Winter Steelhead Fishing

The old Ford pickup rolled to a slow stop at the spot not too far from a bend in the river where I planned to fish. I lowered the window to look across a broad stretch of river rock which bordered the waterway. Yesterday, Ed, the owner of the local fly shop, called to say that the word was a new flush of steelhead had entered the mouth of the Alsea River a couple of days before. That was good news since this season the fishing had been slow and the fish few and far between. It was mid-January. I hadn’t been out on the water since late fall.

Overhead the sky was a gunmetal gray. Clouds hung low above the barely discernable horizon. And it was cold. Somewhere in the low thirties. Staring at the river as I sat in my idling truck, there was scant light reflected in the riffles, just a dark, undefined surface that flowed from the curve upstream and flattened out and broadened before turning again into a rough, broken channel. The whole length of the run was about two hundred yards, maybe a little more. Access was meager.

After a few minutes I took a final sip of the coffee from a dented, ancient thermos, killed the engine, got out and walked back to the rear of my pickup. I was thinking how steelhead fishing was a solitary activity. And not just because there are few, if any, other anglers nearby. There was something else. Maybe the winter weather that kept the crowds inside, or the pursuit of a migratory fish where a good day could be only one or two hook-ups, or the lack of any visual hatches. It’s all of that, certainly. But more, I concluded. Steelhead fishing is a lonely experience because we chose to be alone. To isolate our thoughts and reflect, to be with ourselves.

On the tailgate I assembled my seven-weight, tightened the vintage Hardy reel onto the butt and pulled the sink-tip line through the guides. It was a ritual I enjoyed because each action offered recollections of trips taken, rivers fished and memorable fish caught. In years past there had been trips to the fabled waters like the Babine, Sustut and Skeena. Campfires and whiskey shared with the likes of Bob Wickwire, Lani Waller and with a special friend I called ‘Bunkie.’ Good years and good times. Now my days are spent on my home waters in Central Oregon.

Getting suited up as quickly as possible, I stepped into the insulated, boot-foot waders then put on a thick, down parka over a wool sweater, and finally a knit cap pulled down over my ears. I knew I looked like a walking sleeping bag, but all the layers kept me sheathed in warmth on frigid winter days.

If the air was cold, the river felt even colder. With my rod in one hand and wading staff in the other, step by step I entered the slow water near shore carefully feeling for footing bottom among the unevenness of rounded stones. Being in my senior years with a bum knee venturing far out into the current wasn’t the option it used to be. Now, I counted on my wading staff as an essential part of any trip to the river.

It’s a helluva a thing to know you’re no longer the young angler you once were. Then again, I told myself, any time fishing beats sitting on the porch for the day.

At the head of the run there was a flat-topped boulder forty feet off the bank. The eddy in the lee formed a perfect resting place where steelhead could fin there without much effort before pushing on upstream.

I positioned myself below the rock, made a cast into the bubble line formed by the rock, and threw a quick mend upstream which allowed the fly to drift wide of the stone slab. Being something of a traditionalist, tying on a Silver Hilton was always my choice to begin with. The thin water in this spot usually had more clarity, which showed my fly better I believed, and if that pattern didn’t produce, I switched to a Green-butted Skunk. More than once, one of them paid off, if the fish were on the grab. But this wasn’t one of those days.

Moving downstream where the river widened, I waded further out into the current to reach the bubble line. There, I changed flies, choosing a purple wooly bugger, remembering that old fisherman’s adage: Dark days, dark flies. When I added a wider mend to open the swing my first cast was sloppy and went too long, landing with an unwanted splash. I hoped I hadn’t spooked any fish as I retrieved the line. Getting set to try again, I heard that little voice in my ear: Listen, Bub, you’ve gotten rusty. Pay better attention. True, I shrugged, before I lifted the rod tip with a promise to do better. My line trailed downstream. With a smooth upward motion of my rod, my line came off the surface, swung behind me, straightened out with another false cast and landed right on the mark. I smiled. Nothing to it.

Another drift. Another cast. Another drift. Nothing.

Dropping lower in the run I began once more. Cast, cast, cast, step, cast, cast, cast again. On my third try, halfway to the tail out, I got a grab! With a firm strike from my seven-weight the hook dug deeper into the steelhead’s jaw and the powerful fish charged away, straightening line as it bolted out into the main current. The fight was on! Tightening my hands on the cork grip I instinctively knew what was coming even before the steelhead rocketed from the water! These were the moments that made it all worthwhile. Battling such a strong fish, coping with its power multiplied by the river, sensing the tension of the rod when the steelhead turned, then the startling lack of pressure when the fish went airborne. This ‘play’ was a delicate balance between prey and angler. I wound more line onto the reel, every turn an effort that pulled the hooked fish closer.

The steelhead surged into another run, followed by another jump, flanks reflecting a dull silver light . . . and then, the thrashing fish came unbuttoned, gone.

Damn!

For a few moments I gazed at the flowing Alsea River where the battle took place. I paused to absorb the moment. The quick grab. The pull on the line. The rush of power. The leap.

I nodded. I’d had the best of it.

+ + +

Hours have melted away. Earlier, the sun had made a brief appearance through the overcast, highlighting the red willows on the far bank. Now, low on the horizon.it was an orange disc slipping away, transforming the sky from gunmetal to dark lavender. Late afternoon was upon me, lengthening shadows around me. With the dropping temperature and falling light it was time, as Bunkie used to say, ‘to call in the dogs and piss on the fire.’ As I waded ashore I paused to offer an appreciative nod. Yes, I thought, don’t disparage. Take what the river gives you.

Back at the truck I disassembled my rod and put away my reel and stowed them behind the driver’s seat. Then I leaned against the fender to remove my parka and sweater before taking off the wet waders. The cold gathered around me. My breath showed in brief whisps.

After I climbed into the truck and started the engine, the growing heat in the cab’s interior felt like home. I knew the last of my coffee in the thermos would be cold, but in the glove box there was a pint of whiskey I kept there for a season’s day like this one. Unscrewing the cap, I took a sip to warm my body. The feeling was returning to my hands. I took another pull and reminded myself once more that winter steelhead fishing isn’t about catching a lot of fish – there are memories associated with it I hadn’t found anywhere else.

Then I put the bottle back in the glovebox, shifted old Ford into gear, turned around and drove back toward town.