Home Pool

Light rain fell from the thick, grey clouds pressing down on the tree tops. In other words, it was a perfect afternoon to swing flies for steelhead. I stood at the head of what I consider my home pool, even though my home is more than 10 miles to the south. I feel like it is home because it is where I fish most often. 

Over the last decade, I've gotten to know the pool very well. There are the deep slots near the head that hold fish as they prepare to continue

their southern migration. There is the small pile of boulders that provide shelter to fish and provide a place for a swung fly to get hung up. There is the slow, deep middle stretch that sometimes is full of fish and sometimes isn't. And there is the ever growing tail that was once a very reliable source of a fish or two but is now a mystery.

Rivers change every day, which is one of the reasons why I love them. Like life itself, they change in ways that we don't always understand.

 

The pool used to drain primarily to the near bank as it took a slight right hand turn. But after "100-year floods" became annual events thanks to upstream development and climate change, the river has straightened. Some water still jogs to the right, but much of it continues to hug the 80-foot cliff on the far bank until finally bending, with the cliff, to the right about 25 yards downstream. The far tailout used to be a narrow, shallow channel, but over time it has widened and is a bit deeper. The extra length of the tail has never produced a fish for me. Not sure why. And the part of the pool that used to be the old tail, rarely produces a fish anymore. Again, not sure why.

The mystery at the tail is matched by the near certainty at the front half of the pool. When conditions are right, I nearly always get at least one player to hit a swung fly before I even have to wade into the pool. And more often than not, I can expect multiple grabs. The pool is less than 20 yards wide, so a nearly effortless cast with an 11-foot rod can cover the water.

I've learned how to speed the fly along the shale that rarely holds fish and to swing slowly through the the deeper slots and through the boulders. I often need to relearn, as getting hung up on the bottom happens more often than it should.

This was my first time fishing the hole this fall. I'd visited a few weeks earlier during low water to see whether the sycamore tree that hangs over the hole had finally succumbed and fallen in. Thankfully, it hadn't. Although the split in its trunk had grown, bringing the tree's branches to about six feet from the water's surface. Over the years the branches had collected more than their share of spawn sacks and flies (including a few of my own). Today it was covered in fishing line, a sign that I wasn't the first one to fish the hole this fall. I stood in the slack water alongside the fast run that dropped into the pool. The boulders near the bank provided me with a vantage point to watch my fly swing over the shallow shale and into the deep slot directly downstream of me. I was trying out a new fly, tan and brown with copper flash. Its colors matched the bottom and I thought a natural-colored fly would work in the clear water. About 10 yards downstream, the fly hung up on the bottom and while I was able to pop it free, the point of the hook was bent by the rocky bottom and I decided to change my fly, as well as the hook.

I tied on a black and orange leech-like tube pattern developed by Jeff Liskay, a Great Lakes steelhead guru, and taught to me by Joe Beno, a younger guide on Lake Erie and steelhead alley. Over the last few years it has become my confidence fly, replacing the tried and true black and purple marabou fly that still gets a lot of use. On the second swing, my confidence in the fly was rewarded by a fierce grab followed by a long run that made my reel sing. The fish was near the tail of the pool before I got her under control and guided her back upstream. I tried to calm my breathing and prepared myself for the next round of the fight. I used the leverage of the long rod to bring the fish toward the net, but she had other ideas. She quickly reversed direction and leaped from the water before splashing down upstream of me. She exited the water one more time before I folded her into the net. She looked fresh from the lake, several miles to the north. No wear or tear on her body, yet. I removed the barbless hook and returned her to the river. The clouds got a little lower. The rain fell a little harder. Another beautiful day in paradise.