The Long Fight

I started caring about steelhead the winter after my first season in Alaska. I liked trout fishing, I had done okay at it, but the guys who worked up there were obsessed with a different kind of fish and a different kind of fishing.

At the very beginning of my time with Alex, we’d leave the lodge after dinner and he’d take me up the river to practice spey casting and swinging. I loved it. And after catching some really sweet trout on the swing, I started to understand what these guys were talking about. That Christmas I asked for a spey rod, frantically sending my parents the specs (length and weight) of the rod I wanted. They’re saints for helping me get started, even though they had no clue what I was talking about. I got a rad little LTS rod off eBay that year for Christmas. It was all I needed.

The first steelhead I ever caught was an accident—three winters ago. I’d driven to Dodge Park with what I thought was all my gear. I got to the parking lot at sunrise, had the place to myself, set up my rod… and realized I’d forgotten my waders. I was just there to practice casting. I didn’t know the right knots and didn’t know what kind of fly to use. I had no idea what I was doing. And I didn’t have my waders.

Disgruntled, but too deep in to quit, I looked around. Seeing nobody, I shimmied out of my pants and waded in. I told myself I’d do ten casts and go home. I had a black and white streamer I’d nabbed from the lodge in Alaska clinched on. I stepped out knee-deep, shivering from the freezing water.

My first cast was terrible. So were the second and third. The fourth went out straight and started its patrol downriver. My reel screamed—line shooting out so fast I couldn’t react. I was watching my friend’s dog at the time; she ran out to see what the commotion was and took me out at the knees. I went down hard into the river. Sitting in the water, I reeled like hell until I got the fish to me. I didn’t know how to hold it or what to do. I grabbed the leader, and the fish squirmed off. Elated and freezing, I went home.

That fish kicked off my research phase. I was ashamed of how unprepared I had been the winter before, accidentally catching a fish in my underwear. I watched every YouTube video I could find, read all the books, observed what others on the river were doing, and practiced my knots. Alex lived in Arizona then, coaching me from afar. I didn’t see much action that winter—just a few weak grabs—but I was improving.

Last winter, when Alex finally moved out here, we got to work hunting for winter fish. We fished the Sandy every weekend and broke away to the Olympic Peninsula for a week. We tried the coastal rivers and the local ones. By then, I’d figured out my cast and my swing. I started hooking fish more and more, then I started hooking them a lot.

My goal has always been to hold a steelhead, even just for a second. I hooked eight last winter. Every single one popped off before I could touch it. I started to starve for steelhead. They were interacting with me—eating my flies, fighting me, and evading me. Each loss was devastating. And then winter ended. I hadn’t met my goal.

Last weekend, I had another chance. Our friend Isaac was headed out to the Deschutes and needed a buddy to fish with. I eagerly went along. We camped at Mack’s Canyon the first night, woke up at 3:30, and were on the water by 4:00. It was pitch black and glowing eyes in the bushes watched us float past. We could see steelhead kick away from our boat in the headlamp beams.

Josh had clued us into a sweet spot a ways downstream. We took off early, hoping to get there by first light. About a quarter mile away from the pin we had been dropped, a jet boat ripped past and cut their engine around the bend. They’d snaked the spot. Isaac and I were dismayed—we’d skipped good water to get to good water. What were we thinking?!

Kicking ourselves, we floated a little farther and dropped anchor. Isaac walked upriver, and I went down. He made five casts before his reel got ripped into its backing. The acrobatic fish flipped and flopped through the air, tossing the hook.

Fifteen minutes later, my reel did the same. Usually when I hook a fish, I kind of black out from excitement and panic. But this time felt different. I could feel what the fish was doing and I could feel how to counter it. Slowly and steadily, I brought the beautiful hen to me. She was gorgeous—longer than my arm, covered in battle scars. Isaac and I figured she must have seen the ocean several times. This was the first steelhead I had ever touched with my hands. As soon as she kicked away from me, I just sat in the river and cried. It had finally happened.

We hooked and lost four more fish that afternoon. The sun sat behind dark, stormy clouds. The water felt cold; the air was warm, but not too hot. We were passed by at least seven jet boats. That evening, after setting up camp, Isaac got a fishy feeling and waded out again. Almost immediately he had a fish on. He tailed it and held up this lovely, dime-bright hen—super fresh.

The next day, we set off again. It was scorching. We fished dry lines in the early morning and late afternoon, switching to Skagit tips during the heat. Isaac got a few taps on his traditional flies. I don’t think I was fishing mine right. As soon as I switched to tips, I started getting results.

Around noon, I hooked a fat, heavy buck. We netted him and admired his shockingly vibrant scales. This fish looked ready to swim to Idaho. Thank god for that fish, because we didn’t see much action the rest of the day.

We made it to Heritage boat ramp, grabbed a burrito, and headed back to town. I slept so well that night, finally having held a fish after three years of trying.