Unexpected Delights

The grab came as a complete surprise. It followed a few hours of mild frustrations on an afternoon that began cloudy and damp on a different river. I started my social distancing routine by hiking into a remote stretch of the Grand River only to be disappointed by its chocolate hue. I walked the riverbank for a quarter mile upstream hoping that I'd see something promising in one of the side currents. I spooked a wild turkey while following the tracks of raccoons that had been feasting on freshwater clams pushed onto the bank by the recent heavy rains. I flipped a few casts into the current halfheartedly before deciding to hike back up the hill to my car and drive back west to the Chagrin, which looked a promising green color when I crossed over about 40 minutes earlier.

I worked up a decent sweat with the hike up the hill and tried to enjoy the songbirds touting spring. But I spent most of the trek lamenting my original decision to bypass the Chagrin and admonishing myself to pay more attention to the turbidity gauge on the Grand. An hour later I was wondering whether I should have just stayed home. On the Chagrin, I had fished a stretch of familiar water without even a pluck and my mood didn't improve even though the wind off the lake pushed all the clouds away revealing a bright, blue sky. The water flowed dark green thanks to the suspended clay particles from the saturated banks and feeder creeks. The Grand's chocolate color was caused by the same clay, just that much more of it. Only a few anglers were in sight, even though the stretch I fished was more suburban than secluded. Two majestic Canada geese worked the far bank for food. Woodpeckers worked on the dead ash trees on the bank behind me. It was turning into a delightful afternoon, but it was wasted on me.

I chose to walk farther upstream to fish a fast moving run that I had never fished before. I was on the inside part of the bend where the water was deeper and faster moving. The far side looked more promising, but at the same time I didn't see any tell-tale signs of spawning fish. I muttered to myself that I was alone on this stretch because the anglers were all upstream, with the fish.

These were just some of the thoughts bouncing through my head when I decided to resume my halfhearted fishing and flipped a bit of line out of the end of the rod and watched the line swing from the fast, shallow current into a deeper run of undetermined depth that looked both promising and perilous for wading. The grab disrupted any thoughts I had of moving back downstream to more familiar water. The aggressive grab was followed by a powerful dash downstream that started my reel screaming. The fish kept pulling line off the reel until I gathered myself somewhat, tightened the drag setting and started trying to guide the fish back upstream. Chasing after it downstream wasn't an option. I reclaimed half the line before the fish made another furious dash downstream and splashed at the surface, sending water spraying and causing me to focus harder on keeping the fish under control. Slowly I pumped the rod and cranked the reel until the fish could be swung into the rocky shallows.

The fish was as silver as a newly minted dime, but it wasn't fresh from the lake. She was fresh from the spawn. Her tail and fins were rough around the edges and her belly was scarred. These were the tell-tale signs that she had wrapped up her spawning run and now was making the journey back to the lake. There was no way to know how far she had journeyed south to spawn, but she was clearly very hungry by the time my olive, white and chartreuse fly adorned with a bit of crystal flash and olive rubber legs enticed her. These so-called dropback steelhead are active feeders -- unlike the fish that are actively spawning or those sulking through the winter. She had obviously restored most, if not all, all of the energy she had expended on her spawning run. Her power tested me and my gear.

The delights kept coming. Three more dropbacks emerged from the run, including one on the final swing, which followed a long-distance cast almost to the far bank. This fish put up as much of a fight as her two female and one male predecessors. The rod bent deep into the cork. The reel screamed again. The hook and knot held and I was able to once again swing the fish into the shallows. I quickly slid the barbless OPST hook from the corner of her jaw and admired her as she did a U-turn and returned to the fast current. I slid the hook onto the leg of one of the rods eye's and reeled up the rest of the line. I could have fished longer, but sometimes it is wise to end the day with a fish. Before heading back downstream, I took a moment to just enjoy the river. The rushing water nearly drowned out the highway two bends to the south and the whistle of the train rushing down the tracks several bends to the north. The sinking sun and the trees on the bluff behind me cast long shadows across the water. A cardinal sang from one of the trees. The afternoon that began gray and brown had transformed into blue, green and silver. What a delight.