Frigid Steelheading Yields Results

Flanagan and I arose early to fish the coldest day of the year in western Oregon.  The high was supposed to be 34 degrees with a windchill in the single digits.  Asking Dan if he wanted to fish, I warned him about the high but somehow I neglected to mention the windchill.  I didn’t want to scare him off.  After all, it was MLK day and a Monday and it isn’t every Monday that I’m off and the rivers are in shape to fish. In fact, this year the rivers have been out of shape a solid majority of the time and I’m never off on a weekday (okay, maybe a couple times a year, MLK day and the Fourth of July come to mind and also when I’m . .  uh. . sick).   Plus, I needed Dan to run the rods and shuttle back to the Ram.   The windchill wasn’t mentioned.

We reached the ramp on the Alsea early and there was only one other boat in the water.  In the little hamlet of Alsea our hearts had sank as we saw a bunch of trailered up rigs.  We also started to get the sneaking suspicion that they knew something we didn’t as they blew past us on their way toward the lower river.  Oh well, at least we’d have the drift to ourselves. 

The launch looked a little shady, deep mud between the concrete and the river but we launched and after I dug a couple holes with the Ram’s rear tires (in four wheel drive with sandbags in the rear no less) we were ready to fish and Flanagan put out the wigglies and I lowered us slowly down the fishy looking runs. 

The sun was shining, a rarity in these parts during the winter.  Despite the cold, it was shaping up to be the driest day of fishing this winter.  The ridiculous number of layers I was wearing and the sunshine were keeping me nice and toasty.  Our first sign of life came about an hour or so in when the inside rod slammed briefly down and  . . . nothing, a drive-by.  A couple hours later, I was backing down some of the steelheadiest looking water south of the Olympic Penninsula when the right rod slammed down hard.  Fish on.  The beast ran upstream and launched itself out of the water right next to me, the oarsman.  His silver sides and white belly gleamed in the sunlight  and I saw just how huge he was.  Unfortunately, it was not to be.  Somehow, he got under the boat and in one brief and sickening, heart-wrenching moment it was all over.  Snapped leader.  Fish off.

Now, I’m normally pretty tranquil when a fish is lost but this would have been the biggest steelhead I’ve ever been a part of.  I’m not proud to say it but I freaked.  I won’t repeat here what I shouted to the sky, river and mountains at the top of my lungs but it was not a joyful noise.  I picked up my box of plugs and slammed it down in disgust.  The cold weather had made the plastic brittle and shards and plugs flew everywhere.  I tried to regain my composure and Dan stared straight ahead.  Later he admitted that he was wondering at the time whether I was planning on throwing the box of plugs or clubbing him with it.  It turns out neither. . . but he was close.

We continued to work downstream but my attitude and optimism were suffering.  Wondering what the point of it all was anyway, the left rod slammed down again and . . . nothing stuck.  This seemed confirmation of my worst fears . . . we truly are cursed.  3 bites and nothing to show for it but heartache and disapointment. 

Somehow, optimism began to creep back into both of our psyches as the day wore on.  It was approaching the end of the drift and my mind started wandering  to another day long ago when Flanagan and I hooked up and landed a chrome chinook 20 yards of so from the takeout.  I dropped the boat in beneath a salmon spawing survey stream sign and slowly, so slowly, worked down (not an easy feat at this point beacause my arms were about to fall off or give out or something).

The rod tips were pulsing nicely and the plugs were just out from a downed tree (visible poking up to the left in the photo) when the inside rod exploded again and a fish was on solid.  This one came to the boat and to hand.  Here is the proof:

 Me, with the fish.

Dapper Dan, with the same fish.

I tied on some new mono and rerigged.  I rowed upstream and began to work my way back down.  In the same spot, the rod slammed down again and it was going to be my turn for some watersports when  . . . the mainline broke.  The one thing I hadn’t checked and it failed.  Small details make a huge difference. 

Well, we didn’t have any more action that day but all in all it could have been worse.  The final tally : 5 bites; three on solid; one landed.

And yeah, we took pictures of both of us with the fish.  Pulling plugs is a team sport after all.  I was running the boat and guiding the plugs into and keeping them in the holding water.  Dan’s job was to make sure they were running nice, weren’t fouled and he gets to fight the fish.  Team sport, see?