Flylines

When the wristwatch alarm went off I wasn't ready to get up. It felt as if I had just gone to bed. Early mornings are the part of Steelheading I will never get used to. I curled up in the sleeping bag for a moment contemplating what would happen if I just stayed there. That was dangerous territory; I could nod off in an instant whether I meant to or not.

I rolled over and opened my eyes to look up at the stars. The constellations where well around the sky from where they had been when I went to bed. I'd had some rest. I forced myself out of the bag and into the cold morning air.

As soon as I was dressed, I lit the stove under the pre-set coffee pot and woke the others. Our greetings where curt and short. There was no idle chatter. Each of us went about the business of getting ready for the river, loading up our personal gear and struggling into our waders.

By now there was a faint light over the eastern horizon. The coffee was ready. I poured a cup into my plastic mug. We had already determined who would fish which runs, so I wished the others luck and set off down the trail toward my assigned beat.

When I arrived it was still a little too dark to fish. I sat on a convenient grass hummock, drank some coffee, worked on my leader, and changed to a fresh fly. By then it was time to go to work.

I moved in very cautiously. I couldn't see the river bottom in the still-dark, swirling water. I didn't want to pitch over a boulder first thing and spend the day fishing in wet cloths and wet waders.

Once in position I worked out a fixed length of line and began casting. My muscles where stiff and sore from the day before. It took a few casts to start to limber up. Soon I had the old Steelhead rhythm going.

Sometimes Steelheading is like a session of casting practice. I had some things that needed work in my Spey fishing; I spent some time on that. It was going well, I was pleased with the casting.

While I fished, I watched the sun rise on the canyon walls. It started high on the rim. A small rounded hillside in the distance turned from cool blue gray shadow to burning orange. Slowly the sunshine worked it's way down through the intricate hills and valley toward me.

At one point I looked back to see how much ground I had covered. The hummock where I had begun was in the distance.

Once I had a fish boil. I saw him swirl behind my fly, but he never touched the line. I stopped the casting rhythm and worked him hard. I backed up and came through several times. I ran a variety of flies over him. He wouldn't budge so I move on.

By now the sun was almost on the water. I was starting to think it might be a fishless morning. My swing was interrupted. The fish was there almost magically - she came without warning, the way Steelhead do. She jumped several times and ran hard. It took considerably effort to wear her down.

At the end she showed that indomitable Steelhead spirit. She would not give in. I had to bring her around three times to land her. Each time, even though she was exhausted, she found the energy to bring herself upright. One powerful surge of the tail would send her 10 feet out in the river and I had to bring her around again.

Finally I tailed her; I got my hand around her and gripped hard. She was a magnificent creature. Slim, torpedo-like - a solid mass of muscle. I cannot touch a Steelhead without pausing for a moment to reflect on the incredible journey they are on. The migration of Steelhead and salmon is one of nature's most magnificent stories. You can feel the spirit, the will to survive, when you touch the fish.

I removed the hook and set her back in the water. There was no need to revive her. The instant she touched the water, she was ready to go. She shot out of my hands and off into the depths of the river. It's small wonder, after you get a taste for it, that Steelheading is so addictive.