For the longest time, the steelhead rivers of BC’s Northwest beckoned me from afar. Being a landlocked prairie-boy, steelhead always seemed like a far away dream. Big Bow River rainbows were the closest thing I had growing up as an angler. As good as Bow River Rainbows are, I knew steelhead must be even more impressive, based on the reverent way anglers talked about them. Like most, I’ve always perceived the steelhead as the creme-de-la-creme of sportfish. They are known as the hardest fighting, strongest pulling, and most acrobatic of all the salmon and trout, and as such, were on my radar since I was just beginning into fly-fishing.

Indeed, their reputation had become so lofty over the years that when I finally found myself in BC’s Northwest as a permanent resident (and steelhead virgin) this summer, I figured steelheading as a pursuit was destined to fall short of my expectations. First, my brief experiences last summer while working for DFO came with the stark realization that swinging for salmon and steelhead was absurdly boring compared to traditional trout fishing. It involved long hours of making the same cast, over and over, moving a step downstream in between every few. As a dry-fly fishing enthusiast whose favourite days fishing typically involved copious amounts of hatching bugs and free-rising trout, my first few days on the big water were highly underwhelming. My general impression was that this was the norm for steelheading; expecting a fish each day was simply not reasonable. I realized that long hours of waiting, and endless casting, were the keys to success.

Because of this, I went into this season feeling like maybe this steelheading thing was overrated. Sure, I liked catching big fish. My fly-fishing personality had morphed over the years to appreciate the challenge of catching a few big fish vs. the more juvenile joy of catching lots of average fish all day (which I still succumb to frequently). But generally, my favourite days are those where the action comes early and often, and the prospect of catching a fish at each spot feels attainable, even likely. When it came to steelheading, I had no experience to fall back on, no bites to convince me I was close, no go-to fly, or favourite run. Steelhead still had a sort of mystery to them… As far as I coud tell, they didnt exist.

Therefore, when my fieldseason ended in September and I finally had the time to turn my attentions to the world-famous Bulkley River which was my backyard, I didnt expect to catch anything. I expected my feelings of disapointment towards what was supposed to be one of the best fisheries in the world to deepen. I expected more hours of nothingness.

Yet when I went out that first day, on a well known section on the Bulkley, I couldn’t help but notice just how many people were here to catch steelhead. There were people EVERYWHERE. People from BC, Alberta, Washington, Alaska. The river was crawling with people, jetboats were everywhere. Surely, there must be something more to this steelheading thing to draw THIS many people here, I thought. However, that day I went and fished what I thought looked like good water for an afternoon, and the most exciting part was hooking a rock, which for a brief moment might have been a fish. It felt hopeless. Where were these fish?

However, by early September, the fishing rumours were flying rampantly around town…. “best fishing of my life… best year since 1998… best day of steelheading I’ve ever had.” These were the types of conversations I was overhearing in the local fly shop. Despite my growing indifference towards this new style of fishing, I strengthened my resolve and vowed to try a bit harder. If this was the best steelhead fishing in the last 25 years, it might well be my best chance to catch one of the damn things.

The Turning Point

Luckily the next weekend my buddy Mat was making a trip into town to try his luck. Mat was a steelhead virgin as well, and had a similar outlook to me at this point. We therefore had very low expectations as we hit the logging roads enroute to a spot Mat had picked out on the map. If anything, we had the very modest goal of confirming the existence of steelhead. Any sort of bite, hook-up, or sighting of steelhead would have been considered a win.

We rigged up at the truck, and headed down to the run with our aburdly large net, which seemed almost laughably ambitous. But we werent taking any chances. I headed upstream to the very top of the run, leaving the best part to Mat who had found the spot. I had barely arrived at my destination about 200 m upstream when I heard Mat yelling wildly, rod clearly bent on a fish. I assumed he had hooked a Pink Salmon, as we had seen many of them on our walk in. Talk about an overreaction, I thought cheekily.

I yelled out to him “Is it a Steelhead!?” He never responded; I waited a moment before seeing a sizable fish come torpedoing out of the river, flipping wildly, and I knew he was on a steelhead. I wildly retraced my steps, running back to grab the net and help Mat. About 10 mins later, I scooped up Mat’s first ever steelhead in our big net. We admired it and snapped a few pics, then released it. We exuberantly exchanged high-fives, letting the moment sink in. They were real, after all.

Without question, this was the moment that changed steelheading for me. It had become real. Mat wasnt doing anything different than I was; he was on a single-hand rod rigged up with a simple blue and black streamer, the same fly I had on. This encounter changed the pursuit of steelhead from a demoralizing casting exercise, to something that was actually within reach. It felt great.

In the afternoon, we hit another spot just downstream. I fished the run first, unsuccessfully. Mat followed me through the run, and once again, Mat was yelling “Steely!” wildly. Shortly after, Mat had successfuly wrangled in his second ever steelhead. Once again reinvigorated, I went and fished the run again. Towards the end of the run, I felt a twitch on my line that immediately went taught. My rod bent over, power exploding through the rod into my arm. On the end of my line, a chrome rocket exploded to the surface and flew through the air, thrashing. The fish slapped down onto the water loudly, the line went limp, and the fish was gone. But my obsession with steelheading had just begun.

My Turn

After that day, I knew my breakthrough was close. I now had a set-up I knew could catch fish, a go-to fly, and a place where I knew steelhead to be. Sure enough, a few days later, accompanied by a different fishing companion, I hooked 3 steelhead. Two of these fish managed to get away right near shore, denying me my true first ever. But on the third hookup of the day, I managed to tail my first ever steelhead. Awestruck, I only got to admire it for a few brief seconds before it blasted away, leaving no time for hero shots. I was unconcerned. By this point, I was convinced it would be the first of many. Now that getting my my first had been accomplished, my fishing partner Morgan went through the run once more, and hooked into a beautufil steelhead of his own. Maybe this steelheading thing wasnt so hard after all?

The season from that point on went on and off- heavy rains blew out the river for a few weeks. I fished a few times during this window, unsuccessfully. However, towards the end of the dirty water period, I pulled a nice steelhead out of some chocolate milk, which taught me that steelhead can be caught in dirty water, you just have to be a bit more persistent. Thankfully, the river eventually came back down into shape. By this point, I had 2-3 ‘spots,’ and I managed to catch several more nice steelhead. However, one of my new fishing friends, Blair, was still seeking his first ever. This quickly became the goal for the next few weekends.

More Firsts

Blair appeared to be on the cusp of a breakthrough. He had told me about many bites over the previous weeks. He had an excellent cast, nice flies, and a good understanding of where to catch steelhead. He seemed to be struck by a terrible case of bad luck. I knew it was only a matter of time before this turned.

On our first attempt, Blair and I hiked to a nice piece of water. I elected to watch as he worked through the run. Within a couple minutes, he had got a strong bite from a steelhead, but the hook never set. He was close. A few hours later, he had another bite, but the fish gave him the slip once again! I was beginning to think Blair had done something to upset the trout gods. Unfortunately, we left the river empty handed that day, but with reason to remain hopeful.

The next weekend, we decided to drive a bit to a different river system, known for bigger steelhead. We lucked upon an amazing run after following a random dirt path from the highway. Both of us were salivating. It looked like a steelhead paradise. Blair, being the steelhead virgin he was, obviously got first pass through the run. Once again, he shortly hooked a fish, battled it for a few seconds, only to suffer the disapointment of another loss. Closer… Blair stuck with things. We fished for several more hours, with no bites. Finally, we returned to the beautiful water we started the day at. In that moment, as the sunshine beamed through the trees, and illuminated the scenic pool, I saw blair peak around the corner “GOT ONE!” he yelled.

I ran downstream to help. Blair had hooked into a gorgoeus female steelhead, which he battled for the next 10 minutes of so. Once she had tired, we were able to tail her, and Blair was officially on the board with a spectacular steelhead. Once again, this expereince was punctuated with exuberant high-fives, and a deep sense of gratitude. It was another moment of magic, amongst a narrative of them.

Grand Finale

As the season wore to a close, I was faced with those thoughts common for any avid angler as winter begins to encroach; that is the desire for one more truly memorable fish to carry you through winter. My experiences with steelheading so far had taught me that each one of these fish were memorable, so for me, I just wanted to get at least one more. I felt as though I couldnt focus on work, I couldn’t get my skis out, or do much of anything, until I had accomplished this.

Therefore, I found myself regularily dipping out of work from about 11-3 most days. In mid-November, the first true cold-snap was approaching, and it looked like I might only have a few more days of nice fishing weather. I snuck out of work for a quick fish, and after an hour I did manage to hook and land a steelhead. I was happy. I was content, but… it was the smallest steelhead I had caught to date. I didn’t want to be a snob, or be percieved by the trout gods as ungrateful, but something about that fish just didnt quite sit right as my final fish of the year. I needed more.

Unsuprisingly, I found myself on the river the next day as well (skipping work once again), in deranged pursuit of fish. I was on a timeline and needed to return to work in time to send some critical emails while normal people still worked. This time-limit had increased the stakes, sending me spiralling me into an odd state of pyscosis. I simply KNEW I would get one, I just had to keep casting. Just one more cast, I told myself, just one more. But I knew that I must leave soon. I knew, if it were gonna happen, it would have to be in the next couple of minutes… I made an audible prayer to the fish gods, and set my sights on the best swing in the run. Instead of the usual 2-3 steps, I took around 15 purposeful steps dowstream. I wanted my fly to swing by the one clear piece of structure in the run, a big boulder that just looked fishy. On my first swing past the boulder, there was a strong pull on the swing. The line went tight, and at first I was sure I had hooked the rock. I applied more pressure, pulling my rod towards the bank.

And then the reel began to scream, and a fish took off towards the other bank, ripping line from my reel as he went. I somehow managed to stop his run before he got to far into my backing. I had a feeling this might be a special fish. The battle was long, and drawn out. Anytime I got him close, he would take off again, often with a few aerial manouvers involved. I deployed patience, knowing this was my grand finale. This was the fish meant to carry me through winter. This was the fish that would reinforce this new obsession. This fish was the reward for sticking with steelheading, even when I thought it was overrated. This was the fish, in so many ways, that reignited my passion for fishing to the levels it was in my youth.

As these thoughts raced through my head, I guided the fish towards me, and tailed it. It had run out of steam, and resigned itself to capture. I admired its strength, and power, the large kype in its jaw, the brilliant red coloration. It was among the largest fish I had ever caught, and without question, the most memorable. I watched it swim away, thanking the trout gods for answering my prayer. I guess this steelheading thing Isnt so bad after all…