Thanks for the Drop Back

The national symbol flew north through the river valley, passed over us and banked to the right with the river. Hikers along the 150-foot cliff at our backs had an eye-level view of the broad-winged bald eagle as it glided under the heavy gray clouds that foreshadowed 12 hours of rain to come. The rain would pour into the rivers along the shore of Lake Erie carrying with it clay silt that would muddy up the rivers and cause a temporary stop to the fishing.

Of late the fishing has been one of the few pieces of normalcy left during these unprecedented, surreal times prompted by a virus. The virus has limited my work, but I’m fortunate to still have plenty. Fly fishing has been my mental therapy for nearly four decades and now it is more so. Neither the eagle nor the steelhead I pursue know anything about this virus, and I can pretend to do the same while the river’s current pushes against my calves.

My friend, Joe, has even more things to think about and that’s one of the reasons he’s joined me on the river this evening. We both value the river’s cleansing power. He is early on his steelhead journey. He was standing upstream developing his nymphing technique on a few fish that were much more interested in procreation than they are in eating a nymph or egg tied to his line.

I stand on a gravel bar trying my best to resist the temptation to swing to the fish in the shallows. I’ve succumbed to that temptation too often of late. My lack of success is a reminder that when you commit to swinging big flies for anadromous fish you focus not on the fish you see, but the fish you can sense from reading the water. While the skinny water along the edge appealed to spawning fish, the rapid current mid-river and the deep water in the tailout looked appealing to either fish moving upstream in search of spawning grounds or to fish dropping back to the lake after completing the spawn. A steelhead porpoised in front of VW sized boulder that served as the demarcation between the run and the tailout to affirm that the current, while swift, wasn’t too much for these giant rainbows.

To get a good swing through the faster section of the run, I waded through the skinny water and stood on the edge of the strong current. I cast the sink tip and Skagit line into the fastest water rushing toward the lake. The line swung from the end of the 11-foot rod down and crossed into the slightly slower water pushed its way around the giant boulder. The grab came three swings through the run with a welcome fierceness. I didn’t have to work to set the hook. The fish did it on her own. She responded to the pull of the rod by leaping from the fast water. She ran past the boulder downstream and I followed while also heading to the bank. My heart raced in part because it’s been a few days since I had felt such a grab and I wanted to land this fish more than I could fully understand. She splashed on the surface again and I worked to lower the fish back into the current to minimize the chance of her throwing the hook.

She made a few more runs before gently coming to my feet. She lay on her side resting in the shallow water, patiently waiting for me to take her picture and remove the barbless hook dangling behind a chartreuse, olive and white fly I tied on a copper shank.

I removed the hook and nudged the fish back in the current. She swam off unaware of the joy she brought or the gratitude I felt for being able to partake in such a simple, selfish pleasure.