Move Fast and Smash Stuff
Words by Dana Sturn
LET'S GET THIS OUT OF THE WAY RIGHT NOW. EVERYTHING YOU'VE READ ABOUT STEELHEADING ISN'T TRUE. NONE OF IT.
This is what you’ve been conditioned to believe: swinging flies through a beautiful pool is something akin to a spiritual experience. And if things don’t go well (meaning, you don’t catch a fish), there’s always tomorrow. After all, this is recreation, and eventually the fins of fortune turn in your favor. Right?
WRONG.
You see, steelheading is a perilous undertaking, and if you want to catch one of those treasured fish you need to understand that the river doesn’t play nice. In the initial stages you will stumble about, tripping over sticks, and sliding off rocks. You will fall in. You will bump into things all the time, especially your lack of skill and knowledge. This is an ego bruising business.
And this: watching an accomplished steelheader work their way down a run and actually hook a steelhead bruises again . . . because they make it all look so easy. Cast, mend, and hold on. That’s it. But when you try it, of course nothing happens. Or worse, you get one right away and can’t figure out why the other folks aren’t getting them too. Eventually you start to believe that steelheading is all about luck. Which is basically true. Just not the kind of luck you had in mind.
Steelheading involves two kinds of luck: the bad kind, and no luck at all. I’m kind of an expert on the bad kind. Over the years I’ve slid off rocks and slipped under the surface, just yards above fast water chutes. I’ve fallen out of rafts and swam a hundred yards of class III whitewater without a lifejacket. I’ve crossed paths with rattlesnakes, and had grizzly bears lumber out of the woods a few rod lengths away. And I’ve white-knuckled it through a few seriously sketchy light aircraft flights through mountainous terrain when the visibility suddenly dropped to zero. There’s more, but you get the picture: bad luck is just part of the game, and the only thing you can do is gut it out and wait for those times when there’s no luck at all. Which is a good way to describe most days on steelhead water.
The solution to no luck in steelheading? Move faster and smash things.
MOVE FAST
One year I invited the legendary steelheader Jerry Wintle to lead me down the famed Graveyard Pool on British Columbia’s Thompson River. I’d like to say I did this out of deep respect and admiration for Wintle, but honesty what I really wanted was to watch the guy work. He fished a single hander. He didn’t cast far. He didn’t mend, and he took several good sized steps as his fly swung around. It would make a great story if he got one (he didn’t), but catching was irrelevant: what struck me was how quickly he moved. In the time it took me to two-step my way through 100 yards of water, Jerry had covered all the water he cared to fish and was off to the next spot. This guy zoomed down the run, covering as much water as possible, looking for that one fish that’s “looking up.”
This wasn’t about “covering a pool” or “taking your pleasure on a run.” Or any other tweed and cigars nonsense. This was managing the nasty luck of steelheading by getting ahead of it. Faster than the rest of us. Jerry did this by “high grading” the water, looking for spots most likely to hold steelhead. While a novice might think that steelhead could be anywhere, the truth is that most of the water won’t hold fish. So don’t spend too much time there. But don’t just move fast—move faster, and don’t slow down until you find “character water”-- slightly choppy or “dancing” water, eddies or swirls that appear on the surface and drift downstream, and the tell-tale “V”—all indicators of subsurface structure like depressions in the streambed or boulders that might break the current just enough to hold a steelhead. Tap the brakes in this water and maybe even make a few extra casts. Once you’re satisfied there isn’t a steelhead hiding there, move on. Cast, mend, take three, four or even five good steps as your fly swings. Then reel up and head to the next pool. You’ll cover more water this way, and increase your chances of finding a willing fish.
SMASH STUFF
Embracing bad luck on a steelhead river means accepting that, at some point in the day, something will go sideways. It could be as simple as tangled running line on what you thought was your best cast. It could be as ugly as the dreaded “on and gone” moment, where days of dawn til dusk casting culminate in the sudden joy of a tight line, immediately followed by the slack of despair. Moments like these break your confidence and rhythm—not to mention your heart. But these minor mishaps.
The worst is a busted kit. Why? Because, short of death, as long as your gear is intact you can still keep fishing. Smash a rod and that’s it for the day, maybe even the week, right?
Well, that depends.
I’ve smashed several rods over the years, and a few reels too. On rugged steelhead rivers, spey rods often double as wading staffs, hiking poles, and snake pokers. But even just walking between runs puts your gear in mortal danger. While hiking into a remote Thompson River pool one day I slipped on an incline and slapped a treasured CND rod into some trees, and snapped about six inches off the tip section. The next year on the Sustut River I splintered a Bob Clay cane rod by pulling too hard on a big fish. And another time I managed to convert a friend’s brand new four-piece Sage into a five-piece.
Despite these risks, becoming ok with smashing things is an important part of a steelheader’s development. Because when stuff breaks you learn things. You adapt. That prized CND? A long walk to the truck and a half-hour drive back to town to get my spare left me with no reasonable alternative but to make do. So I fiddle fished it down that remote pool and managed a 20-pound buck. On the Sustut I laid the remains of the Bob Clay rod on my wading jacket and hand lined that fish to the beach. And Sage replaced my friend’s five-piece with an even better four-piece that my friend still uses today. So even when the bad luck hits, the day—the week—isn’t done until you say it is.
Traditions and even promises sometimes need smashing too. And while this really isn’t a matter of bad luck, stomping around on things other people value is always risky business. But do it anyways. When everyone fishes small, fish big. On summer waters where the floating line is often preferred—and in some places even “required”—loop on that sink-tip and crush them. And, if you’re really hammering them this morning, does it matter if you told your buddies you’d be back at the truck by 10? If they also move faster and smash things they will understand. If they don’t…well, they’ll learn things.
You will put yourself through a lot of pain to become a competent steelheader. It’s not all cigars and martinis or some soothing Haig-Brownian reverie. Despite what you see online, steelheading isn’t about catching fish: it’s about the hits you’re willing to take, and how often you’re willing to take them. The faster you move, and the more stuff you smash gets you closer to that something about steelheading that’s pretty hard to define.
While you’re taking your lumps, remember that your first fish, or the next, is waiting for you out there, somewhere, between the next two casts. And if not those, then the next two. Or the next. The only way to find out which cast makes magic is to endure. The river isn’t friendly, but stay with it long enough and you might even start to welcome those bruises.