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.
Most of my commercial flying time is in the Cessna Citation Jet. Flying the Citation was fun and it took me all over North America, but what I really wanted to do was become an Alaskan bush pilot. The closest I ever came to becoming a bush pilot was flying the Citation into a dirt strip at Molsen Lake Lodge in Manitoba Canada. I do not think our Indian guides had ever seen a jet before the way the were gathering around the plane and carrying on.
