Palouse Outdoors: Winter Rainbows on Rufus Woods Lake

Chief Joseph Dam came online in 1961, producing power through the first 16 of its 27 hydro turbines. Behind the dam is Lake Rufus Woods. Over 8,000 surface acres of the upper Columbia River stretch 51 miles behind Chief Joeseph's massive monoliths until pushing into the tailwater of Grand Coulee Dam.

Each year, the Colville Tribal fish hatchery releases thousands of "triploid" rainbow trout into Rufus Woods. "Triploid" fish are genetically engineered with three chromosomes rather than the usual two, making them reproductively sterile. Sterility gives these fish an advantage in the growth department compared to their naturally-produced brethren. Rather than devote energy to gonadal development, these fish invest all in beefing up and growing to more than 15 pounds.

A spectacle of rocky ridges, sagebrush hills, and white silt cliffs bookends Rufus Woods' upper reaches. The 17,000-acre Big Bend Wildlife Area is to the south, and the Colville Reservation is to the north. The yelp of wild turkeys, the "chi-ca-go" call of valley quail, and majestic mule deer sky-lined on the ridges define the customary ambiance. Taking in the landscape from the river is an experience worth the trip alone, but fly-fishing for big triploid rainbows can provide an unmatched winter fishing experience.

The morning after top-shelf whiskey and home-fried walleye fillets, fishing friend Sean and I embarked on the two-hour trek from Wenatchee to the foot of Grand Coulee Dam. Light cloud cover and 45 degrees created promising conditions to coax a hefty rainbow from the frigid depths. It was early December, and the water temperature was in the 50s.

"I've never fished here this early in the season," Sean said. "If we can't strip them off the shore, we might have to go with full-sinking line and dredge them up from the bottom."

Sean motored downstream along the river-left shoreline. Easing back on the throttle, he dropped the trolling motor and held us about 15 yards from the shore, just upstream of a rocky point jutting into the river. The dark, cobble shoreline rolled along a steep canyon toe, laden with boulders, pines, and junipers. A shrub-steppe bench ran above the river with pungent sagebrush, golden waves of bunchgrasses, and blackened granite outcrops.

Heavy fly line skidded noisily through the guides, like a straw broom pushing over linoleum, as I launched a large marabou streamer toward the shore. Deer hunters were out, and I became distracted by a pair that appeared to be working behind the brush on the floor of a narrow draw. My suspicion that they were processing a mule deer buck was broken by the technical aspects of an 18-inch rainbow working feverishly to rip the rod from my hands. Moments later, Sean netted a pure spectacle of the "Oncorhynchus mykiss" species.

God's creatures possess such beauty and perfection (even the genetically engineered ones) that it's impossible not to be awestruck when gazing upon the olive dorsal and rosy lateral line and gill plate beneath black speckling like freshly cracked black pepper. The day I fail to marvel like a three-year-old over the stunning paint scheme of any wild trout will be the day I will no longer be worthy of pursuing or possessing them. The fish was muscly and eager to return to the river. As it disappeared into the depths, I felt it a worthy introduction to fishing Rufus Woods. Better yet, the skunk was booted from the boat.

Chukar "chuking" in the hills drew my attention to a dramatic cliff face resembling a scene from the Badlands with pointed, jagged columns and deeply eroded, sloughing soil. Closer inspection revealed layer upon layer of fine-particulate sediment deposited over eons, perhaps resulting from the Missoula Floods. The nearly white cliffs were bookended by crimson hawthorn and yellowing cottonwood, alder, and willow. Sagebrush and dusky bitterbrush dotted the landscape between pops of deciduous color. The unexpected display of brilliance across an otherwise drab desert environment captured my muse for hours on end between bouts with feisty rainbows.

"Uh oh.... Sean, can you back up, please? I was daydreaming again and must have let the fly sink into the rocks."

Sean fired up the outboard for a quick push against the current, but the strangest thing happened – the line continued to move upstream with the boat.

"Can you get it free?" Sean asked.

"Um, no," I replied nervously.

Weighty headshakes reminded me of the first sturgeon I had ever hooked. Pure poundage transferred through the line and deep into the backbone of my six-weight. As the boat slowly drifted downstream, the fish remained where it wanted to be. I fed line helplessly to avoid breaking off, and when the fish emerged for a formal fight, I held on and tightened the drag.

Refusing to surface, the fish hovered under the boat for a while, then broke toward the shore, which allowed me to raise the rod tip and apply some leverage.

"Alright, Bill. Will you land that thing already?" Sean chided, implying that I was overplaying an average fish like professional fisherman Bill Dance often did on his television show with largemouth bass.

"No, this fish is playing me!" I explained. "I think you better get the net...."

What felt like 10 minutes passed before flashes of the fish could be seen, and that was enough for Sean to realize that this was a sizeable rainbow. He held the net along the gunnel while I steered the fish into the boat. The fish was poised for round six, but Sean's adept netting skills wrapped the fish as it circled by.

"Dude! That's a 10-pounder!" Sean exclaimed.

I had never caught a rainbow trout that big, save for the few steelheads I had landed on the fly over the years. As I age, my desire to take "grip-and-grin" photos with the fish and game that I harvest has waned substantially, but in this case, the scenery and fish were all too spectacular to forgo the opportunity. The only disappointment was that my large stature did not do justice to such a worthy rainbow.

"Where did the day go?" I asked Sean at 4:00 p.m. It was Sunday night, and I planned to make Waitsburg before it got "too late."

The sun dipped to the western horizon, casting a vibrant peach hue beneath the cloud cover as we cleaned our day's catch on a sand bar. Seven hours of continuous casting, stripping, landing fish, and repeating the routine amidst God's heavenly creation had worn us into a comfortable state of contentment. Aside from our two-fish limits, we didn't bother with a catch count as an arbitrary measure of success.

Sean's three-quarter-ton Ram climbed the grade into Grand Coulee, where we stopped at the "Café Latte," a superb little hole-in-the-wall in the "Coulee Hardware" parking lot. A latte and pastry were necessary to survive the long night ahead.