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SALMON RIVER, near Stanley, Idaho - It is called paying your dues and we were forking out more than our share. The first 12 hours of our three-day excursion to catch steelhead on the Salmon River here was coming to a close. We had scouted roughly 20 miles of river without much luck.
The morning had started in the most unexpected manner when my father-in-law, Larry Barrigar, spied a wolf wading the Salmon not three miles from our cabin in Stanley.
After snapping a few pictures, we turned our attention back to the goal of the trip - for the three of us in the group to land the elusive sea-run rainbow on fly rods. While some of the fish have not eaten for up to 10 months since entering freshwater, they are not looking for something to feast on, which makes them hard to catch. Their sole focus is delivering a precious cargo of eggs or milt to the river bottom.
We finally found a pair holding staging to spawn, but we couldn't get this couple to pay any attention to several traditional steelhead flies or the Fifi fly, the pink shrimp-like pattern with big eyes the guy at Lost River Outfitters in Ketchum told us we would need.
With daylight fading and a storm approaching, we ran into Jack Brooks of Twin Falls, Idaho. Jack had stopped to check out some traditional steelhead runs. He was more than willing to help us find fish.
In 40 minutes, Jack showed us more than a dozen fish and even managed to briefly hook one with his "lump of white yarn" and classic closed- faced reel Zebco spinning rod outfit.
"You guys are trying to feed them. I'm trying to piss them off," said Brooks, who said he had guided steelhead and salmon anglers on the Salmon since he was a 12-year-old.
We retired to the cabin to build new leaders and tie more Fifis, with our lofty expectations of landing steelhead renewed by the seasoned veteran.
The next day we hooked up with Julie Meissner and Bob Sevy of Sawtooth Fishing Guides out of Stanley. Larry and I spent the morning with Bob while Russ Ridges, our partner in the venture, went with Julie. Russ managed a couple of takes, but failed to hook up. Larry and I may have felt a couple of tugs, but it could have just been excitement. I was beginning to wonder if this trip would end like my first - unsuccessful - steelhead adventure in fall 2004 near the town of Salmon.
Russ and I went down river with Bob after lunch, while Larry and Julie headed for a spot that had proved fruitful two years ago. At our destination, I found myself holding my breathe while watching a large female work a nest 10-feet from the bank. Things got even more exciting when a huge male dropped in. Russ made several casts, attempting to hook the male, but it was the female that took the Fifi.
As line screamed from his reel, Russ did his best to match the sound with cheers of excitement. The wonder was made even more amazing as the buck never lingered from the female's side. Perhaps her twisting and turning in an effort to throw the hook was arousing to the male. It was an incredible sight. Eventually the line broke and both fish faded into the shadows of the deep.
Russ was, of course, disappointed, but thrilled to have felt - for the first time - the power of a fish as highly regarded as the steelhead. We left the hole to find Larry and see how he was doing. We arrived just in time to watch him fighting his third fish since lunch.
"I wish you could have seen the first one," he said. "It was 36 inches." Larry invited me to his "lucky" spot. With Bob spotting from a high bank, I cast my fly in front of the holding fish. Several casts later I felt the "tug." The fish didn't move much at first, but then took off down river. I had warned myself over and over to avoid trying to slow the fish by holding the line with my hand, but I habitually did so. Big mistake. The burn left on my hand is still smarting more than a week later.
I soon realized the fish was foul hooked, with the fly sticking in its side. I pointed the rod at the steelhead and yanked the line, hoping the barbless hook would easily pull from the fish, but he just kept going and I realized I had to land him. Bob hit the water with a net and a few minutes later I had my first steelhead, this one rodeo- style.
"You looped his tail. The fly had fallen out. Not sure I have ever seen that before," Bob said.
I held the steelhead for a few minutes making sure our battle had not tuckered him out. It was a perfect time to admire the color of this awesome creature and wonder about its amazing life cycle.
This fish had swam more than 900 miles downstream, finding its way past eight dams and the flatwater behind them its ancestors had not had to face. After reaching the Pacific Ocean, the fish had journeyed great distances, possibly as far away as the Sea of Japan. Fattening up on the rich resources of the sea, the fish started to feel the urge to return to its birthplace. Finding the mouth of the Columbia River, it started its run home past the eight dams and hordes of anglers to get to this spot. I wasn't about to keep it from its business and released it to the water. I also would not be counting this fish as a legitimate catch because of the way I had lassoed it into the net.
Walking back to the cars, we thanked Julie and Bob for getting us into fish. Later that night, again tying flies and leaders, we agreed that we had learned much from spending time on the water with guides.
We proved it the next morning. We had asked Julie and Bob if they minded if we fished the same hole and they said it was open to whomever got there first. It wasn't us. Another group of anglers had sent one of their party to hold the spot early in the morning. We drove past wondering if we would be able to find such success somewhere else.
After losing a couple of hours looking for fish at the place where Russ had hooked into his big female, we crossed our fingers and headed back upriver, hoping the other anglers had abandoned "our" spot. They were standing at their trucks to leave.
We started across the river wondering if there would be any fish left after seeing two steelhead in the back of the truck. There were a half a dozen steelhead gather in "the hole." We left them alone and wondered down river to look for other steelies. We found a pair and Russ began to cast to them, hoping to finally get a steelhead in hand.
It wasn't long before Russ' version of the Fifi disappeared into a fish. The female ran upstream, turned into the current and sped down river. Quickly watching his backing appear, Russ put his hand on the reel to slow down the run and the leader broke. It was a classic steelhead run.
Back at "the hole," Larry generously let me take the best spot and it was not long before my Winter Orange legitimately found the corner of a hatchery male's mouth. This fish was larger than the foul hookup the day before and, having witnessed Russ' two lost fish, I wasn't about to let this one get anywhere near the strong current.
I had confidence in the rod, the leader and the fly, but I wasn't sure about the angler. I muscled the fish as much as I dared and got it close to Larry, who had come to net the fish. As he dipped the net, the fish spooked and dashed through his legs to make yet another attempt at freedom. Larry gingerly lifted his leg while pushing my line down and the fight was on again.
Russ told me how his arm had become sore from holding the butt of the rod against it for leverage while fighting his fish. Now I knew what he was talking about. When we finally got the steelhead in the net, the fly fell out if its mouth. The goal had been realized, each of us landing a steelhead. It had been the best of Larry's three trips to this river.
We quickly measured the fish at 32 or 33 inches - it was wiggling a bit. Larry guessed it weighed 13 or 14 pounds. I was ecstatic to have landed such a large fish, but the reward came not from the size of the steelhead, but from the wonder of its precious and threatened life.
The steelhead's revenge is the hook it set in me, ensuring a life of dreaming of returning to the Salmon to try and catch his progeny.
Contact Brett Prettyman at brettp@sltrib.com" Target="_BLANK">brettp@sltrib.com or 801-257-8902. Send comments to livingeditor@sltrib.com" Target="_BLANK">livingeditor@sltrib.com.