Again, it’s the kind of water that calls you to it. The river is a deep, mysterious milky green, that seems to glow in the early morning light. This is water where big, silvery fish can move about hidden in the greenish shadows, true ghosts of the river. Everything seems to move here. The river hums along with some urgency. A hurried electricity fills the air. My heart rate won’t slow down. A fish rolls in the deep slot and, again, I spend too much time trying to swing a fly down deep when I should be walking to the broader swing waters below. I finally yield the water to a drift boat coming down. It’s as good of a motivation as any. Later, on my hike out, they float by me and inform me that they had gotten five fish out of that hole. They thank me again for letting them fish though.

The first fish comes as if it were some logical extension of the morning – just a continuation of the electricity that hangs in the air. The channel splits with half the river tracing slots along each bank – take your pick. The fish sits along a bedrock knob that juts out of the channel. The green water just seems to intensify and a sustained heart rate seems to hasten things along, not helping a festering impatience. Every cast is deliberate, each heart beat felt, with the morning becoming one long, wicked moment teetering between craving and satisfaction.

Further down river, I break a fish off on a bad knot – actually an old knot that I should have retied before even rigging up. Lesson learned for the 63^rd time. A couple taps doing the long swing through the tail out then down to the long run where the valley walls pinch the river close. Here the river briefly turns to the northeast with the sun barely peeking over the hills. Water sounds echo off the valley walls making for a full and sustained hiss and a dripping seep on the far bank keeps the beat. This is like having a private steelhead room. Sheltered, dimly lit, and 150 yards of textbook swing water set in a rapturous chorus of moving water that never stops. My heart rate settles down. A rhythm is established. Home on a mid-winter river.

Her stories might go unheard over the sparkle in her eyes,

The sweeping gestures of her unfolding arms,

Or even the way she glances down

As if to gather another bit of grace.

.

The tale could be any old thing,

Mustered up from random memories,

Told in the plainest of ways.

.

But in her words;

Words that seem to catch the first morning sun,

Those rays that fall across the wooden table,

Simple, soft illuminations

Like a summer afternoon yawn,

Slipping into the slumberous, the sublime.

.

Her stories are of all things:

Big and small,

Near and far,

Hoped for and gotten.

.

Or maybe the words speak nothing,

While they bring life to everything around.

11.8′ and 800cfs on the gage.

It dawned on me on the way home that the obsession with steelhead fly fishing is driven, in part, by the threat of missed opportunities. Each season, each storm, each day creates a set of conditions that becomes a must-participate scenario in my mind. Today was no different… I probably should have stuck with popular christmas tradition and visited friends, family and enjoyed the gala day of the season. But the scenario was set: a week of wet weather looming, meaning that I faced a now-or-never proposition. Further, the light rain forecast for today might bump up the water temperatures a bit, thereby reinvigorating the fish; or perhaps the barometer would throw the fish off balance and send them into new lies where they would forcefully hammer any intruders swimming into their new winter home. Plus, there was the larger scenario of record low flows presenting a near once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a part of this – to be able to one day say “yeah, I was there…” Finally, the simple lure of fishing a big, empty river at the extreme end of the temperature scale could not be dismissed.

All viable opportunities not to be missed.

So… I do a pass through the boulder house run where the depth and substrate make for an enthralling aquascape of dark boulders painting shadows in the clear water. Nothing doing, not even a grab. On to the main act. Ferry across to the far side and repeat last week’s perfectly choreographed session with hard-bodied wild steelhead. Here the broken skies begin to close in and the gray mist of light rain can be seen coming up the valley. The water temperature hasn’t budged, the air temps still hover near freezing and the threat of snow seems very real now. But there’s nothing like wading into the top of a long run set up perfectly for swinging long casts through water that moves with purpose around each and every boulder along the way. It’s the view of all those slicks painted across the water’s surface from bank-to-bank, the kind of water where you swim flies through each swing, and every moment is as real as the next. Standing at the top this place is a sight to behold. This is water so good that it is 250 meters of hope flirting with absolute promise.

An hour into it, the cast-swing-step falls into the rhythm of a winter river. The fly glides though a world of dark waters,hinting at light and shadow. Every nook and cranny of this place holds a secret of silvery ghost fish. Everything seems to move in one long fluid motion. It might be tempting to call this the “trance swing,” something akin to a runner’s high were everything just becomes effortless and present. But there’s more, it’s a very real connection to a cold, dark world unseen by most, with the angler teetering on the edge of fantastical, fish filled worlds, habitually refusing the harsh notion there might be nothing at all down there. All this tethered to the end of a long line dangling some god-awful concoction of fur and feathers. This is presence, meditation and thrill all wrapped into one package, tempered by ice cold river, and fed by the movements of water that will not wait.

Time is different now. Three hours passes and 250 meters of water has been covered as best as possible without even a grab. Regardless, the entire experience – fish or none – becomes embedded in the simple, quiet pace that settles in.

One more stop: Slate Creek and the promise of biting half-pounders if nothing else. A quick pass through the top yields nothing – not even a grab. Wow! What a difference a little weather, a degree colder, cloud cover, barometer … what is it? The lower half fishes silently until a soft, kissing grab yields a briefly hooked half pounder near the bottom. Ice rings portions of the river’s edge – a reminder that, indeed, things have gotten colder since my last 3.5C outing here. I go for broke and tie on the largest, darkest intruder I have to swim down deep – if this thing gets touched, it will be for real. Down through the run again and 2/3 of the way through the intruder swims trough the slicked water and there it is: the slow tug from down deep – leaving me with goose bumps and no more.

Scenario over.

The frozen edge of the river.

Night after night the frost accumulates here ... never seeing the sun

Flirting with lowest flow on record for this time in December. Wade across to fish through Slate Creek where the ice has been accumulating on the bar for days. The backwaters are frozen solid. The sun will never see the ground here until late January. But the half pounders are positively ON from the get-go. Wanted to do a pass through and move on to sunnier places, but ended up doing four passes through the lower half and two passes through the upper piece with a steady procession of grabs from top to bottom. The upper part was fun because I could swing through the right side then turn, cast and swing through the left trough before stepping down. 50/50 split on fish from both sides with most coming in the merging seam at the bottom. Mostly swung a purple bunny leech, deep and slow with many, many, many grabs. Some solid grabs, but lots of butterfly taps with an equal number of missed slow tugs prompting a muttering stream of obscenities. Mixed it up for a bit with a big orange/red prawn and then a purple rhea spey, but the purple bunny took top honors, though it also saw the first passes through the water. Who knows if one of those tugs was the bigger winter-run fish? Several fish to hand, and a day to rival any early fall day here. I was reluctant to go this morning on account of the water temps, expecting maybe the hard-earned grab here or there. I think the air did get above freezing for a bit in early afternoon – right about the time a bird across the way broke out into loud song – but short-lived. The right foot of my waders is on the verge of wearing through …. ugghhh.

Will probably pass on this water next time … too many half pounders, though super fun…. have my eye on a certain far-side run and a repeat performance on adults….

With all the worry over a critically dry year looming, this does give the opportunity to maybe see winter fish working there way up this river when, otherwise, it would be too high to fish. However, in hand, they seem like fall fish – bronze backs and compact size. Not the sleek and shiny winter fish seen on the coast. They are classic inland river fish and I think if you showed me a photo of just the fish, many of us diehards could name the river and time of year within three months with only a  snapshot. They take a swung purple leech – a nice, long slow swing – the grabs are firm and whole-hearted, but not freight train swipes.

Although we are desperate for rain, this does provide the opportunity to explore a completely new river. Curious if those silvery sleek winter fish that are just a rumor will show?

The guys up at Seattle nailed it: Waples et al. (2008).

As the first storm passes,

With another racing in tomorrow nite.

Craving a river now familiar and routine,

Now suddenly on the cusp of fading into winter.

.

Meanwhile…

The sophisticates sit in the window-side table

Sipping their wine, pretty smiles and all.

On any other day, they would be girls,

Even angelic visions of beauty,

With the slightest turn of her head

Catching the light in a sparkle.

.

For a moment, I think

It’ll be better than the last time, the first time,

Every other time,

In that strange way things can be familiar

But seem new again.

.

Now, the window-side sophisticates look

More like a picture frame stuck in a hallway

Where nobody pauses.

Cruel.

Like a gift of time,

to the old man who never gives up.

.

On the way to the liquor store to grab a pack of smokes,

Something to hold on to while the line swings tight,

And straight,

Chasing one more day of river,

One more…

.

Me: Two day old socks, still dry,

no apparent odor yet.

Wet gear hangs from a line strung inside the truck,

While boxes full of damp and matted flies

Lie strewn about, everything scattered now,

Unlike the pictures I took, looking so neat then.

Sophisticated, maybe.

.

To the punch line – probably the best day in terms of numbers, size, surface orientation and length of hatch on a certain inland river yesterday. Period.

On the water at 11:30 to cool, overcast skies and a breeze that failed to muster up much of anything, only hinting at its presence as night came on and departure time was at hand. The blue winged olives emerge all day. One of the days where the hatch seems to wax and wane once or twice, with the “slow downs” being probably the best catching because fewer bugs on the water. Interestingly, there was never really a magic carpet of bugs on the water and few could be seen in the air, but I was focused on heads nosing out of the water rather than counting flying bugs. Seemed like most fish in the river were looking up and much of those stationed up in the broad tailout of calf-deep water that made for easy wading, spotting and working. I’m still trying to figure out how much these surface feeders actually move. It seems they slowly work upstream at a pace commensurate with the density of bugs emerging. Lots of bugs and the fish work upriver meticulously slow – giving the appearance of feeding on station. Fewer bugs and they seem to rise one place and are never seen again unless that’s the same fish 15 feet up and to the right.

Classic dry fly fishing where time gets lost in the mix and before you know it, 11:30 turns to 4:30 and the sun is dipping to the horizon. What happened?

Afternoon light as the temperature begins to plummet ... out of practice for cooler weather!

Yeah, what was I thinking… Rain forecast for the weekend probably wouldn’t budge the rivers until Saturday night, leaving me all of Friday and Saturday to swing flies in favorite November steelhead runs. But I was consumed with bugs, rising trout and flat water. The rain would probably lead to some decent overcast conditions, if not cold, over on the Fall River… The PRD (precision rowing device) is paired up with some electrical assistance and loaded up Thursday night for an early morning departure. Weather forecast for Fall River: partly sunny with a high near 40 and, most importantly, light winds. I’ve never fished it this late in the season, but saw no reason it shouldn’t just be an all around decent day.

Snow the night before dusted the Fall River valley and a thick fog burned off as I dropped into the valley, leaving, you got it, partly sunny skies. The light breeze seemed manageable and the cold wasn’t the arctic chill I was expecting, though the forecast temps seemed right on the mark.

The baetis were coming off sporadically once on the water around 10:30. I made a few casts to a pod of fish just up from the launch – more to warm up than anything. Then off I went through a dazzlingly busy river chock full of coots splashing, feeding and cooching at every turn. Flocks of geese were caught unawares at some turns in the river, taking flight in a slow, lifting honking parade. Finally, way up near the top of the reach at Spring Creek Bridge, a lone angler sat quiet in a boat, bundled and apparently watching a pod of feeding fish. The baetis were becoming more numerous.

I settled into the wide stretch I was hoping to set up shop on – all alone except for the hundred of coots that just swam to the other side of the river, leaving me to my business. The fish were starting to show pretty good to a steady parade of emerging baetis, the occasional mahagony and a few PMDs, which I hadn’t expected. By noon, the breeze rippled the open water making things a bit more challenging, so I opted to shuttle into the lee of the bankside willows and work fish in the calm water. The PMDs become more numerous, and at some point probably outnumbered the baetis. I had a few fish to hand on both patterns until I spotted a decent fish working tight back in the sticks, right on the seam where a cast would be tough, but manageable. So, as the day went, I spent most of the hatch casting spot-on casts to this fish, finally raising it after maybe thirty casts, missing the hook and finally settling for a nearby partner that went an easy 18″.

Probably one of my best days on Fall River… that afternoon of steady baetis and PMDs. It was nice to find many fish rising on station rather than moving around as they seem apt to do here. Fishing the seams along the bank probably helped. I especially enjoyed working a decent fish for what seemed most of the afternoon – for me, that’s what I really came for even if I didn’t bring it to hand.  I can’t say it was a best day in terms of fish numbers or size, just quality fishing on an, er, empty river in late Fall. Duly noted for future years.