When I blocked out February 24-25 for steelheading in western PA, I was certain that it was a plan that would never see action. The creeks were an impenetrable wall of water in its solid state. Not happening. Then the thaws came. The ice released its lock on the creeks. And suddenly, by golly, we had optimism. This could happen. The trip is on.
Then came the blizzard. I can get pretty motivated when there’s something in the way of something that I want to do, and I figured that if the snow stopped early enough on Monday the 23rd, I could still make the drive and be fishing on Tuesday. However, I didn’t expect over 18″ of heavy, wet snow. But I was snowblowing the driveway at 11am, the snowflakes still flying. My neighbor, who has a plow, usually clears the shared driveway. But as time moved farther past noon, and it still wasn’t cleared, my worst fears became reality. My neighbor was away. If I wanted to fish, I would have to clear about 300 feet of that snow — the last horrible 6 feet, a pudding of heavy-as-wet cement glop, by shovel. Ugh. No way. The trip is off.
But no, dammit, it isn’t. I’m going steelheading tomorrow. So I fired up the blower, steeled my back, and had at it. And that’s how, at 4pm, I found myself heading north on I-91. I had wet roads until Albany, then lake effect snow on and off from Rochester into PA. Safely in bed, I was out like a light at 1:30am.
The silver lining to this tired angler cloud is that you don’t need to start early on a winter’s day, especially if there’s likely to be slush in the water. I was fishing by 10:30am — perfectly civilized — and while slush was a problem, it wasn’t a deal breaker. I got maybe one good drift out of 6 casts. I missed the first bite because he ate where I didn’t expect it. The second miss was a foul. Finally, I was on the board. This fish was the third of the day; I’m particularly captivated by the see-through tail. Already, yesterday’s shoveling horrors seemed worthwhile.By 11:30am, the slush was almost gone, and I was hooking fish in earnest. When I’d left CT, I was at 282 steelhead landed. I was hoping to drive home somewhere in the 290s. But the fish kept coming, and there came a point in the time-space continuum when I dared to think: I could break 300 today. Yes, I think I can. What happened next was a phenomenon that I only recognized several days later: I got into the zone. Nothing else registered — not the cold, not the ice, not my hunger, not the time. I was, as the colloquial expression goes, unconscious. Find fish, cast, mend, drift, adjust and mend, set, fight, land. Geez, the last time I looked at my watch it was 11am. Now, it was after 1pm. 299, baby! Ringo Starr sang, “It don’t come easy,” and he ain’t lying. We found a pod of steelhead in a whitewater plunge and run, including a couple huge dark horse bucks. But they were most uncooperative. So we moved down the run to another short stack of fish, their location belied by dark backs against the light green substrate. First cast. Big upstream mend. Dead drift. Indicator goes under. Sweeping set downstream. Fish on. It was a fine steelhead for number 300, a chunky hen in the 8-10 lb. class. Despite the barely-above-freezing water, she put up a fight worthy of her size. With pink and rose on her flanks and secondary and tertiary rainbow colors on her cheeks, she was an absolutely gorgeous creature. So, yeah. I kissed her. It was a little after 1:30pm.Over my steelheading career, I’ve noticed that the sudden arrival of a cold front has an immediate, negative effect on the bite. Around 2pm, the wind picked up, the water began to stain, and bites became a scarce commodity. We took a lunch break, and headed to a different mark, where the water was the color of tea with a drop or two of milk. We picked several pockets and runs and pools, but found diners in only one of them. I missed the first, landed the second, and called it a day at 305. Not in my wildest dreams did I think this would happen on this trip. Had I been in a different mindset, I would have brought a truly special cigar to celebrate the occasion. Tell you what: what I smoked tasted just damn fine.Madelaine’s is my go-to eatery, and I was ready for a celebratory dinner of their meatloaf and an IPA. What?!? Closed on Tuesdays?!? I ended up at The Barracks, which as you can see looks a little like a disco-casino-local bar mashup. The cheeseburger was excellent. The Yeungling draft most quenching. Yep. I was going to sleep well tonight.
We had a quarter inch of rain overnight, so we decided to roll the dice on some fresh fish entering the system. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much to trigger a migration in steelhead alley. So we headed to a spot in PA about a mile away from the lake. We had to move well upstream to distance ourselves from the crowds, but we were in position at 6:45am, normally a little late but just right for today. We strategically carpet bombed a deeper hole, but that turned up blank. (We saw only one other fish landed the entire time we fished this general section, and it came from this hole.) Undaunted, we moved downstream to a swift run, more of a slot, that bordered a bleached tree trunk which created an enticing current break.
I had just made the comment that, with the climbing sun in my face, it was a wee bit difficult to see the indicator — but not to worry, because with the current moving so fast, the fish would set themselves. On cue, indicator down and fish on! I lost this steelhead to a snapped tippet, another when it ran between a pinch point of two submerged boulders, and two more to the whims of the steelhead gods. But I brought three to net, and, bad luck aside, considered myself ahead in the bargain.
Silver in the gold of the morning light. Clearly, this first pod of fish came in from the lake overnight — newly-minted coin bright, aggressive takes, and spirited runs. Their freshness, the speed of the water, and the rocky bottom made for some challenging landing conditions. They weren’t bashful about leaping out of the water, or peeling off line in a hurry. Each one brought to net was a hard fought victory; each release a moment to savor, coupled with the thought that we might cross paths again this winter.
As the action tapered off, we declared victory, and headed to Ohio. The rains had missed there, and the water was low but fishable. Unfortunately, the low flows meant far fewer fish in the system; Holes, pools, slots, and runs that normally would have at least a few occupants were barren.
This steelhead was part of a pod of a half dozen fish that we rousted from beneath a ledge. We let them resettle, and came back a hour later to fish for them. She was the only one we could get to eat. The Ohio fish were far more dour than the morning group in PA; I had as many fouls as fair eats. We managed four properly hooked fish, and three cigars. That’s a win.
My intention was to get up early and fish a few hours before driving back to Connecticut. But I was dragging. What’s more, I was dreading having to battle crowds and jockey for position. So I made the command decision to head back to PA and fish until dark. At first, it seemed like I’d sent myself on a futile excursion. I couldn’t find fish in any of the usual places. The water is a highly popular mark, but I only encountered three anglers over a 750 yard stretch; as it grew darker, I had the whole place to myself. Being the stubborn sort, I went back a favorite slot hard against a submerged ledge beneath a fly-eating tree. Second cast, the indicator disappeared, and I buried the hook in the steelhead’s jaw. A fine, fresh camera-shy hen who bolted the moment I removed the hook.
I’m not sure what I liked more: catching that fish, or sleeping in the next morning.
currentseams.com 