Confessions of an obsessed steelhead fly fisherman
Confessions of an obsessed steelhead fly fisherman
Roger Phillips
I consider myself a fairly rational guy, until it comes to steelhead fishing. Then anything that resembles common sense goes downstream quicker than a leaf in a Class V rapid.
I love fishing for steelhead with a fly rod, but there's really no real logic to it. I don't catch that many, and when I do, they're typically not that big. They're slightly larger than the biggest trout I could (theoretically) catch on the South Fork of the Boise River or the Owyhee River.
I spend more money and hours steelhead fishing for a smaller tangible return than any of my other hook and bullet activities.
If I measured it strictly by hours, I could probably kill a deer quicker than I could catch a steelhead on a fly.
This year alone, I traveled to three states to fish for steelhead, fished for several days each time, and probably got skunked as often as not.
But there's something magical, mystical and soul stirring about hooking a steelhead.
I grew up in prime steelhead country on the Oregon Coast. I fished a fair amount of time during epic rainstorms and wearing hip boots, Levi's and cotton long johns, soaked and shivering, while casting gobs of eggs to finicky winter fish.
I caught more tonsillitis than steelhead and eventually gave up trying.
Ironically, it was Idaho - the outer fringe of steelhead country - that ignited my passion for fishing for them.
Years ago, I was standing on a rock on the Little Salmon River casting an ugly, hand-tied creation that looked more like a jig than a fly when I spotted a steelhead swimming into holding water.
Several frantic casts later, I hooked it, and after a battle that sent me running down the bank of a river where there is no room to run, I landed my first steelhead on a fly rod.
I was excited; I mean bugling a bull elk excited, stalking a big four-point excited, or dropping a pair of Canada geese in the decoys excited.
It was a moment when all those years of youthful frustration were suddenly lifted, and I was filled with a high I still haven't fully come down from.
Never mind that it was a hatchery steelhead on a homely stretch of river next to a highway on a soggy spring day when the fish's days were numbered.
I was proud, and remain so to this day. I had finally caught what is arguably one of the hardest fish to land on a fly.
I also unknowingly joined a cult of steelhead fly anglers, which is a twisted group that will stand in a river and cast a sharp hook into blowing rain or snow. We will peek out from under a thick fleece hat and a Gore-Tex hood, squint into the wind and say "Is that all you got?"
We tie flies that are replicas of artwork and lose them by the handful to snags, even though a few wraps of chenille and a plume of marabou could accomplish the same thing.
We speak foreign-sounding words like Stillaguamish, Skykomish, Umpqua and Kispiox, and daydream about Canada the way most people daydream about Hawaii or the Bahamas.
We watch the Internet for fish counts, river temperatures and listen for rumors and tips about a hot steelhead bite, even though we know good timing and outhouse luck is better than any insider knowledge.
So this weekend, instead of sleeping in, I will be on the Boise River at daybreak trying to entice a steelhead with a fly.
The river is not exactly textbook steelhead water. It's small and brushy, and the fish arrive by truck instead of swimming upstream. But they're still steelhead with all their glorious quirks, like eating shrimp when they're hundreds of miles from the ocean and can't digest them anyway.
You won't find me elbow-to-elbow with other anglers. I will hike until I find a likely looking spot for a steelhead to hang out. I will cast dozens, if not hundreds of times and at some point both my hands and feet will probably go numb from the cold.
I will probably lose a bunch of flies to submerged logs and sticks, and hook a lot of leaves drifting downstream. If past experience is any guide, I am more likely to catch suckers than steelhead.
If I were a rational guy, I would stay home and clean up my hunting gear and catch a college football game on the tube. But the thought of missing out on hooking a steelhead would haunt me like a belated Halloween nightmare.
I know they're in the river, and the only way I know how to get them is get out and fish hard and hope for the best.
Because when it comes to steelhead fishing, hope trumps reason every time.
