The end of the guide season calls for exploring new waters and finding fresh adventure after a long year on the same rivers and lakes, day in and day out. The unseasonably mild autumn weather left Tonn, my fellow guide and friend, and me plenty of fishing options. But in particular, we wanted to target late fall summer steelhead. After a few phone calls we settled on heading south where the weather looked promising and a healthy steelhead run was in full swing.
I put my truck into four-wheel drive after I felt my back end slip out going around a corner on the way to meet Tonn. We picked a stellar day to road trip, a day that called for a half foot of snow on some of the worst serviced roads in Oregon but our slight apprehension of driving in inclement weather was outshadowed by the thought of bright steelhead awaiting us a mere three hours away.
Our steelhead home water, the Deschutes, was also in full swing as well but the catch rates were not convincing, plus we had both put in a fair share of guiding days on the Deschutes over the summer and fall. A change was needed to reignite the excitement of fly fishing, which for many means taking a short trip to new places. Needless to say, the trip did not disappoint. Steelhead fishing blends the skills of tempering expectations and unshirking confidence that work together to give every chance possible for a steelhead to take your fly but not fall into despair when those fish do not materialize.
Any steelhead angler knows that these fish take work and an extreme amount of patience is required to target these fish day in and day out. An angler cannot let fishless days or weeks affect their dedication, instead, it must invigorate them to believe that the next day on the water will be the breakthrough. There is rarely good news about steelhead fisheries, most wild populations are dropping and occasionally small breakthroughs, like dam removals, will break through the gloom of steelhead news.
The reality is that good steelhead runs today were bad steelhead runs not all that many years ago. 115,000 fish made it over Bonneville Dam this year in 2023 compared to 605,000 fish around 20 years ago. That was an exceptional year but as runs become smaller on average our brains develop a new understanding for the baseline of good or bad. Tonn enjoys pointing out the people calling steelhead unicorns or ghosts due to their difficulty to find even though their prevalence used to make them one of the easiest species to catch and harvest. Their decline gives them the illusion of being wily or tough to fool. As a steelhead angler just now starting to angle for these special creatures or someone who has been at it for 50 years, it's vital to temper expectations while not forgetting that good now is not good enough for the future of the species.
Day One: First Look at the River
After a longer-than-expected drive to the small town where we were staying and a quick discussion about flies and a shuttle with the local fly shop/deli/gift shop, we were on the way to the boat launch. Rain smattered the windshield and we peered out the window trying to catch a glimpse of the river, hoping it would tell us something, anything that would bolster our confidence. The water was emerald green in the sunlight but very low jagged, toothy rocks poked up from the surface, waiting to taste aluminum hulls in the half-light of dawn.
The fly shop gave us another dose of confidence as well, someone boasting 18 steelhead hooked in a day. I’ll take half that number in three days and be happy as a clam. Our plan was pretty simple, nymph from the boat while on the move and stop to target runs with the spey rods. The river style with deep slots, pools, and seams is ideal for running bobbers or indicators for steelhead as much of the water cannot be targeted on the swing. Stoneflies and smaller attractor nymphs were the ticket according to the report but I’ve written a few fishing reports in my time at fly shops and they can’t always be trusted.
Immediately, Tonn swings up a half-pounder at the boat launch and the confidence rides a bit higher. My efforts were futile at the launch but my swinging was interrupted as locals kayaked over from the far side of the river with a nice blacktail buck riding shotgun. We gave them our congratulations and the older of the two, presumably the younger man’s dad, called out and asked, “Those stinky things still in the river?” We laughed and said we would do our best to find out for him and shoved off on the first of three floats. It was a Sunday and it was apparent a ton of other people, guides, and recreationists, were also trying to catch some stinky things in the greenish-tinged water. Our late arrival didn’t do us many favors but we figured there would be at least a fish or two with our name on it.
The journey to the first stop produced a few hooked trout but no hints of steel, but we wanted to swing anyway, so we broke out the speys and split a run in half. I trudged to the top and Tonn took the tail end of the run. The water was frigid, coming in at 43 degrees Fahrenheit at the gauge, and I believed Tonn had the better spot at the run’s slower, deeper tail section.
Step, swing, step, swing. The river produced a nice seam at a drop-off that got progressively deeper downstream. The in-between water had nice holding depth but the cloud cover obscured true depth from my upstream perspective. At the top of the run, my T-11 found the bottom multiple times and I was forced to roll cast it off of rocks and weeds. I shambled downstream a bit quicker than normal to find fewer boulders and more depth. The head of my line swung directly below my position and I started to strip in my line for another cast and it went tight. Mistaking this stoppage as a rock I stripped again and my line jumped forward and a bright-colored steelhead rocketed out of the water no longer connected to my line. It belly flopped back into the water with a resounding splash and Tonn whipped his head upstream looking for a running fish. First chance, blew it. I said a few four-letter words into the sky and did my best to recoup from the missed chance by swinging the rest of the run.
First Contact
The sun never seemed to rise, it moved laterally on the horizon until it was in the west instead of east. Confidence and excitement can keep hunger at bay but only until a point. Eventually, it caught up to us and our belief in catching a steelhead shrank, so we opted for a late lunch in front of a lawn with over a dozen no-trespassing signs posted on various trees. The house was huge and expensive but it resembled a dentist’s office more than an actual home. I approved much more of the quieter cabins and houses with a homemade boat launch built into their backyard than the sprawling fortress of sand-colored stone.
The thought of food and sitting in the sunlight felt like a good way to restore some energy but the food was not ready yet and the bend in the river we stopped at produced a seam that could hold a fish or two. I grabbed my switch rod to chuck a bobber to pass the time. Cast one, bobber down, set, empty. Cast two, bobber down, set, empty. My flies must be hanging up on a rock. The grill was smoking and Tonn stared at my bobber as it made its way through the seam before plunging below the surface, but this looked different and I found a thrashing summer steelhead attached to my line.
Cat-like, Tonn grabbed the net and vaulted from the boat into the water to help land the bright hatchery fish that marked the first steelhead of the trip. My stoke was palpable and it felt like a good sign for the rest of the trip. If we found a fish on the busiest day of the trip on a completely foreign river then we can dial it in over the next two days floating a similar section.
The hope of catching many steelhead quickly faded as the sun sank deeper into the hills. The water we encountered on the next few miles of the stream before the takeout was relatively featureless to the inexperienced eye, the steelhead could be in any divot or bucket along the flat, shallow portion of the river. A few good-sized coastal cutthroats hit the net on the same egg pattern the steelhead ate, but the end of the day ended with a beer in the golden hour of the late afternoon.
Five minutes after pulling the boat we were in the motel parking lot that was no more than 50 yards from the boat ramp and backed up right on the river. Other anglers staying at the motel made their way into the lot as we were unloading our gear. A man, missing a leg and on crutches, and his fishing partner told us of their eventful day learning how to row his new drift boat on the upper section of the river which entailed a good deal of pinballing off rocks and a run-in with one adult steelhead. We had previously balked at running this section but after hearing their account we were confident the rowing was within our read and run capabilities. They were boisterous and good-natured people who quickly offered their hospitality in the form of marijuana and beer.
The kindness of strangers in this part of Oregon was noticeable, Tonn and I often remarked on their eagerness to share information on what to use and where to go for the steelhead. But in some ways it makes sense, these small towns are hubs for outdoor recreationists who come to catch steelhead or hunt, and success is needed for repeat clients and customers.
Dinner was a simple fair of meat and potatoes on the grill in the parking lot. We weren’t alone though, another party of fishermen rolled into the parking lot after dark and were having a similar cookout on the tailgate. We compared notes with them and it seems they had a similar day of fishing. Trout and a few small half-pounders made up their catch for the day. But tomorrow was a new day and yesterdays received too much emphasis when talking about tomorrow's fishing. Confidence is what changes a bad day of fishing into a good one.
Day 2: Fast and Furious
The first sign of a sunrise bled into the clouds as Tonn and I unloaded the boat with headlamps at a ramp a few miles upstream of our day one float. Confidence was at a nice even keel. We believed the early morning would give us the edge over the fish and the other fishermen at the first few holes down from the dam. One lonesome salmon swam in the slack water on the edge of the spillway as we pushed out from the launch and made our way in the dawn light.
My white bobber disappeared in the waves and riffles of the current and Tonn frequently harassed me about the color choice that so easily camouflaged itself but I insisted it was the best steelhead-catching indicator I’ve ever used. We stopped 150 yards from the ramp to swing likely steelhead water. Again we split the run in half and I took the lower half. After a half hour of swinging, I came up empty but 100 yards above me Tonn hooked up on a steelhead and I watched him fight the fish. I knew by the time I ran up the slippery rocks he would have released the fish so I watched him wrangle it in from below. A few early anglers rowed past us and set up below.
The next hole we shared with two boats throwing bobbers on spinning rods. Our inexperience on the river and the specific etiquette of the region made us stick out like a sore thumb. Other boats were lapping likely holes and seams in turn while we often posted up on a specific spot and waded out of the boat. One of these boats hooked up on a fish as soon as we got in eyesight. Tonn back-rowed us into a solid position on the edge of the run where it produced a beautiful, deep seam that probably held more steelhead than we would ever know. I sent my bobber directly downstream of the boat, this time much more visible, before it dove under the surface and my line came tight.
Before this trip, I landed two steelhead in my life, both in the previous few months, and those fish did not impart to me the crazy acrobatics and powerful runs you so often hear about when steelhead are discussed. This steelhead helped ease my worry that these fish are overrated fighters. It wasn’t a long fight but the fish peeled line off of my reel on several fun runs and even gave a bit of an air show. Two fish in the net in less than two hours; we were stoked and we knew that whatever happened the rest of the day would be icing on the cake. We took a few photos and the fish went back into the river. While some might not consider two fish worth an entire trip, I was more than happy if I did not touch another fish. In the past two days, I doubled my net lifetime steelhead caught and could not be happier. But the day was not done and neither were we.
But unfortunately, the fish were done. Tonn did most of the rowing and I indicator nymphed out of the boat but to our dismay, we were not able to locate any steelhead after those first action-packed hours. By the afternoon, it was hard to even remember the feeling we had in the morning after landing those two fish and looking forward to the rest of the day. We packed up the boat and made our short drive to the motel intent on enjoying a few beers and warm food.
The local bar, called Luckies II, was on our list to visit after our rustic camp meal in the motel parking lot. The small town bar and pool hall was the perfect place to meet some local anglers and grab a cheap beer; plus, I wanted to know what happened to the original Luckies. The bar appeared as expected, resembling a cafeteria at a public school with white and black linoleum floors and bright fluorescent lights above the pool tables. The bar was filled with locals catching the Chiefs and Chargers game, where the Swift and Kelce relationship was popular conversation. Our old acquaintance from day one, the man from the kayak deer hunting duo, sat at the end of the bar and again called out asking if we were catching the stinky things. This man did not appear to have a high opinion of steelhead but he was friendly enough to ply his friends at the bar for any advice they could give.
Day Three: Last Chance
My toes and feet were freezing, even in wool socks and neoprene wader booties, so I used my 5 wt switch rod to huck some long roll casts into the main current of the same hole I caught my fish yesterday. My feet stayed on the sand just out of reach of the water. It was our last day and we figured we’d thoroughly cover the top section of water that we floated the day before as it gave us the most action out of any zone. I was nymphing deep with two tungsten beaded flies and a split shot which had already produced a beautiful hatchery steelhead in the same run a few minutes earlier.
I wasn’t done, but my toes were screaming for a break so I allowed a few minutes on the shore and half-heartedly cast from my comfortable position. But to my surprise, the drift was good even with a tricky current. My bobber bounced along and I had a good feeling. Tonn was nymphing at the top of the run and within earshot, I called out to him,”This is it, this is the drift!”. Boom, bobber down. I lifted my rod and came tight to another steelhead at the end of my 10-pound tippet.
The morning of the third day was kind to me, I produced two steelhead under the indicator and felt obliged to celebrate with a cheap cigar and chelada at the next nice run to swing. The morning was gorgeous, crisp, bright sun after a foggy morning. The day started frigid but quickly rose to a comfortable mid-50s, which felt like heaven compared to the weather mid-November in Oregon usually brings. To top it off I was catching multiple steelhead in a day, which was new to me in my very short steelhead fishing career.
While many steelhead anglers, especially those who like to eat fish, hope to catch hatchery fish to fill the cooler, I was eager to hook into my first ever native, wild steelhead. Catching hatchery fish is exceptional and maybe I don’t have enough days and fish under my belt to be so picky about my quarry, but something about hooking a wild fish felt special.
Again, the mid-morning to afternoon lull gave us another beautiful float but without any chrome to show for it. The closest we came to a fish during this time was when we stopped for lunch at a picnic table pulled into the water at a boat launch. Three anglers fished the large pool by the launch and continually glanced our way. We set up the grill for a late breakfast but a large disruption in the water by the picnic table broke the silence. A good sized coho salmon thrashed futilely on the end of a line in the foot of water by the table. Tonn and I stared in confusion then understanding dawned on us why the anglers kept looking our way, to make sure their salmon stayed in its rightful ownership.
We stopped to swing every run and I picked Tonn’s brain every so often on various spey casting techniques, the most recent being the snake roll. I asked him to give me a demonstration in a particularly likely swing spot flooded with sunlight and warmth. Basking like a lizard in the boat for a few minutes sounded optimal to standing up to my waist in cold water, at least for now. Tonn started his dialogue on the snake roll while stripping the line out and making short lazy casts with half the head of the line. Still talking he turned to me and said, “It’s funny because-.” ZZZZINGGG, Tonn’s reel sang, cutting off his demonstration. He clutched for his rod and put pressure on the fish as it zipped downstream. The fly was hammered by the feisty summer. I was no longer sleepy and jumped out of the boat to grab our massive salmon and steelhead net while Tonn wrangled in the fish. I ran to net the fish as it Tonn lifted it to the surface, it was not a huge steelhead but what a cool eat with 20 feet of line out the tip, but just as I reached the net out the fish broke loose and bolted for deeper water.
We stood laughing in amazement at the absurdity and irony of steelhead fishing, how it can be so unexpected after hours of casting diligently but in the end, it happens when you are not even trying. We counted it as an LDR (long-distance release) and swung the rest of the run without a tug, go figure. The only thing to do was fish hard on our way to the takeout.
One thing to note, we had not hooked a steelhead on the move-up until this point. All our fish had either come while wading the river at a stopping point or anchored up while putting repeated casts in a zone. This struck us as slightly surprising because we knew there was a good population of fish in the river and much of the water we passed through dredging nymphs resembled good holding water. We chalked it up to cold water temps and the statistical idea that steelhead only hold in a very small percentage of water types.
Once again, I took the front seat and threw around an indicator rig on the off chance a fish would eat. This time I favored an egg-sucking leech I tied for Alaska, the egg being almost the size of the rest of the leech. The gaudy imitation was tied on a razor-sharp Ahrex jigged hook, perfect for holding onto strong fish. The rest of the early afternoon crept by as we targeted likely areas and swung walking pace riffles. This trip involved a lot of false sets on rock fish and debris. The nature of the river lent itself to alternate from extremely shallow to deep as the river narrows and widens.
We rowed through a deeper eddy into the head of a walking pace run that kept good depth. Tonn hugged the shoreline to give me time to ply the water and before long my bobber disappeared into the green and there was no mistaking the hot fish on the end of the line. The rod bent over double as the fish shook its head and I tried my best to collect my line on the reel but I felt my slack line snagged on something in the boat. I fumbled with the rod, trying to keep tension while untangling the line from my backpack.
Without a word Tonn jumped up, grabbed the slack and smoothly freed the line, then jumped on the sticks to chase the fish. Savvy moves by Tonn to keep the fight going. The fish was a dog. Once we netted the fish Tonn asked if it had an adipose, he got the same feeling about the fish as I had. The fish was still fighting a good fight in the net and I caught a glimpse of the small adipose fin sticking off its back. We let it rest in the net and took a photo before it swam away to continue its journey.
This trip gave me something infectious. The hard-fighting, tail-walking fish may have ruined catching cookie-cutter 15-inch fish on the Deschutes. The urge to fish for trout is not nearly as strong since those three days. Instead, I’ve spent my time watching YouTube videos, tying flies, and planning trips. No other fish seems as important as catching steelhead. Don’t get me wrong, I love my trout, but the stories steelhead produces are captivating and special. When I held the anadromous silver specimens in my hands it felt as if I held a piece of history, a piece of the ocean, and an incredible tribute to perseverance against great odds. Steelhead represent an incredible and extreme life history of rainbow trout as they guarantee their place in the natural world. Not only that, but they are legendary in the minds of anglers of the Pacific Northwest and they hold a mythical status that is not replicated anywhere else. Needless this to say, this trip did ignite the excitment for future trips and steelhead fishing.
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