By Mike Watts
Nature’s fall colors lit up the drive along the county roads in northeast Pennsylvania near Lake Erie. The vibrant fall leaves on the trees were a welcome sight, with their colorful display marking the changing seasons and a time to chase steelhead. Driving these rural backroads gave me a sense of belonging. I needed to be here.
Fall on the Elk River.
Time had granted two good friends another chance to wade the rivers and tributaries of Lake Erie and cast flies at eager fish. For a week, Jack Barr and I would try to sore mouth a few willing steelheads. The daily routine included wade fishing all day until nearly dusk, then heading back to the cabin, cleaning up, going out to dinner, returning to the cabin, tying a few flies, enjoying a medicinal libation, crashing, turning out the lights, and repeating the cycle the next day. It was nothing more than a relaxing week for two die-hard fly fishermen. Jack was a local who had been exploring these rivers and creeks for almost thirty years.
Jack Barr holding a nice steelhead.
On the first morning, we walked down to the river and I stood there in reverence. Looking upstream felt surreal. The leaves shimmered with various shades of red and orange, with their reflections nearly covering the entire river. For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. The fall colors in my North Georgia mountains never seemed to peak this year, and here I was, standing in a river surrounded by this vivid masterpiece. How lucky I felt. But we both could faintly hear fish calling our names, so we began wading across this canvas in search of a hungry steelhead.
Part of the excitement of any fishing trip is the anticipation of catching a monster fish. While this may sound wishful, it’s true. With social media and websites available, it’s easy to research almost any area before you arrive and start dreaming. The thought of hooking a fish that pulls back harder than I do when setting the hook is like a never-ending story. This fishing trip with my buddy would be no different. Standing on a small ridge, looking down the river, brought goosebumps. It was time to make dreams come true.
Mike with a steelhead.
The water was crystal clear. Surely, we would find fish and be able to sneak around to cast without spooking them. As we waded upstream, flashbacks of fighting fish here two years ago made me feel like I was home. Thinking back, I had caught a fish here, lost another by angler error in that pool, and then landed one underneath that leaning sycamore tree.
Jack and I started walking upriver, carefully studying the water. The fish were scarce. Apparently, they hadn’t entered the river in large numbers like in previous years. A new adventure began, and the hunt for fish was underway.
Optimistic we would eventually find some fish willing to take a fly, we began hiking the riverbank, constantly moving to new areas and scanning the water. I needed that first fish hookup to get the cobwebs off and boost my confidence. This week would be challenging, and I was lucky that Jack knew this area and every turn of the river.
Finally, I noticed a fish move from beneath a ledge and swim toward the fast-moving riffle on the far side. The shale river bottom created many nooks and crannies for the fish to hide in, and these areas would hang up a fly with its jagged edges. Getting the drift right was of utmost importance. As a precaution, retying the fly and checking the knots were a priority. Then it was finally time to make that first cast.
Evening on the Elk River
Focusing on making the fly drift naturally and drag-free in the current, I cast toward the top of the run. It took about five more casts, and then it happened. Looking down, Poseidon must have pitied me, as I strip-set the hook on my first fish of the trip. After fighting this fish, netting and releasing it, I found a rock and sat down, shaking with excitement as I tried to retie the fly on. That’s why I fly fish. What an adrenaline rush. Never satisfied, after a few deep cleansing breaths, it was time to continue the hunt.
Over the next several days, Jack and I hiked many miles searching for fish, always catching a few to keep the day lively and help us appreciate the ones we didn’t catch. The best part about fishing with good friends is that we both got excited whenever either one of us hooked a fish. Fist pumps and high fives were always in order.
On Wednesday, Jack wanted to explore a new area. We parked and walked down to the river, only to see several people gathered around a particular hole, so we started moving downstream. The shale bottom was almost like walking on a wet sidewalk—slippery in spots but flat. With the water level low, it was fairly easy to spot where the fish were. Several miles downstream, we finally found several steelhead tucked around a logjam on the far side of the river.
Sunset over Lake Erie
This was a fishy-looking area with deep cuts and plenty of cover, the perfect place for fish to hide. Jack fished the upper section and it wasn’t long before he hooked and landed a fish, making the day look promising. I walked down to the lower end of this brush pile and then I saw him.
When his tail gently swayed in the soft current, it was easy to notice a fish tucked next to a deep shale ledge. This steelhead was to be mine. After changing flies at least twenty times, adding split shot, and lengthening the leader, I began to doubt whether this fish even had a mouth. After an hour and a half of casting and fishing for this one particular fish, I was starting to think about giving up and moving on to find a more willing quarry.
Once those thoughts enter, I tell myself, “This is my last cast,” even though I know it won’t be. Fish can play tricks on an angler’s mind. This process helps to refocus and stay determined. About to really give up, I made my very last cast, and then it happened. The line barely jerked, but I strip-set the hook anyway—finally, success. The fish fought hard and started swimming toward me like a dog on a leash, causing too much slack in the fly line while I was trying to beach it. Needless to say, it got away, but it really didn’t matter. Just because it wasn’t landed, the time spent hammering that one fish with multiple flies wasn’t wasted. Success is measured in many ways.
Looking up afterward, Jack was struggling with another fish, and it was winning. Wading upstream quickly and lending a hand by grabbing the net, it was soon landed. The logjam had been good to both of us. Months had been spent tying specific flies for this trip, and for the most part, they had worked. No matter how many flies I tied, there’s always that one special fly I didn’t have that works better than all those I tied up. Out of pity, Jack offered one of his secret flies for me to use.
The water was somewhat deep behind the logjam but looked inviting. It was time to test this new secret fly. A heavy foam line was coming from the back log, and the water formed a deep, dark green eddy. Even though I couldn’t see the bottom or any fish, it looked like a good spot to hold one. Casting blindly, the heavy fly drifted to the bottom, and the fly line immediately stopped. Setting the hook hard, hoping it would free the fly from any obstruction, the snag moved. Suddenly, from the depths, an extra-large steelhead emerged, determined to break free from any resistance. When the hook was set, this finned behemoth became airborne. Trying to focus on the fish, not its size, was difficult.
Wading back across the deep run with the water reaching the top of my waders and hoping not to drown, the rod remained held high. The fish reluctantly pulled away from the logjam and shot upriver. The fly reel was singing a sweet melody as I finally crossed to the other side.
Jack saw the fish jump again and immediately ran downstream with the net. We were both determined to land this fish. What was only eight or nine minutes of intense battle felt like an eternity before it was finally landed. While moving the fish farther from the bank in the net to snap a few pictures, it flopped out. Without hesitation, I pounced on the loose fish like a football player recovering a fumble. Even though I was covered in fish slime, but I had my prize.
I couldn’t help but admire this river monster I had just caught with a small 4X tippet and a size 12 fly. Jack commented that the fish was at least thirty inches long and had a twelve-inch girth. Who was I to argue with my steelhead expert? The long, silvery, gray body with light red hues on each side and dark red cheeks sent shivers down my spine as I strained to hold this heavyweight steelhead for photographs.
Jack was laughing so hard he could barely hold still to snap a picture. Finally, a few photos were taken, and it was time to release the fish. Holding it headfirst into the current, I could feel it regaining its strength. With a mighty tail stroke, it pushed itself from my hands and slowly swam back into the river depths. With my raincoat now reeking of fish, I exhaled and felt relieved as I truly became one with the fish.
For a week, Jack and I chased steelhead, upstream, downstream, and basically anywhere we could find a tributary where they could swim up from Lake Erie. The laughs, camaraderie, and the challenges we had finding fish made each one caught a victory. Despite all the fish we managed to catch and release, there will always be a couple that bring the warmest thoughts. But it’s the hospitality and the friendship of a week of fly fishing together that will always hold the best memories.
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 book, “Fly Fishing with Papa,” will be released soon!
Jack Barr can be reached through his website: https://rtbguideservice.com/
