Three hundred miles north of my house exists a paradise—a river that never looks the same twice. Steelhead enter the river with the rains, but not every rain, just during certain rains. 300-foot-tall redwood trees flank the lower river under the protection of the National Park Service. Pacific Giant Salamanders, carnivorous Darlingtonia plants, and a kaleidoscope of mushrooms are abundant on the moist banks.
Yesterday, the river glowed an emerald green; a couple of days prior,it was at flood stage, flowing 90,000 CFS, and today, it is nearly gin clear. Sounds wonderful, right? There is a catch. Perhaps I phrased that wrong because there is no catch. After four years and over 25 days on I have yet to catch a steelhead on my favorite steelhead river.
Maybe I’m fishing it wrong. It’s hard to imagine, given that I’ve caught steelhead on the swing in California, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, Alaska, and Russia. Yet, the questions flow through my head as the water rushes by. The river is unique; it may require a special method. I may not be getting my fly down deep enough. Is my fly too big or too bright? Should I stop changing my underwear or change it more often?
When I close my eyes at night, this river taunts me with its fishless beauty. ” Just fish a bead and get one already,” my friend quips. I won’t do it, and it is getting embarrassing. I’ve resorted to making sploosh noises and leaning back when my fly swings through a particularly juicy part of a run to imagine what it may be like to hook into a 30-lb dime-bright steelhead in the swift waters. I’m growing obsessed, maybe even going mad. Perhaps I should try golf.
