Wild Steelhead and a Bunny Named Nutsack

Words by Greg Thomas

IT WAS RAINING SO HARD WE COULD HAVE RAISED OUR CHINS TO THE SKY, OPENED OUR MOUTHS, AND DROWNED.

It rained so hard, in fact, that the toads decided they too might drown if they couldn’t extricate themselves from the muck and squirm their way somewhere safe—unfortunately, they bet on the highway. They were not safe on the highway; our tires mowed them down in squishy masses. There were other cars and trucks on the road and their impact was no different; the highway turned into a greasy mess, and we wondered if we were sending yet another specie to extinction, all in one night. On a day when we landed two wild steelhead, there should have been endless chatter on the drive home. This time we just grimaced a little, shook our heads, and hoped the carnage might end.

Home that night was Manzanita, Oregon, a sleepy, beautiful little town nestled at the base of Oregon’s Coast Range and right on the Oregon Coast. It’s a place you can easily fall in love with and if you’re a dedicated winter steelheader you could imagine yourself moving there, living there, fishing a bevy of coastal rivers hosting a variety of anadromous species, including wild steelhead and king salmon. Manzanita offers enough restaurants and activity to keep you busy most times of the year, and certainly if you are visiting for a few days in February with metalhead on your brain.

That’s what I was doing, cruising from Montana to the coast to meet up with a writer friend, the late Chris Santella. Chris only had a day to fish, and we didn’t touch a thing which, in retrospect, is kind of a bummer. I think that may have been the last time I threw a line with the man.

While Santella drove back to Portland that evening, I met up with the steelhead guru Jeff Hickman and nestled into a VRBO a few short yards from the beach. I’d packed some wild Alaska sockeye salmon to Manzanita and we indulged in a feast while discussing plans for the following day. At 7 a.m., we were on our way to a first-class river, hoping the water might be in shape, offering that tantalizing steelhead green. You never know. Oregon’s coast range offers dozens of quality steelhead waters, but each drainage can hold it’s own weather; one might be dry for a couple days with a river either running in shape the entire time or dropping nicely into form while another drainage, just up or down the highway, might get pummeled with rain and flood its banks right when you want to be there. But, that’s one reason Oregon is such an appealing option for winter steel—there’s a lot of water to choose from.

Our river, it turns out, was looking good. But it was no easy beast. With a dark, slate gray and foreboding sky we had trouble identifying submerged boulders and shelflines. Make one wrong step and you might go in over your head, early in the day, with no way to get dry. We toe-tapped down several runs then slid on our rears from an old, dirt logging road, down a mud bank, to the water. Hickman said, “Follow that line downstream and don’t go too far down or you won’t be able to wade back up. That current is stronger than it looks.”

I got the first pass and drew a blank. Hickman, of course, got a couple taps and then hooked a fish, right off the shelf where I’d dared not wade. When you’re familiar with a river and trust yourself, you fish it better than anyone else. I knew Hickman had put his time in here. By the time he got the fish to hand, a slightly colored wild hen of about 12 pounds, rain was coming down steady. By the time Hickman hooked his second fish in that run, I was already discovering a leak in my jacket.

We stuck it out and didn’t pull the raft up the ramp until after dark. When we pulled out of the access, we discovered the toads. Hickman tried to steer around the first 50, but we both knew it was futile; unless we wanted to sleep in the truck and wait for spring, the toads were toast. Besides, we only had one case of Ranier.

That night the rain continued, and we climbed into semi-wet waders the following morning. It was my last day with Hickman and I figured, If I can’t get them with this guy leading the way, I can’t get them anywhere. And that’s the way the morning played out. Not a touch, grab, nip or bite. When we stopped for lunch we were already half-soaked and it was clear we wouldn’t pull off after dark. This was going to be a shorter play and that left only and hour or two to get it done. I’d pulled a sandwich from a bag and tried to eat the thing, but the bread was wet and failing before I could finish. I pitched it on the bank and wondered which lucky bird might spot it first . . . if a toad didn’t eat . . . if there were any toads left.

Somewhere along the route, on a left bank that looked no different than any we’d passed in the past five miles, I saw a steelhead roll, just a minor disturbance that made me wonder, sea-run cutthroat or steel? Hickman saw it too and pushed the raft outside of the bank before beaching it 75 yards below. I grabbed the Death Star and hustled back up the bank. A feeder stream flowed in just above where we’d seen the fish, and I didn’t want to miss a chance to hook a steelhead in the main river. If I recall correctly, the tribs were closed.

I sneaked through the forest and came out about 20 yards above where I’d seen the fish. I barely waded in and started stripping line from the reel. As I started working out line, just enough to get the head past the rod tip, I felt a grab and then saw the swirl. It wasn’t a big steelhead, but it was chrome-bright, wild and as they all do, counted as ONE. After a few minutes I had the fish to the bank and was counting my lucky stars. It’s ok for a guru like Hickman to outfish you, but nobody likes to get blanked. After we released that fish we both sighed. The rain was still pounding, the jackets were leaking, the wind was rising, and we were legitimately chilled to the bone. A warm cabin, hot tea, and then a burger at the local tavern sounded pretty good. I could live with ONE.

That evening we ducked into the tavern and took a booth near the back. We heard a few young people talking about their day on the water, lamenting that they’d only caught wild steelhead which, of course, they had to release. Hickman and I, on the other hand, were quick to say we had caught a few steelhead over the past couple days, too, and were more than happy to have seen the adipose fin. They shook their heads and went back to their meals.

There was nothing wrong with those people. They were nice, happy, talkative, and they fished. But, the hatchery/wild debate is a conundrum found along the West Coast’s steelhead waters from northern California to British Columbia. Some people want hatchery fish because the harvest and subsequent feast are huge draw. I get it. When I was commercial fishing in the Gulf of Alaska and told fellow fishermen that I also loved catch-and-release fly fishing, they told me I was simply “playing with fish.” I get that too—I like to eat halibut, wild Alaska salmon, and shellfish of all variety as much as the next person in line. But I also think that wild fish are superior, and that there is immense value in connecting to something that was born in a stream, acclimated to its surroundings, and is specially equipped to navigate all the natural changes in an ecosystem. Hatchery fish, in my mind, are second rate citizens. As Hickman and I ate our meals I thought about that very thing and could not help myself from saying something. 

I turned and peaked over the booth, not wanting to piss off the locals, but also wanting to give them something to consider. What’s wrong with debate, even if it’s not on your home turf? But I never got around to saying a thing about wild steelhead. Instead, I noticed something furry peeking out from one of the woman’s cleavage. I pointed and said, “What’s that?” 

She replied, “It’s my rabbit. Name’s Nutsack.”

I remember thinking, Isn’t that fitting, but didn’t say a word. Disgusted with wild steelhead and a bunny named Nutsack nestled in that appealing isle. I simply took a second glance,  raised my eyebrows, then turned to Hickman and said, “Kinda makes sense.”