By Jeff Lund
For the Juneau Empire
Sometimes you just sit on a mossy log next to a river and wonder where it went wrong. It’s not about the spoon you forgot, because you’ve done that plenty. In fact, a quick flip through memories of river-side meals and you realize that more often than not, you don’t have a spoon. So, you pinch the container of the freeze-dried beef pasta marinara, tilt and pour it into your mouth heap by heap while getting back to the essential question.
Where did it all go wrong?
[I Went To The Woods: Spring —and steelhead fishing —are finally here]
It’s a heavy question since “all” means “all” but “all” could just be in reference to the “all” of today, which started with the promise. There was no one at the river. The water was a little higher than you’d like, but there had to be steelhead.
So you hiked to your favorite spot, put on a slow sink tip, a medium-heavy fly, waded out to where you were comfortable and started working the water. Since you are alone, you tend to be more conservative and don’t push it. The rocks are slick and the current much swifter than it was two weeks ago. Six more inches of river water adds an incredible amount of volume so you err on the side of caution. You swing through the entire section with all the energy from the morning meal and the endorphin rush of being out there. But nothing pulls, tugs, grabs, hits, smashes or tinks. Must be the weight.
All the extra water will keep flies from reaching the fish even in areas that don’t seem very deep. The current keeps the fly stubbornly suspended. When you started fly fishing, you learned from a guide in California that if you’re not hitting the bottom and maybe even losing flies, you’re not fishing deep enough. And if you’re not fishing deep enough, you’re not really fishing. While this isn’t nymphing for brown trout, the principle applies.
So you take off the sinking line, triple the weight of your fly and attach an indicator which will help you mend the line and suspend the fly. It’s not a method purists like, but you’re here to catch a steelhead, not to fit in.
You go through again. You know you’ve battered the seam where the steelhead hold and worked all the way down to the tailout where the river widens a bit, slows and you’re sure there are steelhead. You have seen no evidence, but you just know. Nothing.
You hike further up river, much higher on the river than you intended, figuring that your work would be rewarded. There is less water here, so you go back to the sink tip, this time a little heavier, but still it just doesn’t seem like you’re finding the pockets of slower water. There is a particular run under a tree that’s the size of three bathtubs end to end. You swung through. You swung through. You swung through. You took off the sink tip, again, and went with a super-heavy fly that’s suspended. You put the clumsy set up right on the money with your new switch rod again and again and again. Nothing.
You fish down to the end of the section and battle a little shaker trout for a few seconds before it comes off. You start walking back down the river feeling like you’ve spent most of the day tying knots, switching tips, leaders and hiking. Now you’re back to where you started and you’re hungry. For food. Food for steelhead. For a spoon.
Though you are often prone to frustration, you find the response is frame of mind.
You sit on the log, pour down your lunch, wipe some sauce from your beard and smile because life is good.
