Ugh. An early start. I hate early starts. When the alarm went off in the cold darkness, I immediately had a bad feeling, but I quickly realized that I wasn't waking for work. Today was a fishing day. Realizing my day's adventure, my attitude changed from one of disgust to one of hope. I made my routine route through the house...start the coffee...put wood in the stove...brush teeth...get dressed. My cold weather garments were pulled from the closet. I don't even want to know how cold it was outside. 20 degrees? 25 degrees? It could have been minus 20 for all I know.
After a protein shake I poured a stiff cup of coffee that would accompany me while getting my gear ready. Waders, boots, rod, pack, jacket, cooler. Ice? Nah, it was cold enough. No need to venture into the garage and grab ice jugs. Everything was ready from prepping the night before.
I started the truck and went back inside for more java, the sound of the flowmasters rumbling the house as I procured another mug of pick-me-up. After one last check of my fishing dojo, I headed outside to my pickup, where the windows were just getting defrosted enough to see.
As I pulled away, the sound of my driveway gravel told me how cold it was. The gravel has a normal sound, but when frost heave sets in, there's a special sound to the 1/2" rock sticking to Goodyear Duratracs. Once on pavement, the flowmasters hummed, and withing a few seconds, the sticky, icy gravel had freed itself from the tread.
Normally, I would limit my carbs in the morning, but I allow myself to splurge on a fishing day. A stop at Burger King for a pair of breakfast burritos was in order. I would burn the extra carbs on my upcoming river quest.
Breakfast was consumed on the highway while I thought about the day's adventure. How many people would be on the river? Would the river match my expectations based on the USGS graph? Which old friends might I run into? Did that bit of egg go down my shirt? The Goodyears hummed along as I questioned my sanity. It was cold. It was dark. What sane person would be driving to the river now in these conditions?
When I reached my destination, I was not surprised to see several vehicles already parked. Cars, trucks, SUVs, vans, many with fishing stickers. Loomis, Lamiglas, shimano, calvin peeing on stuff, fetha styx, etc. were all represented.
I stepped out and stretched my lats, still sore from the previous evening's workout.
Steelhead spark a passion in outdoorsmen. We get up early and venture out into frigid temperatures for a chance at tangling with one of these chrome bullets of the Pacific. Each of us, filled with hope and positivity for the day, hoping today will be even better than the previous day on the water.
After getting my waders on and donning my gear, I began my treck to the water. My mind was mulling over the day's options. What water should I target? What presentation should I use? Should I just go with my usual gear? It would all depend on where other anglers were fishing and what familiar pools I ended up fishing.
Once at the water, I saw several familiar faces. I may not have known them by name, but I recognized them. They were part of the brotherhood. I'd seen many of the faces before, and they had seen me. They'd seen me work the water thoroughly, seen me dance my float, and seen my pull chrome fish from the same run time and time again. And I had seen some of them do the same.
Knowing each individual piece of holding water is invaluable. A cast 2 or 3 feet off cold be worthless, while a strike down the pipe could produce results. My hand-tied chenille and marabou jig could dance down the river as pretty as can be, yet not get a tug if the drift was off. But if it was directed down the right seam, it could result in an epic tussle. One cast. Two casts. Three casts. Maybe a dozen casts, I'm not sure. But eventually it hit the sweet spot and enticed a fish to play. The fight was on. The fish pulled, then I pulled. The fish took line, then I took line back. The Lamiglas bent, and the shimano let line out or pulled it in as I instructed. During the epic battle, I thought about the journey each of us had taken to get here. The fish had flushed out of the river years before. I had woken early and traveled several miles on icy roads to be here. It's almost like we were meant to tangle with one another. After an epic battle, I pulled the buck into the shallows and met my adversary eye to eye. We both gasped. This fish had been in the river for some time and possibly survived months of angling pressure. It was a summer run buck showing his maturity. I pulled the hook loose from his jaw and let him retreat back to the deep. It's times like this that I feel a connection with steelhead. He had looked me in the eye while I had done the same. After our epic battle I decided to let him continue on his journey.
Another dozen or so casts followed with no results and I hiked on to another destination.
My next destination had me alone, working water that I knew intimately. My float had probed it many times before. Some of those times, my float made a dive below the surface, and sometimes it did not. Today would be one of the times it did. After working down the top of the pool I changed over to another hand-tied jig. But this time it was made of beads and marabou. The hues of red beads and purple feathers danced down the river until something grabbed it with attitude. The float went down and the line went tight. As some might say, it was on. I felt each head shake and each run down the current. Once my 8lb leader had been stretched to the max, I pulled the silver bullet near the shore and discovered that my adversary was a late, but very lively coho. After another quick eye-to-eye encounter, this fish was also released to go on its way. After the quick splash of release I was jolted back into the moment and had to realize my surroundings. I had the cold, flowing river at my front, the woods to my back, the gray, unforgiving river bar to my right, and the cascades to my left. This was where I feel at home.
Working the rest of the run produced no more strikes. My float danced in the current as always and found no players.
With other duties to tend to, I made my way back to the truck. With each glimpse of the river, I was dissecting each pocket and each run. Every boulder could hold a fish. The priorities of life kept me from exploring them, but I would be back.
Once back at the truck, I gazed at my rod while putting it away. How many fish had bent it? It's impossible to say. As much as I wanted to continue my day of angling, I stripped off my waders, my boots, and got into the cab and fired her up. The hum of the Goodyears on the way home didn't have the same hum on the way home.

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