The first fish, always exciting, extra-special and often unexpected, can always be enamored with “hard-earned”, “worked-for”, “overdue”, or some such portrayal of time and effort. When it’s the first fish of the season, it’s like reconnecting with a long gone friend in the way familiar and new can intertwine. When it’s on one of those I’ll-drive-over-and-just-check-things-out kind of evenings it suddenly fits perfectly into some grand script only vaguely remembered. When it bests my record for earliest adult steelhead caught in this river, it stands worthy of note if only because time itself demands some recognition of movement.

A pulse of water over the last few days measurably cooled off a river that wilts in the oppressive heat of late summer. I decided to swing a floating line and a classic low-water spey modeled after the Lady Caroline changed up with pheasant rump wing and hackle in a more orange shade. One of those setups that feels classy anyd cool – the way steelhead are meant to be fished for.

The first fish barely gave me enough time to get back into the casting groove and settle into the rhythm of the river. The hard tugging boil, a clicking reel and for a moment there’s a bit of disbelief this is all really happening. I get it in quickly, grab a quick photo and wonder what’s next. I fish down past the bucket, into water I rarely connect in, despite it’s fishy appeal. I’ve stood here easily a hundred times and the line is always the same – one more step and swing and I’m outta here. That’s when it all happens again, the soild tug, boil and a broad flash of silver across the surface before it all goes slack. Whoa.
Always save the top of upper N-S for when the light is just right. Don’t fish it too early, the water is too skinny to chance spooking fish. Do one pass through and make it count. Halfway through, the fish is into the backing before the next breath. Lift into it and it turns upstream, lunging heavy and surely through the fast water – the sound of line peeling through the water. Working it over to the shallows and the fish comes unbuttoned – simple as that.

That’s when the much sought after steelhead shakes start to creep in. It’s hard to maintain composure and calm in these situations – like 32 ounces of espresso delivered directly into a nervous system now on edge. But that would be the last grab of the evening. A first night out, a familiar place and a fish that will be remembered for the rest of the year.

August 12 and the first fall steelhead are showing at customary places in the valley. I’ve been intermittently snorkeling a couple of reaches: watching the spring run Chinook move up as the flows dropped in early July. I saw my first steelhead in late July – two adults skirting around me in the faster water. Today a pair sat on a tailout in the broad heat of the day – I could have duped one of them with a skating fly at dark if I had brought a rod and waited it out – but no regrets – plenty of time. Otherwise, a couple of fish were spotted in the faster water where spotting was difficult. Typical smaller adults, but the harbinger of the upcoming fall. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for a cool down for a couple of days to bring on more comfortable water temperatures. August 19 is my magic day when a weak front passed over, cooling things down and unleashing a wave of biting fish. Thus, we sit one week away from the potential kickoff of fall steelhead season. Maybe sooner, maybe later. Much summer still looms. Will do another snorkel pass next week and see how things are progressing….

Of note was the fact that the fish were holding in faster water – not surprising, but I didn’t see fish in the belly of the runs where I’ve come accustomed to focusing effort. These high lies probably reflect water temperature and need for cover and my own desire to fish the “easier” water in the bucket of the run.

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.