The Legend of Creekchub: Part One The Building of a Steelhead Legend

By
Dave Dyer

It was a freezing cold January afternoon. I thought it would be a perfect day to get out after steelhead. The dismal weather would surely keep the faint of heart off the streams and I would have them all to myself. The gloomy gray sky spit tiny snow flakes as I hopped into my old green Dodge pickup truck. The engine whined in protest of the cold as I turned the key, but finally it turned over and roared to life. A short drive found me approaching the old bridge that my favorite steelhead stream meandered under. Much to my chagrin, I could see a shiny new black Ford pickup parked at the bridge as I approached. I thought to myself, “Surly the truck had broke down or run out of gas. There is no way anyone will be fishing today.” I parked behind the black truck and as I hopped out of my old green truck, a blast of brutally cold air nearly took my breath away. Quickly, I slipped my tattered waders on and grabbed my favorite rod. As I passed by the black Ford I glanced inside the cab and saw a copy of “Field & Stream Magazine”, sitting on the passenger seat. I thought to myself sarcastically, “Grrreeaaat, this guy is actually fishing on this crappy day.” Then I thought, “This yoyo will probably be sitting on a five gallon bucket at the first bend and I will have the rest of the stream to myself.”

There were a few inches of crusty snow on the ground. The snow crunched loudly under my boots as I followed the footprints of the man who owned the black Ford. I followed his footprints along the icy trail that led down to the stream. The bitter north wind was biting at my exposed face and neck. The temperature was dropping rapidly as I trudged on. It was so cold that the tiny snow flakes were bouncing off the amber lenses of my polarized glasses instead of melting. I neared the first bend in the stream and to my amazement the man was not there! His footprints in the snow told the story. I could see that he had hooked at least one steelhead by the way his footprints were scattered up and down the bank. There would be no reason to move around so much unless he was fighting a fish. I could see his boot prints leading out onto the shelf ice and where the shelf ice had been broken, where he landed his fish. There would be no reason to break the shelf ice unless it was to land a steelhead. I decided not to fish the soured bend and walked on following in the footsteps of the man who owned the black truck. As I moved on I thought to myself, “This Bozo will be fishing at the pipeline pool. I will pass by him and have the rest of the stream to myself.”

I headed north to the pipeline pool. As I neared the pool the high tension wires that bisected the stream near the pipeline buzzed loudly above my head in the light snow fall. I looked on to the pool and I was stunned. The Man was not there! Again, his footprints told the story. I could see that he had fought at least one fish and the broken shelf ice in the spot where he had landed his quarry. I could see where he had knelt down to remove his hook from a fish and a perfect steelhead shaped snow angel that had been left behind. I thought to myself once more, “This guy can not be too much farther than this. I’ll head up to the high bank to spot him and then I can make sure that I’ll be far down stream of him. He will never catch me even if he dares to walk as far as I will. Ahhh…I know, I will head right to the money hole!” The money hole is one of my favorites. It is at least 2 miles from any road and receives little angling pressure, if any. I have never been skunked fishing the money hole. It is always full of steelhead. When I guide out of town high rollers, I always take them to the money hole. Even the worst fishermen have caught steelhead out of the epic hole and they usually tip very well after an afternoon of fishing the pool…..easy money.

I clawed my way up the steep, icy incline, to the top of the high bank. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. It was getting late in the afternoon and the brutal North wind had subsided. The snow was tapering off to just light flurries. It was as if I was looking at a giant black and white photograph as I peered down into the bottoms where the stream meandered. The leafless trees appeared jet black against the snow white background, their bare branches seemed to be reaching up, to touch the low-hanging steel gray clouds. From my vantage point the stream appeared as if it was flowing black ink instead of crystal clear water. The landscape was absent of color.

I had a birds eye view of the stream and to my complete astonishment, the man who owned the black Ford was nowhere in sight. I could see his tracks in the snow far below. The boot prints seemed to be spaced farther apart as if he had picked up his pace and was walking with a goal in mind. His foot prints never stopped or hesitated. He defiantly knew where he was going. This was not a man that was fishing this stretch for the first time. He was not exploring every pool and log jam. He knew where the best spots were and he was only stopping to fish them. I hoped he would not reach the money hole before I would. I desperately followed his tracks hoping he would not be fishing my favorite pool.

Despite the cold weather I began to break out in a sweat as I quickly pressed on toward the money hole. As I drew closer to the fabled pool I cold see the dark figure of a man silhouetted against the snowy back drop. I could see his rod was bent double as he was playing a fish. I felt like an over protective father, watching his 16 year old daughter leaving on her first date with the local stud, as the guy backed his shiny conversion van down the driveway. I sure did not like watching someone else molesting the steelhead in my favorite pool. I came upon the man just as he was releasing the silver sided warrior he had been playing. He turned to look at me and said in a shivery voice, “Hey da Dave I dddid nnnot think I would see anyone out fa fa fishing on such a lousy day!” It was Rob, a young man I had met in the local tackle shop and seen out fishing some of the more popular stretches. He shivered as he spoke and I could see that his fingers were bright red from tailing and releasing fish in the frigid water. Rob quickly dried his frozen hands and slid his gloves back on. He re-baited his hook and accurately flipped his float into the money hole.

Rob’s float went about 3 feet down stream and jabbed under. He set the hook and he was into another steelhead just like that. He looked at me with a warm smile and said, “This makes number 10 for the day! How many have you got Dave?” I was at a loss for words and totally embarrassed, since I had been basically tracking him like a crazed bounty hunter for most of the afternoon. I called, “I was just hiking down stream and I’m going to fish my way back to the old bridge. Uhhh …I have yet to wet a line.” Rob beamed at me, “Wow Dave I thought would have had at least 15 to the bank by now. Hey would you mind tailing this fish for me? My hands are frozen. Would you mind taking a picture of me with that fish for me?” “Sure Rob why not, we should get some pictures of this day or no one will believe we were out here.” The chrome hen was beat and on her side, near the bank. I grabbed Rob’s line with my left hand and reached down into the icy water with my right to tail the exhausted steelhead. The water was shockingly cold. It felt as if my right hand was burning as I clenched the throat of the hen’s tail. As I lifted the eight pound hen from the water it felt like thousands of needles biting into my wet hand as it was hit by the arctic air. I handed the fish to Rob and he handed me his camera. I snapped a few quick pictures of Rob and his prize. We swapped the camera for the fish again and I eased the steelhead back into the money hole. The chromer immediately sprang to life in the cold water and shot toward the bottom of the pool.

Here is the picture I took of Rob on that frozen day.


Rob thanked me for taking his picture and in his shivery voice called out, “Hhhey DDaave wwhy don’t you tttake a few drifts. I am still pretty cccold. I need some time to wwarm uuup.” I grabbed my rod, baited my needle sharp hook, and cast out into the money hole. My float arced out over the horizon, set down on the water without a splash, and continued to slip under the stream’s surface out of sight. I took me a few seconds to register what had just happened and I reared back setting the hook. My rod tip sprang to life with the sweeping head shakes of a steelhead trying to rid its jaw of my hook. The lighting fast fish darted to the tail of the pool, bending my rod well into the handle. Adrenalin rushed into my veins, quickly warming me up on the frigid day. After a short fight I had the small hen beat and on her side near the bank. Rob call down to me, “Do you want me to snap a picture Dave?” I called back, “No I will wait for a better fish.” I reached down with my hemostats and plucked the hook from the steelheads jaw. I gave her a nudge with my boot and she shot to the bottom of the pool like nothing had happened. Rob and I spent the next few hours alternating as one would fish the money hole while the other warmed up. It was a great afternoon of fishing. The cold hardly bothered us. We continued to catch one steelhead after another out of the great pool. After a few hours the action started to slow and I suggested to Rob that we move a little down stream where I knew of a few more good winter pools.

Rob and I moved quickly through the snowscape with the anticipation of another pool overflowing with chrome. The stream seemed to move sluggishly. It looked like slow moving jelly. It would be our last day to fish before the stream would be completely frozen over. I told Rob of a log jam I knew, just down stream of the money hole. Nine times out of 10 there would be an over sized, aggressive steelhead laying in wait under the logs. My heart sank as we approached the tangle of logs. The stream was completely frozen over around the hot spot. Rob had his eye on an undercut bank and flipped his baited float rig just upstream of the undercut. His float glided perfectly along the cut and bobbed under. Rob swung his rod tip sharply toward the overcast sky. The steelie bolted as Rob drove the hook home and his rod came alive, dancing as the chromed warrior tried to free itself. Rob was busy battling his 17th steelhead of the day, while I pondered how I was going to get my bait to the beast that was surly waiting under the ice covered log jam.

I quickly re-rigged my float so that the line was attached only at the bottom of the stem, waggler style. I then pinched a few more BB split shot to the line so my float would be slightly over-weighted. I flipped the rig out into the stream for a test swim. The float drifted just a fraction of an inch blow the surface…perfect. The stream was covered with thin sheet of ice for 20 feet, in front of the log jam. I took my 10 foot rod and laid it down along the stream and marked off two rod lengths in the snow. I then flipped my rig out into the icy stream for another test swim. The float landed upstream of my first mark and I started to count in my head as the float crossed the mark, “1 one thousand, 2 one thousand 3”…and so on. It took 8 seconds for the rig to reach my second mark down stream. It would take 8 seconds for my bait to reach the giant steelhead that was surely sitting under the ice covered logs.

I slid a fresh chunk of slimy, stinky, salmon roe into my egg loop, and flipped my rig just upstream of where the stream had frozen over. I watched as my partially submerged float as it slid under the ice and went out of sight. I counted, “1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3”…and so on. I dipped my rod tip under water as not to catch my line on the lip of the ice. As I counted I imagined the salmon roe drifting naturally, just ticking the bottom now and then, under the ice. I counted 8 and slid my pinky finger onto the spool of my centerpin reel. I felt my float start to wag in the current as the rig stopped drifting and knew my bait was dangling in the lair of a magnum steelhead. WHAM! The rod was nearly ripped my numb hands with the vicious strike of an angry fish. My rod tip lunged farther under water with the wide sweeping head shakes of a heavy steelie. The upset fish charged deeper into the log jam and I hoped my line would not wrap around a log and break. I palmed the spool on my reel a little harder than I should have and turned the great fish away from the logs. The battle waged on as the speed demon darted about under the cover of the ice. It was a knock-down drag-out battle without any tact, because of the ice. We were two brawlers exchanging scull smashing blows in the middle of the rig. I could do little to use the angle of my line to my advantage in wearing down the robust fish. Every time the warrior dashed for the logs I locked up on my reel and prayed my tackle would hold. Slowly, but surly I worked him toward open water, gaining line one inch at a time.

The brawler came out into the open stream thrashing on the surface like a roped steer trying to avoid the hot glow of the branding iron. His immense proportions and beauty were shocking. I was finally able to lift my rod from the icy water and immediately put a 45 degree angle between my rod tip and the hook that was lodged firmly in the roof the bruiser’s mouth. I knew this would wear out his side muscles quickly and I would soon bring him to hand. The monster made a few heart stopping runs, but I had him in open water now, and worked the angles to my advantage. Each time I turned him on his side I saw his crimson cheeks and the double bow that ran the length of his silvery sides. The great battler was beat. I used the current to my advantage, swinging him down stream of my position. I used my rod tip to point his head toward the sandy bank and the current pushed him until he rolled over on his side in the icy shallows. I stood over the beaten warrior and he seemed to be looking at me as he slapped his broad tail in the shallow water, as if to say, “Uncle”. Rob was standing behind me in complete awe of what had just unfolded before his eyes. He said in a smug voice, “Would you like a picture of that one?” I posed with the goliath fish for a split second before easing him back into his chilling realm. I watched respectfully as he swam under the ice and back to his home in the logs. My adrenalin was pumping so hard that I did not feel the sting of the ice cold water on my hands as I released the regal steelhead.

Here is the picture Rob took of me on that brutal day. Notice the sheet of ice and tangle of logs in the background.





I slid my gloves back on and called to Rob, “I think we have time to fish a few more pools before dark.” We fished on catching a few more, but none as nice as the giant buck from the icy log jam. The angry sky moved off to the east as the sun was setting. Rob and I decided to call it a day. A full moon rose above us as we retraced our footprints in the crusty snow. Rob told the story of the steelhead he had caught in the bend pool and the pipeline pool. In all Rob had landed 24 steelhead, 15 of them had come out of the money hole. I landed 9 and 6 of them had come from the money hole. The temperature continued to plummet, but it was a pleasant walk back to the old bridge with the wind at our backs. A Great Horned Owl called in the darkness as we climbed into our trucks. Robs new black Ford roared to life and he sped off into the night. My old green Dodge moaned and wined in defiance of the cold as I turned the key. Finally the engine sputtered to life and I was on my way to a warm cup of coco.

Fly Fishing for Bluegill

By
Dave Dyer

My fly line stretched out over the glass calm pond with a black sponge spider in tow. The spider touched down lightly on the pond's mirror surface, creating a series of circular wakes around it. Just as the wakes dissipated and the pond’s surface was smooth again, SNAP! The spider was attacked by a feisty bluegill. I instinctively reared back, setting the hook. My rod tip came alive; dancing as the slab bluegill darted about, trying to shake the needle sharp hook. Defiantly the hand sized gill came to hand and I quickly released him to fight another day.

Bluegill are my favorite fish to fly fish for. They do not get all the glamorous press like trout do, but they every bit as sporting a fish as the trout. Bluegill are very aggressive and eagerly attack dry flies throughout the day. I love to use light, 2 and 3 weight fly rods when pursuing bluegill. These feather light rods are more like wands in my hand rather than fly rods. A weight forward floating line is all an angler will ever need for bluegill. The small dry flies and nymphs I like to use to fool the gills into striking also cast effortlessly with light weight fly rods.

A wide variety of flies will trick bluegill into striking. Sponge spiders are my favorite dry flies. I prefer black ones with white rubber legs in a size 12. Yellow bodied poppers with black hackle are top producers. I prefer poppers from #12 to # 8. Many natural insect replicating dry flies will also trigger strikes from Bluegills. A few of my favorites are elk hair caddis and blue winged olives. In late summer and early fall terrestrial insects get the nod form fly fishers. # 6 and 8 hopper patterns and #14 black ants are top choices.

My favorite wet flies for bluegill are pheasant tails, tied with a partridge soft hackle, prince nymphs, and hairs ears. Wet flies are best tied on a #12 or 14 hook. One of my top producing methods for the taking of bluegill is the dry fly with a wet fly dropper tandem rig. When gills get too shy to strike a surface pattern they will often take a small wet fly just below the surface. When the Bluegill are feeding aggressively one can hook two at a time with a tandem rig.

Float Fishing for Trout

By Dave Dyer

I have always loved to fish. If there has been any constant in my life it has been my unexplainable drive to fish. Family and friends have been baffled by my intense love of angling. I have often wondered why I love to fish so much and as the years slip by I have come closer to fining out why. Perhaps it is a fascination with water. Water is one of the most powerful forces on earth. Water gives us life, but its destructive forces can also take it away. Water can carve canyons out of rock and it can wash away cities over night. Our bodies are primarily composed of water, but we can not live under water for more than a few minutes. Fish are as at home under water as we are above water. I have always been intrigued by the under water world that fish are so at home in. They are the conquerors of water.



I have been fortunate in my life. I have pursued most every species of fish in North America, in all types of water, with all types of tackle. I do not get to fish for them as much as I would like to, but stream trout are my species to fish for. Stream trout do not grow as large or fight as hard as the steelhead, I spend most of my time pursuing, but there is something special about the water stream trout spend all their lives in. Wild brook trout, rainbow, cut throat, and brown trout, can only survive in the purest water. Trout will only survive in clean, cold water. Trout can not survive in water much over 70 degrees Fahrenheit or that has too many pollutants. Because of their requirement for cool, clean water, stream trout live in some of the wildest most beautiful places on earth. The best trout fishing is normally found in areas that have been forgotten or over looked by man. The streams in these wild places run crystal clear and are so cold that you would not want to wet-wade them. The wild streams where trout survive contain a wealth of aquatic life, from plants to the insects trout feed on. Trout truly live in an under water wonderland.

I have spent countless hours fishing for trout. I like to fly fish for trout and I can tie a perfectly proportioned replica of any aquatic insect trout feed on. I enjoy duping aggressively feeding trout into striking my quasi-insect replications, or flies, if you will. Fly fishing for trout is generally effective during an aquatic insect hatch, when trout are aggressively feeding. When trout are not aggressively feeding they can be difficult to catch on flies.

I love to fish live bait for trout. Most trout anglers fly fish and quickly turn their noses up at bait fishermen. Bait fishermen get a bad reputation primarily because; they have been portrayed as slovenly louses in books and movies. The fly fisher is depicted as a great angler that romances trout onto the end of his line, while the bait angler is passed out drunk on the bank. It is easy to see why most anglers getting into the sport of trout fishing want to become fly fishermen. I am here to say that fishing live bait is the most effective method for the taking of stream trout. If anyone wants to contest that statement, I will gladly challenge them to a streamside trout fishing match. I bring far more trout to hand fishing bait than I do with flies and I have caught my largest trout on bait.



You can find baits that will catch trout at your local bait shop. Night crawlers, red worms, crickets, and wax worms can be purchased at the bait shop. My favorite store bought bait for trout are wax worms (bee moth larva). Wax worms are very similar to many aquatic insect larva species that are found in trout streams. The most effective baits for trout can only be found in the stream that you will be fishing. The aquatic insects that trout feed on make the best baits. Catching your own bait is nearly as much fun as catching a trout. Catching your own bait is easy and only requires a small net with fine mesh. Many aquatic insects can be captured by simply overturning rocks and logs in the stream bed and picking the aquatic insects off. Holding your net underwater, down stream of the rocks you are over turning, will catch the lion’s share of aquatic insects. You will also find small crayfish, sculpins, and minnows in the net. All make great trout bait. The aquatic insects that trout like best include: caddis, mayfly nymphs, and stonefly nymphs. In the late summer and fall terrestrial insects will make up a portion of a stream trout’s diet. Terrestrial insects include: grasshoppers, crickets, beetles, and ants. Grasshoppers are fabulous trout bait. They are easiest to catch in the early morning before the sun warms them and they become more active.



Once you have caught your bait, a good presentation is the key to hooking trout. I prefer to present my bait to trout under a float. Float fishing provides me with the most natural presentation. I prefer to fish with fixed float in streams. I use floats with a slim design in slow water and floats with larger diameters in fast current. I fix my floats on my main line to allow my bait to float just above the bottom. Once I have my float set at the proper depth and my hook baited, all I have to do is send my float on its way down stream. I slow my float down a bit at the start of the drift to allow my bait to get out in front of the shot and float. I can cover more water effectively with a float that I can with other methods.

My favorite trout rod is a 10 foot 6 inch noodle rod, rated for 2 to 4 pound test line. I like to employ the use of a centerpin reel when float fishing streams, but spinning reel will work fine also. A centerpin reel looks similar to a fly reel, but the centerpin has a larger diameter spool. The spool of a centerpin reel rotates effortlessly at current speed as the float makes its way down stream. Centerpin reels make it easier for me to control my float and allow for the longest drag free presentations. I spool my reels with 6 pound main line and then attach a leader of 2 or 3 pound fluorocarbon. I use tiny #12, 14, or 16 hooks with most of my baits. I also like to use small 64th and 80th ounce jigs. I mainly use jigs in conjunction with caddis larva or bee moth larva. A small jig tipped with a bee moth larva, under a float, is deadly on trout.

This article was originally published in the June 2006 Midwest Outdoors Magazine.

Pigeon River Angling Adventure

I fished the Pigeon River with my good friend Paul yesterday. It is always an adventure going on a fishin' expedition with Paul. The Pigeon River is located in the Northeast corner of Indiana and flows through the town of Mongo...that's right Mongo. The Pigeon river also flows through the heart of Indiana's Amish country. Driving through the Amish country one tends to encounter a good number of horse drawn carriages. Upon spotting the Amish top choice of transportation Paul turned to me and said, "Man Dave the Amish sure did have it right with those horse drawn carriages." I turned to him and said, "What do you mean?" Paul turned and looked at me with a devilish smile on his face and went on to tell me his theory on how the Amish stuck with horse drawn carriages as their prime mode of transportation for hundreds of years.

Paul's story went something like this.....
"Well you see Dave, the Amish had the foresight to see that gas prices would climb so high that only the rich could afford to drive automobiles. Eventually everyone else would be back to riding in carriages. Heck Dave, gas is already near $4.00 a gallon. How much longer do you think we are going to be able to afford to drive? Geez Dave, If I were you I would start looking for a good Palomino now. The Amish knew all along that eventually we would all be back to riding horses, washing our cloths in a tub, and cooking on a wood stove. The Amish have a leg up on all of us."

We finally made it to the river and I was lucky enough to catch a fine rainbow trout on my first cast of the day. Paul cursed loudly when he heard of my good fortune. He claimed catching a fish on the first cast of the day meant we would probably be skunked for the remainder of the day. He was wrong about that, but the fishing was slow. I managed a limit of trout, but had to work hard for them.

Here is a nice Pigeon River Brown Trout



The best thing about fishing around the town of Mongo is stopping for lunch at Sarge's. Sarge's is a tiny biker bar in the middle of town. If you went there on a weekend driving a Mini Cooper, chances are you would probably get your ass kicked. The bar is generally pretty quiet on week days at lunch time. The bar maid, Cindy cooks up an awesome cheese burger. She also has a few nice attributes that go very well with her perky small talk. The low cut, nearly see through blouse she was wearing accentuated her attributes very nicely, especially when she would lean over the bar to serve up a drink. Upon exiting the bar I commented to Paul about the loveliness of Cindy's attributes and he said, "I did not notice anything." .....Ya right Paul. I took the time to snap a picture of the clock at Sarge's. It Must be 5 o'clock somewhere. Hmmmm.



Paul and I continued to fish the rest of the afternoon, catching a few trout here and there. The fishing was not fantastic, but it was a beautiful day to be out on the Pigeon River. As we drove out of Mongo and through Amish country I found myself looking at some of the horse drawn carriages we passed. I wondered how much they cost and if the Amish would be willing to wholesale them to me, if I decide to open up a horse and carriage dealership in the near future.

Paul On The Pigeon River