Battle Hardened: Idaho's Clearwater River

Words by Drew Evans

For steelhead anglers who prefer the swung fly, Idaho’s Clearwater River stands out as one of the premier fisheries in the Lower 48. It’s a big, broad river with a reliable return of large fish and offers miles of prime water that’s tailor-made for spey casting. But the Clearwater can be a tough fishery—catching a steelhead on the swing here is generally harder than hooking one on nearby rivers, like the Grande Ronde and the Salmon. The water is typically clearer on the CF, the fish are bigger and more selective, and angling pressure can be high during peak season. That said, if you’re willing to grind, there are few places more rewarding to hook a steelhead on a fly.

The Clearwater flows west out of the Bitterroot Mountains, gathering volume from the Lochsa and Selway rivers before meeting the Snake River near Lewiston. The drainage is steep, forested, and high in elevation, which helps keep the water cold and clean—ideal conditions for migrating steelhead. Most of the river is accessible by road, with plenty of gravel bars and riffles that make it easy to cover water on foot. Still, you can’t be complacent when wading; the Clearwater’s boulders are notoriously slick. I.e., studded boots and wading staffs have their places here

What sets the Clearwater apart is the presence of B-run steelhead—larger than average fish that spend up to two years in the ocean before returning inland. These fish regularly push into the 10–12 pound range, and 15-20 pounders aren’t unheard of. Both hatchery and wild fish show up in the system, but wild fish are strictly catch-and-release.

Steelhead typically arrive in decent numbers by late August, with the best fishing coming in October and November as water temps drop and the fish settle into the river. Winter months can still be productive, but you’ll be working slower water with heavier tips and/or weighted flies, and cold hands.

This river is made for two-handed rods. Long tailouts, wide glides, and consistent flows make it easy to fish with either Scandi, mid-belly, long-belly and, in very rare occasions, Skagit setups. It all depends on the season and water temperature. In early fall, floating lines and traditional flies, like Muddlers or small hairwings can work well. Later in the season, some anglers switch to sink-tips to get down in the water column. Winter can also call for larger, darker patterns.

The Clearwater demands patience. It’s a technical fishery with clear water and sometimes moody fish. Even experienced anglers can go multiple days between grabs. You’ll need to cover water carefully, adjust for depth and speed, and stay committed. There are no shortcuts here—but the payoff, when it comes, is worth it.

If you’re new to the Clearwater—or steelhead on the swing in general—it’s easy to get discouraged. Long days without a grab are part of the process. The Clearwater doesn’t give up its fish easily. But once in a while, things come together in a way that reminds you why you keep showing up. And I’ll never forget my first Clearwater steelhead.

It was late January. I had put in the hours—a lot of hours—since the beginning of August. Week after week, working runs, covering water, freezing fingers, high hopes. Nothing. Then that day came. It was about 35 degrees and cloudy, and I was in one of my favorite runs below Cherry Lane.

I had just worked out the head of my Scandi line and made a short cast—not even a full swing. As soon as the black and blue Hoh Bo fly started moving across the current, it got eaten. Just like that. No build-up. No “this run feels fishy” moment. I wasn’t even mentally in the zone anymore, to be honest.

The grab was solid. The fish fought hard, and after a few tense minutes, I landed it. A clean, wild steelhead on the swing, in the middle of winter, after months of effort. No photo, no glory shot, no witness—I didn’t have my phone ready. Just a steelhead, a quiet river, and a small moment that made all the hours worth it.

Here are a few more first success stories from the Clearwater Country, shared by my House of Fly cohorts:

Karlie’s first trip to the Clearwater started like it does for many of us: three straight days of nothing. No grabs. No signs. Just miles of water and long hours spent figuring out the rhythm of the river.

She was living in Seattle at the time, and when the pull of Idaho’s famed steelhead water called, she answered. Alongside a friend from the city, she headed east to learn what all the talk was about. But steelheading, as always, started with humility.

“My head was on backwards. I didn’t know what I was doing,” she laughed, recalling those early moments on the water. “I taught myself from some videos with a rented rod from the Avid Angler.”

That was the beginning—cold days, self-taught spey casting, and a lot of trial and error. But Karlie wasn’t new to chasing big fish. Before Idaho, she’d spent time on the Olympic Peninsula and on the Naknek River in Alaska, fighting chum salmon and gaining confidence with ocean-going fish. Still, the Clearwater had its own lessons to teach.

Early on, she’d heard of Poppy Cummins and his legendary connection to the river. Like many before her, she made a stop at The Red Shed Fly Shop. Poppy gave her some honest advice and handed her a Green Butt Skunk—a classic swing fly with generations of success behind it.

With fresh tips and a little more hope, she went back out.

That first landed steelhead didn’t come easy. It took a few trips and more fishless days. But she stuck with it, refining her casts, getting more confident in her presentations, and believing in the process.

When the fish finally came—late in the fall, tipping toward winter—Karlie was ready. She had worked out the kinks in her spey game. She knew the water. She had belief in her swing. And when the fish grabbed, she fought it with calmly.

That first chrome steelhead on the Clearwater sealed it. Not just as an achievement—but as a personal turning point. Karlie wasn’t just learning to fish anymore—she was becoming a steelheader.

Her advice for anyone chasing their first fish on the swing?

“Put in the time,” she said. “Time and belief. You have to believe that your fly is going to get eaten. Optimism is key.”

And that’s the heart of it. You can’t fake belief out there. You have to feel it every swing, every step down the run, every time your fly disappears into that green water.

Karlie’s journey—like so many steelhead stories—is about more than catching. It’s about showing up, learning the water, and trusting your efforts  will eventually be rewarded.

Some days you never forget. For my friend Caden, that day was January 18th, 2020—the day he hooked and landed his first steelhead. If you’ve ever chased these fish, you know that moment changes everything. It marks a before and after in your fishing life.

Caden was a local who grew up in the Lewis-Clark Valley. He had seen these waters many times, but hadn’t started swinging them until he was 17. In 2020 that he decided to pick up a spey rod and go for it. He had been at it for months—since August, to be exact—putting in the time, trip after trip, cast after cast. Four long months with no grabs, no hookups, nothing. It would’ve been easy to hang it up, but that’s not who he is. He kept showing up. Steelheading teaches you discipline, humility, patience . . . if you stick with it.

One day Caden fished with his cousin and watched him hook and land a nice steelhead. And that told Caden where he’d be the following day, retracing exact steps.

“The adrenaline was crazy,” Caden said. “I went the day before and my cousin caught one—that was the first fish I saw landed on the swing. I checked out the same bucket. I put on a fly from a well-respected tier and angler. I got into the fish and couldn’t believe it. To this day I still think, ‘holy cow, I actually have one on.’”

Cadenwas fishing a 13’4” 8-weight LOOP Q with a T10 Skagit head and a Matt Lebrett tube fly—simple, trusted gear. And just like that, after months of nothing, the line went tight. According to Caden, time slowed down. The fight was long—around 15 minutes—mostly because of nerves. Every movement felt critical. But when he brought the fish to hand, the relief and adrenaline hit hard. It wasn’t just a fish—it was validation.

Caden said, “It’s not always the angler. Sometimes it’s the fish. It wasn’t like I just figured it out—it just happened.”

And that’s the truth. Sometimes the fish finally decides to eat, and all you have to do is be there, prepared and persistent.

But here’s the wild part: after that day, something changed. For the rest of that 2020 winter steelhead season, Caden caught fish nearly every time he went out. The wall had come down. The door was open.

Since then, the numbers have leveled off—like they do for most of us. He still finds fish now and again, but not on every trip. The grind is still real. But that first fish in 2020? It still stands tall.

So, if you’re out there, putting in time and wondering when it’ll happen, here’s Caden’s advice:

“Be consistent. Get a clean cast. Cover water thoroughly. Put in the time. The wait is worth it when you get that first one.”

Jay had never caught a steelhead back home in Michigan. He’d swung flies, had experience with big fish, and knew what a grab should feel like—but that moment hadn’t come. It finally did during his third trip to the Clearwater while one of the river’s long, promising runs.

“The channel and mainstem came together to make this riffled water,” Jay said, “It’s one of those spots that felt like it would hold fish. You have to be in the mindset that every cast is going to catch a fish.”

Jay was fishing a Fly Project Saga 8-weight rod with a Ballistic Express II line. The fly was a purple and black Umpqua pattern, one that he couldn’t remember the exact name of, but Karlie (Loftice) had given it to him the day before. At the time Karlie was an Umpqua rep and that fly ended up being the one.

“When I hooked it, I thought it was way bigger than it was,” Jay said. “It was a fresh A-run. Like a Missouri River rainbow on steroids. With the current and how it fought, I thought it was going to be a 30-inch fish.”

Jay stayed calm during the fight, playing the fish with steady pressure and giving it space when it needed to run.

“Pull harder, and when they wanna run—let ’em run,” he said in reference to that stunning fight. He did just that and soon after he had the fish at his feet. He was fishing with coworkers Caden, Noah and me, and he said that made the experience even more rewarding.

“Noah and I have fished a lot together,” Jay said. “We’ve been there for a lot of each other’s PBs and new species. When you land a new species with a friend like that, it makes it ten times better.”

The fish wasn’t the biggest Jay’s ever fought, but it meant something—and it confirmed what everyone says about putting in time and staying consistent.  Jay had also fished for Atlantic salmon, and he sees a lot of crossover with steelhead fishing. Both require patience, consistency, and the ability to keep your head in it when nothing’s happening.

“Atlantic salmon seemed more difficult, honestly,” he said. “We fished into the night (in Norway) until 1 a.m., because it stayed light. But both (Atlantics and steelhead) take time. You fish the same runs, cover as much water as you can, and eventually you’ll connect.”

Even now, with more experience under his belt, he still has the same internal debates most anglers do.

“There are days I’ll change flies constantly, and days where I won’t change at all,” he said. “It’s a constant battle. I’m always rethinking the fly, the swing, everything.”

When asked what advice he’d give to someone chasing their first steelhead on the Clearwater, Jay didn’t overcomplicate it:

“Mindset and expectations have to be in line,” he said. “Fish a lot and move a lot. Fish a run a few times and then move on. If you’re patient and fish thoroughly, when you find one—it’ll all be worth it.”

The Clearwater isn’t easy, but that’s part of the appeal. It’s like hunting permit in freshwater. You earn every fish here. Across all three stories—Karlie’s, Caden’s, and Jay’s—one thing stands out: steelhead don’t come easy. Each angler put in their time, fishing through long stretches without results. Karlie taught herself to spey cast through trial and error. Caden spent months swinging before his first grab. Jay didn’t connect until his third trip. None of them gave up.

What brought them through wasn’t just skill—it was patience, consistency, and belief. They kept casting, kept showing up, and eventually, it happened. That’s the thread tying them together: understanding that chasing steelhead is a long game, and the payoff clearly makes the effort worth it.

If you’re planning a trip to the Clearwater, it’s worth knowing about other steelhead options in the area. The Salmon River is a wild, remote system with strong runs of both A- and B-run fish. It’s harder to access, but offers a true backcountry experience, especially in the upper sections near Riggins and Salmon. The river is swingable in places, though it often fishes better with nymphs or other techniques due to its gradient and depth.

The Grande Ronde River, straddling the Oregon and Washington border, is a smaller, more intimate swing fishery that tends to be more forgiving. Runs are decent, access is good, and it’s known for having fish that respond well to the swung fly—particularly in October and early November.

The Snake River, which connects all these systems, also holds steelhead, but it’s more of a mixed bag. The water is bigger, dirtier, and not as ideal for spey fishing. That said, certain sections—especially near confluences like the mouth of the Clearwater—can produce fish on the swing.