It's That Time of Year Again...

There is a lot to be said about people who fish for steelhead. Most fishermen would say that steelheaders are a dedicated, skilled group of anglers who laugh in the face of adversity for the chance of hooking up with just one fish. Anyone else would call us flat out crazy, or even dumb.

There is no time when that stupidity is more apparent than when you are looking at slush flows while chipping ice off of your line, rod, reel and even flies. All this while your toes are past the painful point of being frozen and any exposed skin is begging you to reconsider how you have decided to spend your Saturday morning.


With the quick onset of winter, these thoughts ran through my head on numerous occasions this week. The problem is that one thing continued to override any speck of reason that may still be left in my frostbitten brain...steelhead...and lots of them.
Nearly a half inch of rain, followed by heavy lake effect snows brought many streams and fish the water that they had been begging for all fall. Stream levels have finally reached their normal winter flows and the fish are responding by moving quickly upstream in big numbers. While water temps have nose dived to near freezing over the last week, plenty of fresh and old fish are still working their way in.

It was with this in mind that Meg, Luke and I headed north for Meg's first trip of the season. The plan definitely panned out, with numerous hookups providing a welcome distraction from numb toes and stinging fingers. It's always fun to watch someone work the cobwebs out when it comes to fighting big fish and Meg provided some early morning entertainment while being spanked on by numerous fish.
While there was a bit of rust to knock off, she was quickly grabbing fish out of the net with an enthusiasm most of us only save for days when it's above freezing...

Not one's for being shown up, Luke and I did our best to keep up with Meghan's quickly building tally...

Fishing was nothing short of stellar, but the day was marred a bit by 30 seconds of total chaos that involved all three of us and a fish that looked to be pretty significant attached to Meg's line. While she played the loss off much better than me (I wanted to cry and throw up all at the same time), she later admitted that just holding that fish would have been really nice. I think she might have a bit of the bug...

After restocking the fly boxes and thawing my feet, I anxiously watched the weather to see what the following days would bring. Heavy lake effect storms and bitter cold continued to make things not look very promising, but Sunday provided a bit of hope with a forecasted high of 40 degrees and sunshine projected for most of the day.

Forgetting what a pain slush can be, Josh, Dad and I jumped in the truck for an early morning crack at some water that we've been neglecting a bit lately. Unfortunately, the stream had other plans for us. Overnight lows in the teens and morning temps that weren't far behind had me questioning my sanity and reaching for the Ice-Off paste a bit too many times for mid-November...

We fought slush for 2 hours, waiting for it to burn off. It was becoming quickly apparent that it was going to take a good bit of warming to even put a dent in the Slurpee-like conditions we had encounter and decided to head elsewhere after making a phone call to a friend who reported good conditions to the east.

We made the jump and were quickly into fish upon getting into the water. Dad had quickly headed downstream, while Josh and I worked through some water closer to the car. Imagine our surprise when we rounded the corner to find "the big buck" latched into this thing...

Where can the day go after putting 13lbs of fresh fish into the net? To be honest, we didn't care. This fish had surely made the day, if not most of the season worthwhile. But it wasn't over yet. Numerous fish were brought to hand on various eggs and nymphs, but the real fun started when the fish took a liking to swung streamers.

So, while our fingers and toes are numb from the cold, our fly boxes are ravaged and our gear is in total disarray again, the memories of days like these will surely keep us going for what is starting to look like a very long winter...

The Tug is the Drug...

It's 3:43 am and you are up. Wide awake, staring at an alarm clock that is set to go off in 2 minutes and wondering, "What the hell is the matter with me?" Nevermind. There's no time for self-reflection.

Into the already packed car with coffee in hand, you hit the road and arrive at the parking lot before the sun is even thinking about rising. That's right, you just drove 180 miles and got to the water early enough to require a headlamp to find the trail. You smile to yourself and joke to your buddy about just how ridiculous that little fact is before your thought from earlier in the morning pops into your head again. "What the hell is the matter with me?" Nevermind. You'll have a long, dark ride home to discuss your mental deficiencies with exactly the wrong person; the guy who is just as sick as you are.

First car in the lot, last car to leave. Skip lunch because you were in such a rush to get to the water that you didn't have time to smear peanut butter and jelly on a piece of bread. It's the same routine, no matter where you go. Steelhead season is long, but the good part is really quite short. Who wants to waste time with trivial tasks such as eating and sleeping?

Stepping into the run, you notice a few headlamps bobbing up the bank. "Poor suckers." "They probably think they are going to get this run." A quick blink of your own headlamp and the approaching lights suddenly about face and head a different direction. You imagine the words being thrown around by the headlamp wearers downstream and chuckle to yourself. Pulling line off the reel, you scan the water for rolling fish and begin the familiar ritual of cast, mend, swing and step that you have done a thousand times before.

It's still somewhat dark when you have the first tug. "I hate short strikes." You think to yourself, but experience has taught you to leave the fly in the water and on "the dangle." Just as you begin to step downstream, you feel the fly fishing equivalent of being hit by a speeding train. In a flash, your line has come tight and two feet of chrome-covered muscle is trying it's hardest to get back to the lake. Line is ripping off, water is splashing and you are giggling like a 6 year old who ate a hundred chocolate bars. Suddenly it all makes sense. This is exactly what you came for; to have the living shit scared out of you by a fish before most people are even reaching for the snooze button.

For me, this is what it's all about. If you haven't gone out and gotten your arm yanked yet, now is the time. Great reports came in from everywhere this weekend, the leaves should be flushing out with the next rain and crowds will decrease as the temperature does. Go out and get some. We are...