Queets River, 7 am, about 38 degrees, utterly quiet spring morning. A deep breath and a silent moment of gratitude for being right there, right then. The Queets is a nameless veiled color, blue and brown at the same time, suspended glacial silt clouds the water but also gives it a backlit intensity.This was my first time fishing for steelhead, so I was glad to be with a guide, as well as a fellow angler who'd fished here before. Our guide specializes in this river, and he knows it like a you know your favorite story. Every run, slot, and riffle has a memory attached to it -- who's caught fish and when and how in every spot. He was unfailingly patient with a steelhead rookie -- fish behavior, fly choice, how to cast an 8-weight with sink tip, how to cover the water.
We waded on the bar side of the river and our guide rowed us over to the bank side, at the edges of the faster current, deep slots boiling slowly, the spots where you know in the bones of your feet there's a fish.
One steelhead rolled in front of the boat, but couldn't be tempted with anything. We tried swinging a fly and drifting an indicator setup; my indicator took a two-foot sideways journey once, but I saw and didn't feel the take, so didn't react quickly enough. "One grab is a good day," several veteran steelheaders told me, so by definition it was a good day. I briefly hooked a couple of small non-steelhead, and that was it for nearly 10 hours of solid fishing.
Veterans also warned me it would be better not to catch a steelhead my first time, because the unlikely (and even undeserved!) success would only lead to later grief. I haven't yet earned the "fish of a thousand casts," so I'm content. There are many experiences available immediately and easily in our world; the older I get, the more I appreciate the ones that are rare and difficult.
