by Randal Sumner
10/01/2003
There are anglers that will tell you that catching Steelhead on
a fly is the ultimate trout fishing. They say it’s the fish
of a thousand casts that you have to put your time in on the job,
pay your dues. It is a grim business, like breaking rocks at a Federal
penitentiary. The horror stories are the thing of legend, the time
and money spent, plus the collateral damage incurred at home all
because of a sea going rainbow trout. This is generally not a happy
carefree bunch of characters. At times they seems more like a cult
ready to break out the Kool-Aid.
Over the last twenty years I have caught, landed and released
a pretty fair number of these beautiful fish but I am by no means
a Steelheader. I lack the right psychological profile to stay focused
and grim for long, it’s like holding a grudge, not really
my cup of tea. I don’t have a lot of rules when it comes to
fly fishing for steelies except I’ve never kept one, I’m
not telling anyone else what to do but for me it would be the bad
JU JU. This fall I received a call from my business partner Dave
that he had been steelheading and had hooked ten fish and landed
six, that is as good as it gets, David is the king of the understated
remark.
Linn Kraft and I left early a few days later to meet Dave on the
Not to be named river. The weather was perfect for Steelheading,
cold and wet, the water had come up a little and it felt good to
get into my nasty old wool sweater. The actual fishing for steelhead
is for me a rather dreary bit of work; Dave had us rig up the gear
for nymphing with a big cork bobber and a very heavy fly. The idea
is to bonk a big fish on the nose then hang on when it strikes.
This is just like a regular nymph set up except on steroids with
an 8wt rod and floating line, not for the light hearted. Most of
my other steelhead fishing has been swinging sparsely dressed wet
flies on the surface but like I say I’ll try anything once.
Steelheading with the fly rod was a new experience for Linn; on
the drive to the river he made up every excuse in the book as to
why he would not catch a fish of a thousand casts his first time
out. After a few hours fishing, he was sure he was doing something
wrong, until he got the big strike. I was daydreaming a short distance
away when I heard the commotion and saw the big fish cart wheeling
across the river. I dropped my gear and headed up the river with
the camera, the fish was still airborne. It was one of those moments
of fishing purity, the look on Linn’s face and the beauty
of the fish in the shallows when I tailed it for him. I took a picture
of him with a nine-pound hatchery buck. I also told him it was a
fish he could keep, as Linn carefully released it back into the
current. And that my friends is why we play the game.
