don’t become ghosts of steelhead past, living on only in the memories of those who once had the good fortune to be at the exact right place at the exact right time to encounter its exhilarating tug.
