When I moved back to Oregon from New York City, I spent as much time outside as I could. My years in the Outdoor Adventure Leadership program consisted of camping, hiking, backpacking, etc. Not much hunting and fishing was done during that time. I decided to start steelhead fishing on the Rogue River again. This was a past time that I, and many other Oregonians, can relate to. When you live in an area known for something, it’s easy to overlook it and take it for granted. Living in the largest city in the country quickly made me appreciate what I had at home.
The Rogue starts in the Cascade mountains near Crater Lake, and winds through Southern Oregon to its mouth near Gold Beach. Fishing on this cold river has always been good, producing salmon, steelhead, and a multitude of trout. Many anglers complain that the fishing isn’t what it used to be, that Oregon does a poor job of managing the fishery, etc., but I generally try to ignore tales of how things used to be. As a sportsman, it doesn’t do you any good. That sort of thinking and rhetoric can breed doubt in your mind. Be careful about listening to naysayers when it comes to pursuing fish and game. These doubts are contagious, and before you know it, you’ll be loading your rod into your truck while the guy down the bank is reeling in a monster.
Many of my friends were still diehard fishermen, so it wasn’t hard to find an excuse to play around on the river. After a few weeks of throwing lines in the water with Luis and Bunn, I had no luck at reeling in anything larger than a trout, but I was having fun and reigniting the flame for something I had been passionate about as an adolescent. Bunn, on the other hand, was catching steelhead every time we went out. Luis had had some success, too. I felt like a beginner all over again, which for me was a good thing.
I have an obsessive personality. This is a character trait that can be a benefit or an absolute pitfall depending on how it’s applied. Lucky for me, I’ve managed to channel this obsessiveness into positive endeavors most of the time. Fishing is an all-encompassing pursuit; a perfect match. Over the next few weeks, I binged YouTube videos, read articles, etc., about how to have better success chasing winter steelies.
One morning that I didn’t have to work (a regular occurrence among freelance writers), I decided to hit the river. I had just picked up a couple of new lures from Bradbury’s Gun and Tackle I hadn’t yet tried. I arrived at the spot I wanted to fish, threw on my waders, and got to work. It was a cold February morning, and other than one other drift boat that passed by while I was grabbing my gear, I had the river to myself. Staking my claim at the corner where the river bent and the water was walking pace.
After about half an hour, a fly fisherman showed up and fished just downstream of me. We chatted for a minute while I shook some disposable handwarmers and stuffed them into my jacket pockets beneath my waders, then got back to what we were there to do. The dexterity of my fingertips had returned due to the handwarmer, so I decided to rig up one of the new lures I’d purchased, a large pink and white soft bead. I’d never fished these before, but I knew of other anglers who had great success. I pegged the bead about two finger lengths from my hook and got to fishing. When running a bead, it’s important to set the hook the moment you think a fish has hit it. They won’t swallow the setup like they would drifting roe. Steelhead are shy when it comes to lines and bait, so if you aren’t quick, they’ll realize what they’ve bitten isn’t food and spit it before you get the chance to hook them. A wise fisherman once said, “Setting the hook is free”.
I returned to my corner spot and cast forty-five degrees upstream from where I’d been standing, watching the line peel off my baitcaster under my thumb. My weight hit the water, and I was fishing, feeling for any tap, bump, or other irregularity. I set my hook often, but most of what I felt was just the weight on my line hitting rocks along the bottom of the river. On each retrieval, I checked the bead to make sure it was still in place, then cast again.
After a couple of casts, I set my hook on a mundane bump, but it was a bump nonetheless. A few seconds later, I didn’t feel any other taps, so I reeled in a bit. Suddenly, my reel started peeling line off of it. Oh my God. Fish on! I thought. I took a deep breath in an attempt to stay calm, but I was stoked. I didn’t know what type of fish was on the other end of the line, but I knew he was big since the tip of my medium-heavy action rod was seriously bent. I continued reeling in a little line, letting him take some, reeling back in, and repeating this process. Steelhead are notorious fighters, and I was in a fight.
The flyfisherman had taken note that I was battling with this cold water gladiator and got a little closer to watch. As I was making progress getting him to shore, a huge splash occurred, and I got a look at the fish. It was definitely a steelhead, and it was big. I won’t attempt to guess how big this winter chromer was; the world is filled with embellished tales of fish size, but it was big enough to make my guest on the bank say, “Holy shit” when it jumped.
I continued the skirmish until I could see the fish clearly in the shallow water near the bank. He was not giving up, thrashing around like no tomorrow. I did not have a net with me, so I had to bank him. This is a poor technique and one I do not recommend for any steelhead fisherman. There are a couple of reasons to carry a net. One, it gives the angler a much better chance of successfully landing a fish without worrying about giving up slack in the line and losing it. It’s an all-around neater experience. Two, it allows one to safely land the fish if they tend to release it. Steelies are aquatic creatures after all, and letting them bounce around on rocks while you’re fumbling around for pliers doesn’t end well.
With the fight almost over, I took a few steps back, letting him take some line off my reel. The fish jetted to the left, and I cranked my reel a few more times. He swam behind a few boulders. The tip of my rod was still bent, and then it suddenly sprang up, and my line went limp. He won the fight. I turned my head up to the sky and then looked at the fisherman.
“Brutal”. He said, casting his line back into the water.
I shook my head in agreement. Brutal indeed. I’d lost the fish, but learned a few things. Mainly, the importance of fishing with a stronger tensile line. I now run ten-pound fluorocarbon for my leader. This is still considered light, but it was an upgrade to the six-pound I had rigged up that morning. I’ve yet to have another steelhead break off. I’m not sure if having a net that day would have helped, but it certainly wouldn’t have hurt.
I’ve caught plenty of steelhead since then, both from the bank and from a drift boat. I still think about that fish from time to time, in the same way I imagine some men might think about a first love (although the fish is more interesting). While unlikely, I like to believe he’s still out there, giving fishermen hell along the Rogue. After all, what fun is life if we can’t envision things of that sort?
