I’ve heard and read a lot of fishing “gospels” in 35 years — words represented as infallible truths or fundamental principles. Sometimes they’ve been helpful, but just as often, they have created mental blocks that set me up for failure, particularly when the fish ignore canonical scripture.
After my first guided trip down Oregon’s Rogue River, I became obsessed with steelhead. These anadromous marvels of evolution have a nearly mythic reputation for being difficult to catch, which made them all the more attractive to me. I like the challenge of a new fly-fishing puzzle, and I’m an independent sort. I wanted to chase steelhead on my own.
In the following weeks, I read articles, talked with more experienced people, watched videos, and mined the guys at the fly shop for information. I gathered quite a few steelhead gospel truths, such as good steelhead colors are pink and purple, and steelhead don’t eat the small stuff. I also repeatedly heard that I’d taken on a tall order because these are the chrome ghosts of a thousand casts. Undeterred, I planned a trip.
I arrived at 3:00 a.m., tired, but excited. I turned off the headlights as my tires rolled into one of the dirt pullouts along California’s famous Trinity River. After a cold, uncomfortable attempt at napping in the truck’s cab, I caught a glimpse of the water as the sun made a slow orange arc above the trees. Now I was beyond excited. I was ready to dispel the myths of chrome untouchability.
I fished hard. I fished all day. I fished until the sun’s descent forced me off the water. I knew the steelhead run was strong and that healthy numbers of fish were being caught daily. But eight hours later, my morning optimism had turned into evening defeat. I began to consider the possibility that maybe this fish really was a salmonid phantasm that eluded all but the very best fly fishers.
On the second day, my initial let-me-at-’em confidence waned. I started later, after the sun had had time to warm the air and the water. As I approached the river, I thought I saw fish rising. Then I saw a silver arc burst out of the water and twist back down again. I’d read that steelhead rarely, if ever, rise. Besides, a native fish that lives above a sandy bottom can be almost colorless. I’d also learned that steelhead don’t chase tiny insects. What I was seeing, then, couldn’t be steelhead — they must be native trout. Disappointed, I ignored them. I covered different water throughout the day, but remained within sight of this section. I watched a dozen guide boats drift over the fish from morning through late afternoon. Each guide ignored the rises and floated quickly through the water without making a cast. Clearly, these were not the fish their clients were seeking.
By early evening, the sun had dropped, along with the temperature. Shortly, I’d be on my way home. The prospect of a six-hour drive without having caught one steelhead was totally demoralizing. I’d had such high hopes.
I looked at the fish I’d seen rising all day. Why not? I thought. A native trout was better than going home empty-handed, and it would help soothe my bruised ego on the long ride back. I put all thought of steelhead out of my mind. I was trout fishing now, and I knew how to catch a trout. I stopped to consider my strategy. I saw caddis adults skittering across the water’s surface, but the rise forms suggested the fish were feeding subsurface. I clipped off the streamer I had on, then tied on a length of 4X tippet and a size 16 caddis emerger. The fish were just 10 feet way, so I also popped off the indicator and decided to Czech nymph the emerger with a Leisenring Lift toward the end.
With the first explosive jump, my jaw dropped open. It was not a native trout at all, but a steelhead. My first! They’d been there all day!
You’ve probably figured out the point of this story. It’s not about patience or ignoring common wisdom or even about memorializing my first steelhead. It’s about something larger than a single species or specific type of fishing. All day, I’d watched steelhead do what they supposedly “don’t do.” I’d also watched them gobble up small insects they supposedly don’t eat. I’d walked away from them for the better part of the day when their behavior didn’t match what I’d learned about them. I’ll never know how many steelhead eluded me because I stuck to the gospel I’d learned while the fish were doing their own thing, regardless of what it said.
Yes, we all should learn as much as possible about whatever fish we’re pursuing. We should talk to expert anglers, ask questions, and listen to others’ experiences. But — and this is really what I want to share with you — when the environment and the fish are telling you things that don’t fit into a neat, man-made box, it may be time to disregard what we’ve learned. This mental shift can be the difference between catching fish and getting in a lot of casting practice. Fish don’t follow a strict set of rules. They don’t know that they’re “supposed to” act a certain way, be in a certain place, or eat a certain food. Sometimes they follow scripture. Other times they decide to do something completely different than what we expect and believe to be true. In countless subsequent trips, I’ve yet to see another steelhead rise even once, but on that day, it’s what they felt like doing. It’s in instances such as these that we’re best served by freeing our minds of learned boundaries and allowing ourselves to mirror the elusive world of fish if we want to catch them.
