The Times - Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley

Most of my winter trips to the Wallowa River are characterized by slippery travel across the Tollgate Crossing during an active snow or ice storm. The five-foot walls of packed snow confining the highway are intimidating yet comforting, considering that I might bounce off the wall rather than ditch my rig in the creek draining the Elgin side of the mountain. Most days are frigid, snowy, or rainy, so a bluebird sky means instant victory upon arrival at Minam State Park.

Flow conditions were about perfect this day. I typically only fish for steelhead on the descending limb of the hydrograph after a slug of water has coaxed fish to move upriver, and today was shaping up to be a good day. I got a few nods from folks headed for the State Park honey-hole as I donned my waders and strung up my fly rod. Fly fishermen are common on the Wallowa, but that doesn't mean the bobber-and-jig army won't cast a questionable glance. I am stubborn, like most fly fishermen, identifying almost exclusively as a swinger. By that, I mean I "swing" flies for steelhead and rarely employ other techniques. It's an art form that, when executed properly, is reason enough to fish; steelhead be damned.

Once fully rigged up, I strolled down to the nearby run that was entirely vacant, save for the peculiar little American dipper that bobbed along the rocks at the water's edge. Across the run was a series of boulders that had dislodged from the railroad grade where the river pushed along the toe. The depth was right, and I expected steelhead were holding in the current breaks behind the boulders.

Wading out to about mid-thigh depth, I rolled a short cast to the far side, threw an upstream mend, and waited as the line swept down and sank a few feet. I could envision my violet bunny leech wafting temptingly in the current. The cast resulted in a beautiful presentation and clean drift, but no grab. Typical. In moments like these, I can't help but wonder how the muskellunge received the "fish of 10,000 casts" award when adult steelhead don't even feed upon returning to fresh water. The fly presentation must be perfect for triggering a strike, either from aggression or other innate switches, like a cat pouncing on a perfectly wiggled bird feather or length of string.

Repeating the cast, I methodically worked downstream to cover the entire run. And to my surprise, a solid thump transferred through the line halfway through the run. Steelhead typically hook themselves when smashing a fly on the swing. Without a hookup, I moved on, dismissing the whack as a resident rainbow or bull trout, neither large nor serious enough to bury the hook in the corner of their mouth.

Crossing over to the tracks, I turned downstream toward the confluence with the Grande Ronde. The sun-warmed canyon hit a balmy 50 degrees. Fat, pewter-hide mule deer fed on greening grasses across the open south- and western-facing slopes. Steller's jays and magpies screeched and flitted among other songbirds, fleeing from the "swishing" of my waders.

The railroad winds through various rock outcrops that typically hide critters on their shaded side. The canyon looks awfully "catty" to me, so my head remains on a swivel as I hike. Passing through the cold shadows of a towering pillar, the hair on the back of my neck bristled. I never spotted the cat, but I assumed one had spotted me.

The river flowed with superb beauty, boasting a vibrant emerald tint through the deeper pools and runs. Shockingly, I was one of very few to venture down the track this day. Just as surprising, my casting was on fire. Everything played out spectacularly, save for the conspicuous and typical lack of steelhead.

Many runs came and went over about five hours of hiking and casting, each boasting promising boulder placement and "likely lies" in the troughs. Butterflies danced in my gut with every swing, yet each ended uneventfully, the leech being stripped in as I stepped dutifully downstream and repeated the motions. The results were the same, while my expectations remained of something different-the very definition of insanity.

Upon my logical brain regaining control, I turned upstream for the truck. As I strolled, I came across a gentleman with a bobber and jig working a tight, deep cut at the base of a rock outcrop. He had a steelhead on a stringer and was fighting another. Admittedly, I was jealous but admired his catch and moved along, not to spoil his revelry or sully my pride. I shot him a nod, which provoked a satisfied smirk.

The run at the State Park where I began the day was still vacant, so I waded in and worked it just as I had that morning. The only difference this time was the steelhead that nearly ripped the rod from my weary hands on the fourth swing. My mind had already drifted to hot coffee and was kicking my feet up when the characteristic tight-line slam of an eight-pound freight train trouncing my little leech jarred my brain into panic mode.

Hanging on and palming the spool, I was prepared for a long and strategic run, but something was amiss. Realizing the horror that my line had slipped under a boulder suggested that I was about to lose my only steelhead of the season.

The rush of the river eroded rocks from beneath my feet as I dashed into the waist-deep run. Being swept downstream and dancing to stay upright, I somehow freed the line. The fish responded immediately, turning tail and heading for the 150-yard-long riffle below. With few options, I gripped the reel tightly, stuck the butt of the rod into my hip, and began backing toward the shore. If my aggressive effort didn't break the fish off, the long riffle certainly would.

Surprise, relief, and excruciating optimism collided as the rod rebounded, the fish turning upstream. Reeling wildly to keep the pressure on was my only move. Tense moments of give and take finally ended as a massive tail sliced the water surface in the shallows. The fish was spent.

As the steelhead gently glided into my feet, I noticed the adipose fin was clipped. I beached her immediately, gazing graciously upon the brilliant, rosy stripe spanning the length of a healthy, speckled hen measuring around 26 inches. She was magnificent, and the hard-earned prize of weeks of frozen fingers and toes, chapped lips, and shoulders sore from working an 11-foot fly rod for hours each day.

Like most outdoor pursuits, steelhead fishing is a journey that ebbs and flows with highs and lows. After many days without action, the routine of cast, mend, sink, swing, step, repeat becomes robotic. A single fish can restore one's faith, and my hatchery hen had reset the clock. Another season and 10,000 casts awaited.