Is the Tug Enough?

A small subset of the social deviants that fish do so with flies. A much smaller group of those fly anglers prefer to chase the anadromous version of the rainbow trout called a steelhead. And a relative few – you might say the most deviant of the deviants – swing a fly to entice a strike from these pink-sided silver bullets with fins.

Wild, native steelhead call the northern Pacific home. I live in the Great Lakes region, so I fish for the descendants of steelhead that were transplanted here from our nation’s West Coast more than a century ago. Pacific steelhead are born in the river and head to the ocean, before returning to their home river. Most of the steelhead I chase start life in a hatchery. A few are born in the rivers that flow into the lakes. None are native. I don’t care. I am addicted to hooking these fish even if they are planted in the river when they’re about 10 inches long. They return one or two years later when they range from 18 to 26 inches long. A fish that is returning after its third summer in the big lake can top 30 inches. Of late my addiction to addiction to these fish has evolved so that I prefer enticing them with a swung fly.

Anglers that swing flies are fond of saying “the tug is the drug.” The tug comes when a fish, entranced by the movement of a swung fly tied with hair, fur, feathers, flash and other materials that undulate in current, grabs on and literally tugs the hook, line, rod and hand of the angler in an act of pure aggression. That saying begs the question, "Is the tug enough?" I am forced to ponder this question while standing on a rock, mid-current, hunched over, hands on knees. A bystander might guess I’ve been punched in the gut. I might as well have been.

From this rock, I can swing a fly tied with rabbit fur that resembles a black leech through the conflicting currents caused by a narrowing of the stream bed and love-seat-sized boulders. The boulders create pockets of slow water next to tight, fast moving currents. Given the cold-water temperatures, I expect the fish are holding in the slower water to conserve their energy. I had fished this run twice before without luck but remained optimistic – despite losing two flies in its depths – because, in angling parlance, it looked “fishy.”

I cast out the fly line and the fly swung, right to left, through the conflicting currents before dangling directly below me in a slow pocket of water. The fly line hung without life one moment and was electrified the next. The slack disappeared, the line tightened, and I responded by pinching the line between my finger and the cork handle of my twelve and a half foot, two-handed rod. Anglers learn early that when a fish pulls their line, they should pull back. Swingers need to unlearn that lesson and allow the fish to grab the fly and turn before pulling on the rod. Failure to give the fish the chance to turn results in the fly being pulled directly out of the fish’s mouth. A delayed response increases the odd that the hook will find purchase in the corner of the fish’s mouth after it has turned.

As I hurriedly pinched the line, I could feel the fish shake its head twice before the line went from alive to dead. After a hard afternoon of fishing, this was my one tug and the clock said it would be my last of the day. I bent at the waist, hands on knees. I looked at the rocks in the dark water. They were silent. With a forecast of cold, rain and work, it is not clear when I will return to these waters. For now, the tug will have to be enough.