The Northern California Fly Fishing Board

The clock said 6:15 and the alarm was blasting some unknown radio station playing country music of some band I'd never heard of. To most this was a no-tell-motel. To those in the steelhead trade at this time of year, it was home. I needed coffee, and I stumbled next door to a local establishment that serves up a mean bear claw and French Roast. A little sugar and caffeine to get the blood flowing. I shouldn't have needed it. It was December and steelhead season in this town. But the cold after fishing last night coupled with the two scotches seeking warmth and a glass of wine with dinner had me a little fuzzy this morning. Slowly I got dressed while I savored the coffee. First a layer of Cabela's Artic Wear, then a turtleneck, followed by a heavy shirt, and a fleece jacket and finally topped off with a Sims raincoat. It was 20 degrees out, foggy and two days beyond a heavy rain. The river was high yesterday, but coming down. Today it should be perfect and with no one touching the fish the past several days, they should be teased into playing.

I started the engine on the Explorer while I “wadered up”. By the time I had finished donning this costume, the frost was just beginning to break on the window enough for a fool to drive. But I could not delay any longer, as my run awaited and I’ll be damned if I was going to let someone beat me to it. It was 7 miles to the turn off, and I didn’t see a car on this short drive. Who else in their right mind would be up in 20 degree weather this morning? Probably another steelhead fisherman who was nuts like me. I turned at the intersection and drove up a short hill. Alas, my spot appeared vacant. Quickly I parked, grabbed my rod, the camera and a small flask just in case. Dawn was fading into morning as I walked down a long hill. A good friend had introduced me to this spot a couple of years before and I had come here a few times since, always with a purpose, and sometimes successful. It was a 15 minute walk to this run and my head cleared fully in the early morning cold. There were steelhead to be caught, and I was first onto this run and was determined to be the one to catch them.

The path into the run was bordered by blackberry bushes, and it was almost like performing surgery to take a fully rigged rod through this tangle. I made it through OK, and emerged to the quiet of the morning and the river.

The path into the run was bordered by blackberry bushes, and it was almost like performing surgery to take a fully rigged rod through this tangle.

I was supposed to meet a fly fishing prodigy, a nice young man and helluva caster who had become a steelhead addict as he grew through his mid-teens. His dad, being the protective good dad he was, kept Dusty from joining me until the frosty roads cleared over the pass this morning. I would have this run to myself until 10:00, 2 ½ hours hence.

I finished rigging my fly and applied floatant to the indicator and checked my knots twice before stepping forth into the river. Something told me this was going to be a special magical steelhead day. The kind of day one would remember for years to come. I pulled my camera out of its plastic sheath, turned it on and set it carefully in position where it could be ready for action on the gravel bar just a step or two away from the river. I waded forth to the top of the run and began stripping line off the reel and began a rhythmic casting, mend, mend, feed line, feed line, swing, step down and do it again rhythm. I expected a fish on the first cast, as this was supposed to be a magical steelhead day. But none came, and I stepped down again and again and cast and repeated the process. Soon I had traversed the whole run. On the rocks in the corner of this run I had lost two rigs, retied, stepped out of the river a couple of times to warm up, and had not touched a fish. About every third cast I had to dip my rod in the river to thaw the guides. And by the time I had stepped down river three more steps, the guides had iced up one more time.

It was quiet here, and I began a second pass on the run. The temperature had warmed up in the new day beginning to at least 22 degrees by now, and I was confident the newfound warmth would trigger the fish to strike. Cast, mend, mend, feed line, feed line. And right about the time I reached the sweet spot on the run, sure enough the indicator dipped under and I gently lifted the rod to a couple of head throbs and fish on! I had a number of loops of line trailing in the water, and the fish quickly took that through partially frozen guides so that I could “get him on the reel”. I was always told that once on the reel, you could better manage the drag, and the tempo of the fight. However, the person that told me this didn’t expect a 22 degree morning, ice on the guides, line and reel. The line tightened up on the reel and at the point where the drag should have kicked in, nothing, no screaming drag, just a limp fly line out the tip of the rod. I looked down and tried to strip line off the reel and it was frozen solid. Steelhead -1, Fisherman – 0.

I waded back to the bank and began to tie on a new rig. Then I broke down my reel and got out a car key and worked for a few minutes to chip away the ice around the spool that had impeded the line from free spooling during the steelhead’s run, and which had led to its parting ways. Finally satisfied that it was in good working order, I waded back to the spot where I had previously been interrupted by the steelhead explosion in the quiet morning. Cast, mend, mend, feed line, feed line. Step down, do it again. The river was cold. Last night when I check the internet, the river flow temperature was 41 degrees. What was I doing standing here in the freezing morning in very cold water with no gloves on casting endlessly at a far bank for? My next cast answered that question. It began quite routinely with a step down, cast, mend, mend, feed line. But the indicator stopped, and my reaction this time felt fish, and the reel did its job, now unencumbered by ice. A screaming run through the middle of the pool, and twice this fish leapt out of the water showing its metal. I collected some line, and then gave it back. This was a strong fish, and something told it was unique by this strength. Soon, however, it tired, and slowly I gained line, and I could see the fish. It was brightly colored, and had been in the river for awhile. Gradually I got the upper hand and gently slid a net under the fish and he was mine.

My camera was a few steps away, so I brought this magnificent fish to shallow water, removed the barbless hook, and laid him across the net in shallow water where he would lay quietly while I recorded the moment. It

An Adipose fin; this fish was wild!