Steelhead Water

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.

Schlitz Streamer

If you've been fly-fishing and/or tying flies longer than 2 weeks, you've heard the expression "There are flies that catch fish, and flies that catch fishermen." This, I believe, is one of the latter.

Happy New Year

Here at 47 degrees north latitude, the equinox feels more like the start of a new year than the calendar new year does. Seattle isn't all that cold, and the snow generally stays politely in the mountains all winter. But January first falls within the dark period of the year, and the long nights continue untroubled by humans changing their calendars. The sun at noontime continues anemic and watery on the few days it isn't shrouded in fog or clouds. I start longing for snow in October, I start longing for sun in January, and to me all of winter belongs in the previous year. This photo is from the last snowshoe of the year, mid-March. The sun was a burning pearl, turning the fresh snow slushy by early afternoon, and the clouds waved and circled all day. Beautiful day to say goodbye to winter and hello to spring.

The equinox also seems like an auspicious time to start this blog about being outdoors (mostly) in the Northwest. It's the official changing of the gear, when the snowshoes are put in their box, and the bike gets a tune-up. So, happy new year. See you outside!