You Never Forget Your First

I just got off from four days in the canyon. As per usual this time of the year, we experienced everything from eighty degrees and sunny to sixty-something with crazy winds and sideways rain! And as per usual, the fishing was awesome. The dry/dropper under a Chubby with a couple of my Custom Flies caught so many nice trout. And one lovely little wild steelhead! More on that in a minute. We also did some bobber fishing and caught a bunch of really healthy, crazy beautiful trout.

One day one I was fishing a guy a from Southern California who straight up told me his objectives for the trip were to get a native trout on a dry fly and catch his first ever steelhead. After our first stop, during which he landed several trout and seemed to take instruction well, I told him I liked his chances to achieve what he’d come to do! After lunch, at one of my favorite fishin’ holes, I put him in the prime bucket. He landed a good trout on the dropper/dropper fly (my unbeatable GMO Frenchie!). Then a little farther out, he got nibbled. I told him to put it right back in there. Next cast the Chubby went down, the rod went up, and fish on! His first words were, “Not as big as the last one.” Then he uttered the words no Lower Deschutes fish wants to hear: “Yea, I think it’s a small one.” I’d come over to land the fish. Just then, the line starts moving slowly, inexorably up river. There was no panic from the fish at that point; more an annoyance, perhaps just another obstacle in what’s been a long journey. Only certain fish display that characteristic. Sometimes it’s a foul-hooked whitefish. Sometimes it’s a six-pound Butter Belly. Sometimes it’s not. My guy was doing great, keeping solid pressure without horsing the fish. I didn’t mention the possibility of what might be on the other end of his line for two reasons: I wasn’t sure, and often times, when the word ‘steelhead’ is uttered to the uninitiated, they can get a wee bound up––never a good thing. Instead, I simply stated the obvious, “Don’t ever call ‘em small. They don’t like that.”

We were five minutes in when my guy complained of his sore wrist! It should be noted that he was fishing my ten-foot four-weight Vice, a great all-around rod. For trout. I let him know that he was doing great, to keep his rod ‘tacoed’, maintaining solid pressure. The fish would begin to tire out.

It was only when the fish briefly moved into shallow water that I got a good look at it. Yep. One of those fish. The ones that swim a couple hundred miles, down fish ladders, dodging every manner of treachery, finally get to the Pacific where they chase schools of baitfish bigger than them, until they are the bigger of the two. Then three or four years later, maybe a thousand miles from the Columbia, the homing beacon starts beeping… and the entire journey is reversed. Only now they’re too big for cormorants! But boy oh boy are there a lot of other predators, primarily us. Back up the big river, avoiding sea lions and every shiny attraction humans create, take the hard right into the Deschutes and push against currents, hoping that native curiosity doesn’t get the better when swung flies cross its path on the daily. Find the strength to get through Whitehorse Rapid. Grind it out for another ten miles. Pull over in my favorite fishin’ hole. And then not once, but twice find my Jumbo Jiggy Prince nymph just too darned irresistible. And after all that, the fish finds itself in yet another mortal struggle. Only this time it’s with some random dude from SoCal… oh the absurdity of it all.

As mentioned, my guy was blissfully ignorant to his quarry of the moment. And I’d keep it that way. I know his type. And if I told him what was up, he’d have put his hand over the reel spool right away! As it was, he played the fish like another good trout. Which was fine with me. I had my medium-sized net. The big one was in the boat, but if I went for it, he’d have suspected something. So we stood there, twenty feet apart, the Vice doubled over nicely, a certain peace reigned over us. Until…

The fish made it’s final, impressive, otherworldly display of vexation. This time it was fifteen seconds of non-stop crocodile rolls and entire body shakes, all aimed at ejecting the annoyance from its jaw. It didn’t work. As soon as the explosion subsided, I stabbed the net under the fish and scooped it up.

One of my guy’s two objectives achieved.

There followed the declaration that he caught his first steelhead. His stunned disbelief emanated into the canyon. We exchanged the usual, slightly awkward high-fivin’ white boy thing. There might have been an equally uncomfortable hug… But what was done was done. As is always the case, I was super happy for my guy. Being there for that moment is witnessing the birth of a new-found appreciation for all things salmonid. And that’s a good thing.

His fish was a wild one. Not real big, but not tiny either. Super healthy. And even more pooped. We took our time preparing the ‘grip ‘n grin’. I perhaps over emphasized the importance of keeping the fish’s beak in the river. We got the shot.

And then I had the moment I always take with steelhead. Out in the current, I cradled it––they like that––and expressed my gratitude, my respect, my hopes that it enjoys a successful spawn. And I apologized. I told it that I always feel regret for having disrupted this primordial, inexplicable, mind-blowingly arduous journey it’s on.

Then we rowed on, to the next spot.