Steelhead Report

I've spent the last couple weeks doing my best to land an early wild fish on one of the West End rivers. I've managed to rise two in the five days I was on the water, and for wild steelhead in June, that isn't terrible. One rose to a purple soft hackle, the other to a Glasso pattern, the Gray and Orange.

The first fish came while fishing the lower reaches of the Quinault, there is a portion of tribal water that just begs to be fly-fished, and I granted it that one week ago. I have to say that I believe I would have done better had there not been so many parr present. A more responsible angler would have fished a deep fly after contending with the babies for a few swings, but I want a steelhead in the surface film rather badly. The fish rose short to the fly, never to be seen again.

The second fish came in one of my favorite runs in the world. This run is in the upper reaches of a nearby river, and out of the reach of roads. A creek meets the river and the two currents fight the merger to create an island and a dream of a steelhead run behind it. The water was still a little bit high, so I didn't expect much. I worked the pool diligently though, and towards the end of the first pass, in the glassy tailout and just behind a submerged boulder, the Steelhead took. I held him for five seconds before he made seaward in the high current and did a quick job of separating my 3x tippet.

I must say I have felt very unmatched with my 9' 5wt thus far. I really wish I still had my switch rod, the worst part is that I know whoever stole it from me probably isn't putting it to good use.

The Troublesome Goose

“Birds share a fisherman’s world and are a part of his scene. Many are themselves fisherman. They are beauty and interests and associations, and they grow richer in meaning with every recognition, every added observation. It is possible, I suppose, to disregard them and still be a fisherman. But to do so is to miss the sport’s most brilliant counterpoint.” ---Roderick Haig-Brown from Fisherman’s Spring

I think Haig-Brown captures a prevailing opinion in the fly fishing world with this quote. Birds are an ever present entity beside streams and in wooded areas, and they are without a doubt the most often observed form of wildlife. Orvis, perhaps the biggest name in fly-fishing, also sells wingshooting supplies and the two sports have long been considered synonymous. I have been interested in fly-fishing’s sister sport for a while now, but have yet to make the leap. Perhaps I will once Doug Rose releases his duck hunting book. 

Besides the plumage with which we construct our flies, we fisherman borrow many techniques from our avian peers. I remember when I was first instructed on the art of fly-fishing, a man named Roger did the honors, telling me to “act like a heron.” If I lacked anything yesterday morning it was the stealth of a heron. 

I had gotten used to the murky early season waters of the Lake, and yesterday morning the water was fairly clear, with at least 20 feet of visibility. I nonetheless waded in with little resembling caution, and no doubt spooked most of my prospective quarry. The result was two hours of flailing the water in frustration. My now dependable fry patterns turned up next to nothing, a fact explained by the occasional 3 inch fry that followed my 1 inch pattern. I read recently that sockeye fry grow quickly in spring, averaging 1 inch in march and nearly 3 by june. Maybe my pattern is simply to small now. Or maybe the clear water has exposed my shoddy imitation, or maybe the fish just weren’t around and I am over thinking everything. 

In any case, the wind was not helping my frustration, and in an attempt to remedy that I tied on a size 12 Hares Ear nymph for a change of pace. That resulted in the by catch of several fry, but little else. I was just about at my wits end. I began making casts and letting them drift in the slow beginnings of the river current. Letting myself become distracted by my surroundings. 

I heard a sound and shortly after a flock of honking, clumsy canadian geese flew overhead. I watched them, deciding to myself that spring was officially giving way to summer, and plotting their demise at the hands of my twelve gauge this coming autumn. I began to wonder at the merits of goose feathers in steelhead flies when a sharp, strong pull almost wrenched the rod from my hands. I had little excess line so the fish was immediately on the reel, and taking line. I palmed the reel and began pumping the fish back to me. It occurred to me that this felt like it could be my biggest fish of the year. 

The fish made no leaps, and indeed it seemed reluctant to leave the bottom, behavior indicative of a charr. I continued to work the fish, and eventually I could see the silvery flash through the glacial murk. Less than ten feet from me, the fish made a run to the surface, porpoised, and after briefly displaying his spotless orange tipped tail that must have measured 6 inches across,  rolled on my 4x tippet and was gone. 

The geese made a return lap, mere feet above my rod tip, as if in jest. I smiled, Haig-Brown is right. Fishing could not be what it is if not for the birds that provide it’s most interesting counterpoint.

One Man's Trash

The Quinault was still ripe with glacial silt last June. The runoff was the worst in recent memory and the fishing was suffering. Steelhead where near impossible to raise and with the amount of kelts normally in the river this time of year I had no intentions of trying. This particular evening I had in hand my five weight lined with a simple floating line. I stood on the gravel bar facing one of my favorite cutthroat lies in the upper river. I had fished this run over and over again with conventional tackle, this however, would be my first time swinging a fly through it. The run is typical of the Quinault. It’s head was formed by two sections of a braid coming together in a shallow riffle. The riffle quickly dropped off and the opposite shore was constructed of several large boulders. In summer the run is around ten feet at it’s deepest, with the slot against the far boulders the deepest section. The river ran straight in this fashion for roughly forty yards, then was interrupted by a house sized boulder in the perfect middle of the river. The run tailed out in a gravelly riffle shortly after. 

I took position at the head of the run and cast a size six muddler minnow quartering down stream. I let the line lead the rod, keeping it under tension and swinging it all the way across the current. I repeated this several times, slowly moving downstream and covering the water slowly. 

I soon reached the boulder and as my fly slowly swung past the side eddy I felt a sharp tug on the end of the line. I made a short strip set expecting a cutthroat, when the rod doubled over in a threatening bend. The obviously large fish turned downstream, and using the current to its advantage, fully earned the name “bull” trout. I palmed the reel and nervously shuffled down the gravel bar, attempting to keep as much line on the spool as possible. 

The fish ran down through the riffle at the tailout of the pool and into a slow back slough downstream. I chased after it, soon reaching the end of the gravel bar. In desperation I clamped down hard on the spool and bent the rod into a drastic arc, the fish reluctantly turned and began a breakneck sprint back up the riffle. I reeled furiously trying to regain line lost and followed the fish back up the run. It tired soon after, as char often do, and a few minutes later I was holding the most underrated fish that swims in our waters. 

The Pilings

If you’ve ever been to Lake Quinault, chances are you know about the pilings. At first glance you’d think they were drowned timber, which wouldn’t be surprising in a lake at the head of a rainforest valley, but on closer inspection they reveal themselves as what they are, man-made wooden poles stuck into the lake bottom, jutting out of the water with mismatched heights and uneven intervals, a grotesque scar on the serene glacially carved lake. They are all over the lake, especially on the south shore, but the majority of them mark the outlet where the Quinault River continues its journey seaward.

I’m honestly not sure what they were put there for, although I am sure it has something to do with early logging endeavors. I’ve always hated them, they are a mark on the unfortunate necessity that logging has always been to this struggling timber town. So when my original plans to spend Tuesday morning trolling the lake fell through and I suddenly had no boat to drag flies behind, I was more than a little put-off. Never to be deterred, I still strung up my rod, pulled on my waders, and went fishing.

The Special Creek

    I think everyone has that place, that when they where very small, was always a question on their lips. Each weekend or free day they would go, pleading and puppy dog eyed to their parents with a request to visit that place. For me that place is a smallish creek off of a big river that runs through beautiful pristine rainforest.
    Me and my dad would go there and camp where the Q2000 road crossed it. We would camp under the bridge and walk up and down it each evening and morning with light spinning rods in hand and a pocket full of mepps spinners. Back then my dad was an alcoholic of the worst kind, but on camping trips like these he always stayed sober. His love and concern for my well being obviously won out over the booze, and that fact was something I unconsciously clung too in those days. It planted a deep love for camping and cutthroat trout in me, and that love lingers today.

A Little Perspective

    Saturday afternoon my girlfriend, my good friend Leroy and myself had decided to go camping up the north fork of the quinault river. Summer steelhead, resident trout, and whitefish promised to provide plenty of angling opportunity and we all knew from experience that the scenery was breathtaking. Unfortunately our plans screeched to a halt when I severely sprained my ankle playing basketball friday afternoon. However, my stubborn streak and Leroy’s ever present optimism would not allow our camping plans to flame out.
    In light of my limited mobility we decided to load up the drift boat ad camp at the east end of Lake Quinault where the Quinault River dumps in. We had done well there in the past, taking steelhead, salmon, dolly varden, and cutthroat trout from the lip of the river mouth. This trip would prove to be a test of patience and resilience as my ankle was not the only misfortune we would encounter.

Solitude on a Creek

About this time each year I take my annual trip up my favorite childhood creek. The creek is better for fishing later in the year, but it is such a nursery for Salmon and Steelhead smolts that I feel it wildly unethical to fish it anytime but this time, when the smolts have yet to hatch. This is a fairly unique creek, during the winter it gets good flows throughout its run but in the summer it gets very shallow, so shallow that about halfway between its confluence with the lower Quinault River and its headwaters it dries up completely. Because of this drying up it retains a fairly good population of resident cutthroat and rainbows.

This creek holds a very special place in my heart as it is the place where I cut my very first baby teeth in the fishing world. Although I grew my canines and molars on the steelhead and salmon filled rivers that drain the Olympics, usually under the guidance of my father, this small spring fed creek is the first place where I ventured out on my own, away from parents watching eyes. Most people don't fish it because the fish are tiny, rarely scaling ten inches, very spooky, and its hard as hell to reach the decent fly water.