I don’t normally count fish. But steelhead are a special case. They can be hard to find, hard to hook, and hard to land. You can do everything right, and still lose the fish. So every one you bring to the hoop and safely release is to be savored, even treasured.
Last Friday morning found me on Elk Creek in western PA at first light. The tally at that point was 175. I figured that 200 might be in reach on this three-day trip, and that five on day one would be reasonable. (In retrospect, it’s a little foolish to plan on catching a certain number of steelhead. You just never know what stream conditions, the elements, or the fish will throw at you.) I was flying solo, and got to the creek early enough to secure a prime mark. Within ten minutes, I was one-for-one. Then things slowed. I worked down the run and bagged another, a shiny fresh hen just in from the lake. Then nothing. By now the sun was up and I could clearly see into the tailout. It looked barren.

Since another angler had jumped into my original spot, I decided to take a chance and walk upstream. As I neared some prime water, a guide materialized from the river banks to deter me from slipping in below his client. I gave them both a friendly wave, and announced that I had no intention of crowding them. This put everyone at ease, and I struck up a conversation with Glen, the client, and T (dagnabbit, I forget his name) the guide. Cigars were offered, flies and pleasantries exchanged, and before you know it I was fishing in a nifty slot above their pool. Funny how kindness and politeness goes a long way!


I gave myself a hard stop of 1:30pm. I had to drive to OH to pick up Cam at college. Tomorrow, we’d be fishing in OH with a guide, and I wanted to be rested and ready. 183. We’re getting there.














