Where were we…
With summer classes out of the way I looked for employment to put some money in the bank. My friend offered me a good paying construction gig for two months before the fall semester, I accepted, but sorely needed some river time. I scheduled in a few free days before starting work, loaded the truck and pointed it north towards hallowed ground. A place one must go if one chooses to pursue sea run rainbows on a swung fly.
I’ve fished for trout since I could walk, some of the streams I grew up on even had summer runs that as kids we thought were just big residents, not knowing the difference. These fish occasionally hit the two-foot mark and were my first exposure to steelhead. As I got older and with the help of my first pair of neo’s I began fishing year-round. Soon enough discovering the bigger winter fish and reading about all the famous summer steelhead rivers. It didn’t take long before I was seeking out steelhead rivers every month of the year.
The beginning of the season, a long spring, bleak early reports, none of it bothered me. This trip was about putting my feet on the ground and experiencing it for myself. It was about the adventure of learning every bend of a new river, every pool, every swing, every rock to stand on, gaining a little knowledge with each cast and each day that will eventually lead to success...
maybe.
Early morning, up well before dawn.
Coffee, calories, sip of whiskey.
Waders on, hit the road.
Pullout, another pullout, find the trail, down the embankment, up the embankment.
Scramble to that ledge over there with the cleat marks, try not to fall…ok, try to keep as much water out of the waders, that’s going to hurt tomorrow. Cast, lengthen it out, cast, few more, scramble back, navigate downstream.
Swap out skater that’s been chewed up by dinks. Under the tree, mind the rock in the back cast, blown anchor… swap out skater snapped at the bend.
Break for lunch, beer, powernap, quick swim to wake your ass up.
More coffee, calories, sip of whiskey.
Waders on, hit the road.
Pullout, another pullout, find the trail, down the embankment, up the embankment.
Slow it down, too much speed through the sweep, find it, there it is.
There it went, trying to muscle it to reach the far bank.
Slow it down, found it again, mend, it's fishing.
Turn, boil, pull, gone. She felt the point, won’t come back.
Scramble back, feel the cleat slip, try to keep as much water out of the waders, another bruise.
Another pullout, find the trail, down the embankment.
Too dark to see the fly, light enough to see the trail, couple more casts.
Soak it all in.
Make a fire, calories, open end of the day beer that doesn’t get finished before falling asleep in the foldy chair.
Crawl into the bag.
Repeat.
Love every minute of it.
Lick wounds and plan your return.
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- By LA Fly Guy
- By stillsteamin
- By HPFF