It’s always been a pet-peeve not having access to any realtime (or otherwise) water temperature data on the Oregon coast. Sure, one can deduce from air temperature, but that only goes so far.
Well, watching the Wilson hitting floodstage today (it’s risen 7’ in the past 24 hours), I noticed that the gauge has been upgraded and now includes temperature, which is a balmy 47F right now.
Pretty handy, and a good barometer for the rest of the coast.
There are a select few places in this world where all the right ingredients come together to grow truly giant lifeforms - The Redwoods of Northern California, Sequoias of the Southern Sierra, and Humans of Houston, TX, to name a few. The Kispiox River in Northern BC is another such place, and grows a super-race of steelhead unlike any other in the world.
At first glance, the Kispiox doesn’t look particularly out of the ordinary, a medium sized stream with beautiful swinging runs, somewhat similar to that of the lower Trask. But as you dig a little deeper, you quickly come to realize that the Kispiox is no ordinary river, and its fish are, simply put, extraordinary.
We began our first day on the Kispiox like every other day in BC, in the wee hours of 11:30am. Within ten minutes, we were floating by Harry Lemire and watching him release a fish that he’d just taken on a single hand rod and a dry line. The Kispiox is that kind of magical place.
We’d planned on fishing Tungsten tips, as that had been the ticket the previous days on the Bulkley, but Mr. Lemire’s feat told us otherwise. Fast forward seven hours of dry lines, Type-3s, and no fish… Ken and I are swinging through upper Potato Patch on opposite sides of the river, Ken with the bright idea to go back to T-11 and myself still stuck on my “Fish will move for the Type-3!!!” mentality.
Within minutes, Ken is into a fish. I put on a Type-6, and keep swinging. Ken loses the fish, and a few minutes later is into another. Same flies, same run, different tips, and I’m getting hosed. I stubbornly continue to swing my Type-6 until Ken hooks his THIRD fish in less than 20 minutes. I rig up 10’ of T-14, go back up to the top of the run where I’d already fished, and about 10 casts later you can guess what happens.
So it went on the Kispiox for three days. Big flies, heavy tips, and the most jawdroppingly large and beautiful sea-run rainbows I’ve ever seen.
Four days later, leaving Smithers on our way back to the US of A, Ken looks at us and says “We’re in the middle of making a huge mistake.”
“What, eating at Dairy Queen?”
“No, leaving this place!!!”
We both get a glimmer of madness in our eyes, bust out the iPhone calendar, and decide to head back up in 4 weeks. See you soon, BC.
39.5”. On a 6126. Good Times.
More pics after the jump…
Tying steelhead flies is problematic. At every turn, you discover some new material that’ll revolutionize your tying and fish catching abilities, and you just have to have it in every possible color. One day you’re dropping $50 on seal dubbing, only to discover you love Alec Jackson’s spade body and now need $100 worth of ostrich. Guinea, schlappen, no, wait, saddle hackle, no, wait, grizzly capes in 15 colors and 4 hues of pink. It never ends.
But with just a little bit of work and $25, you can buy enough dye to last you a lifetime, and save gobs of money on materials.
Dying is not only easy, it’s fun, and quick. Follow these steps, and you’ll be dying feathers and fur in vibrant colors in less than 10 minutes from start to finish. No joke.
First off, you need some dye. There are a zillion ways to dye stuff, but if you want the rich, vibrant colors you find in a fly shop, you need to use an acid based dye. Don’t be scared, the “acid” simply means vinegar, the same white distilled stuff you have in your cabinet.
I’ve tried a few brands, and Jacquard is by far the best. Amazon sells it for $3-4 per container.
Next, you’ll need some synthrapol, which is simply an industrial detergent for removing excess dye. Have you ever used shitty fly tying materials, that when exposed to water, lost their dye or worse yet, transferred to dye to the rest of the materials on your fly? That’ll be your end result if you skip the synthrapol. Again, Amazon, for $8.
A stainless steel pot and some tongs and you’re done.
Step 1: Select the materials you plan to dye, and soak them in hot water with some synthrapol to remove any excess dirt. Rinse, and then soak in water, and press firmly to remove any oxygen. This is important! If you’re dying fur or a cape of feathers, you’ll want to put the material in the water skin side up and press at the bottom of the container. You’ll see oxygen bubbling out, and once the bubbles stop coming, you’re done. Skip this step, and there will be air bubbles in the material when you go to dye it, resulting in an uneven dye.
Step 2: Bring a few cups of water to a boil, or enough to fully submerge your materials. Now, add a bit of dye, and a few tablespoons of vinegar (the vinegar sets the dye). You don’t need much dye, literally 1/16 of a teaspoon or so. Some colors are stronger than others, and you’ll figure this out as you go. If you’re colors aren’t as vibrant as you’d like, you can always add more.
Step 3: Once the water is boiling, add your materials. Be sure to keep the materials submerged, and stir around a lot so that they dye distributes evenly. If dying fur or feathers that are on a hide, don’t boil for too long! More than five minutes and you’ll risk disintegrating the skin. Not cool.
Step 4: Remove the materials from the dye bath, and rinse under hot water. Now, in a large bowl add some synthrapol and hot water, and wash the materials until all the excess dye comes out. Rinse under fresh water, drain, and set on a towel to dry.
Step 5: If you’re impatient and want to use your feathers right away, grab your girlfriend’s blow dryer to quickly dry things out. She’s already pissed at you for getting dye and animal skin all over the kitchen, so things can’t get much worse for you at this point.
To date, I’ve had great luck dying Arctic Fox tail, Jungle Cock flank (pictured above), Guinea Hen flank (pictured above) and Golden Pheasant crest/tippets. Marabou and Rabbit would be obvious materials as well. Rather than spend $3 on a little pack of rabbit, buy the hide for $10 and dye and slice your own bunny leech strips.
A good source of materials in bulk is Continental Feathers.
And the finished product, using some JC flank and guinea I dyed yesterday:
Barring two trout trips, I took most of April and May off from fishing, waiting for the steelhead to start pushing up the Columbia basin. I went out two weekends ago and with very few fish coming over the dams, didn’t have high hopes. But within just a few hours my hopes were lifted. I was only into the fish for about two seconds before he tore off downstream in the swollen river, opening up my #8 Tiemco 7999. Lesson #1 - a few hundred fish a day coming over the dams is enough. Lesson #2 - don’t use 7999s.
This past weekend I was back at it, armed with an armada of #9 Alec Jackson steelhead irons. From the exact same lie as the previous fish came a hatchery fish of about seven pounds. I’d say the summer’s off to a good start. And while the numbers of fish aren’t yet jaw dropping, the lack of angling pressure certainly is - in 3 days of fishing I’ve seen one other bank fisherman and just a handful of boats. A nice respite from what we’ll be working with in another month.
I returned to Portland after a week in San Francisco late on Friday night, and couldn’t wait to get out on the water. Six days in SF makes leaves me a bit frazzled, and the vast sea of green outside of the Boeing window had me breathing a sigh of relief. Home.
Six hours later I was back on the road, under-caffeinated and under-rested, with Chinook on the mind. By the time I arrived at the boat launch, they were already rolling. Every where. Wakes in the skinny water, full on belly flops out of the depths, and the occasional torpedo for cover. Big, chrome, spring Chinooks. The sight alone was worth the drive, but of course we weren’t there to simply fish-watch.
I didn’t touch a fish, but seeing my buddy hook and land two has me ensnared. Amazing animals, and the best part of all is, they’ll eat a fly.
It was 9am and the wind was already ripping off the Eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. So it goes in the Owens River valley, where the Great Basin meets the tallest mountain range in the continental US (sorry, Colorado). When the wind isn’t ripping at 40mph, you’re dealing with an angler every 50 yards, and when you aren’t dealing with an angler every 50 yards, well, you get the idea. To say the Eastern Sierra’s spring creeks are crowded is an understatement.
There is, of course, a reason so many fisherman drive 6 hours from LA or SF to this 8,000’ desert valley to duke it out against the wind and each other. Granted, 6 hours to a Bay Area trout head sounds like a sane day trip, but apart from that, the scenery is breathtaking, and the spring creeks that flow here host some of the highest trout densities on the planet. Hot Creek, a stream scarcely wider than your average Scandi head, is home to some 12,000 adult trout per mile. I for one feel like a champ if I hook 10 of these critters per mile.
The Owens River, of which Hot Creek is a tributary, has similarly staggering numbers of trout, but with a late spring this year, the majority of these fish were still holding down in Lake Crowley until the bugs started hatching. Pools which held upwards of 50 fish when I hit the Owens a few summers ago were ghost towns. We still found some nice fish, including a 20” rainbow that popped off as my buddy was trying to net it, but it was a tough go.
Hot Creek is a different story, however, as a few miles up from it’s confluence with the Owens are a series of hot springs that bring the river temperature to lethal levels. In other words, those 12,000 fish per mile aren’t going anywhere. It’s estimated that every fish on Hot Creek is hooked six times per month on average. This makes for some wary trout, especially the big boys.
We caught fish, but it was tough. Bugs weren’t hatching, and in 4 days of fishing I saw maybe 8 fish rise (a dropping barometer culminating in snow and a wind chill of 15F will do that, I suppose). One of them, an 18” brown on the East Walker, I nabbed on a #20 Rusty Spinner after about 200 casts. The foam line in the backeddy was full of spinners, so it was just a matter of time before he rose to mine. Czech Nymphing, my favorite method for fishing nymphs, doesn’t cut it in 40mph winds as you lose all control over your flies.
Pink bobbers are for douchebags, so I was left with one method: swinging flies. The weather felt like winter steelheading weather, the fish were nowhere to be seen (on the Owens), so when in Rome, why not toss 5’ of T-8 on your sink tip and go to town? It was actually quite fun, swinging up trout for a few days, but not something I’d travel for again anytime soon.
The point of the trip was not fish however, but was to meet up with two of my best college buddies, one of which is moving to Bolivia, permanently, this week. Yes, Bolivia, home of this half Chinook, half Brown, full Badass looking critter. See you down there soon, Dukes.
San Weezie, on the swing of course.
Seven Fisherman. 100 Yards. Welcome to Hot Creek
Winter just isn’t long enough.
Having grown up in Tillamook - rain capital of the world - I never thought I’d utter those words. But here we are two days into spring and I’m wishing we could turn the clocks back a month. The coastal tributaries will be closed in a week, and the mainstems will be winding down over the following weeks. It’s been a phenomenal winter and I can’t believe it’s already over.
I ended the winter the same way I started it - on a small, wild river on the Oregon coast. This river hasn’t faced the burdens of a hatchery programs since the early 90s, and the runs of wild fish are extraordinary.
Photo by Nick Erler.
On Saturday we ran into a father and son drifting eggs along a deep slot on the far bank. The man mentioned that he’d been fishing the river since he was in college (when the river was still planted with hatchery salmon and steelhead), and was trying to help his son find his first steelhead. Nick asked how he’s seen the river change over the years, sensing an opportunity for an interesting exchange. The man thought for a moment, and answered in a way I wasn’t quite expecting.
“Well, the fish are a lot more spread out now,” he replied. ”It used to be that the fishing was only good for a short amount of time, but now the fish enter the river earlier in the year and hang around for longer than they used to.”
The joys of genetic diversity, and what we could experience on all of our salmon, steelhead, and trout rivers if we’d just give the fish a chance to flourish without interference from tank raised genetic misfits.
There’s a reason I keep coming back to this river, and there’s no reason that there shouldn’t be more rivers where the fish run wild as they do here.
Say hello to my little friend.
Our optimism was ebbing and flowing with the water level predictions, but when Friday finally arrived, the Holy Water was dropping right into shape. Niall and Philippe, two longtime buddies from UofO had flown into town, and we headed out to the coast with one thing on the mind: winter steelhead.
We arrived just after daybreak to a river that still had a ways to drop, but this particular stream comes into shape quickly so I wasn’t worried. With minimal rain in the forecast it would be fishing well by the afternoon, and amazing by the next day.
And just six hours and no grabs later, she was blown out, courtesy of a few inches of rain that snuck in under the meteorologist’s watch. The stream rose over a foot in a few short hours, leaving us huddled under the tarp around a propane heater praying that somehow all would be well by the next morning. Of course things were far from fine the next morning, and we packed up camp and set out in search of new water.
With the Tillamook Bay streams spiking 1,000 cfs overnight, our Plan B went out the window, and we drove around for hours looking for a swingable piece of water.
By mid afternoon, we found it, and before long Niall had picked my pocket into the first steelhead of the trip. This fish declined requests for a photo interview, but reluctantly agreed to a few long distance shots.
On Sunday, we headed back to the Holy Water hoping that it had come back into shape. As on Friday morning, it was still a bit high, but by the afternoon had dropped into great shape. But bright sunlight didn’t help our cause, and even the bait guys were getting skunked. Philippe did get his first ever steelhead grab, and the fish erupted on the surface the through the hook. Apart from that, we only managed to find some cuts.
On Monday, however, the fishing kicked into high gear (or as high as things seem to get when swinging for winter fish). First run of the day, I missed one, and 15 feet later, hooked a bright fish that through the hook about 5 seconds later. After three days of not touching a steelhead, this was exactly what I needed.
A few hours later while fishing behind Niall and Philippe on a beautiful run, I decided to bust out the fall box and tie on a #2 green butt skunk to show the fish something different. This is not a fly I normally fish in the winter, and for good measure, I slid on a little worm weight and let her rip. Within a few minutes, I was into a nice fish, one which I managed to land this time around.
After lunch, we headed out to the camp water, and Niall was promptly into a fish, a super fresh and beautiful hen that took him well into his backing.
After that, we each had a few more solid grabs, and I learned that hard way that having your running line wrapped around your reel seat does not help with hooking a steelhead.
It’s funning thinking back to just a few years ago, gung-ho on trout, when the prospect of just a few fish for four days of fishing would’ve seemed like a terrible outcome. Now, I feel nothing short of blessed to live so close to so many tremendous winter steelhead streams and having the opportunity to touch these fish. March is quickly becoming my favorite month of the year, and it’s not nearly long enough.
Nothing beats swinging a fly for a wild winter steelhead amidst an old growth coastal rainforest. I can’t get enough of it.
The flows on the big river looked too high. The other rivers a bit low. I drew the wildcard, and set out on my least favorite drive to one of my favorite coastal streams. Daybreak was just rearing her face when I set off into the mountains. Within minutes, the roadside snow was showing up, and within a few more miles I was driving through 6-8” deep snow ruts, a rare sight on the coast.
I’d never fished the stream with water this low and I knew it wouldn’t be optimal, but I hoped that I could still find some runs with steelhead that would chase a swung fly. Arriving streamside, the prospect of swinging up a fish looked bleak. For about two hours, I gave it my best, and found a few heart stopping moments in the form of feisty cutthroats.
No steelhead though, and it was clear that they were holed up in the deep pools - areas where my swung fly just hung still. I decided to break out the nuclear option, and rigged up a bobber and egg pattern to see if my theory held true.
First cast into a deep slot against a big boulder, and just as the fly gets into the zone, the indicator starts sinking. I assume I’ve got too much split shot (keeping it classy) but set just in case. It’s a fish, and before I know it my poor little 9’ rod is bent in half and a fish is bolting out of the pool, porpoising through the skinny tailout, around the corner and into the next run! I try putting on the breaks to keep him in my run, and the fly pops off.
It’s a good thing that all steelhead don’t have the mind to always leave their current run.
I fished a few more pools with the bobber, but just couldn’t take it. Repeatedly setting on rocks and mending, mending, mending, mending, just doesn’t do it for me anymore.
In hopes of finding that fish on the swing, I hopped in the car and headed North to another river that turned out even colder than the last.
Bright hatchery fish
Unable to name a single player on the Packers or Steelers (I’m impressed I even knew who was playing), I decided to get on the water yesterday afternoon. In theory, pressure should be light on Super Bowl Sunday, but it always seems to turn out that every other fisherman has the same theory.
After fishing through some crowded water at a County Park and never quite feeling like I was fishing, I decided to head upstream in search of new some water. No cars at the pullout, and after a 10 minute hike I came upon the river. Beautiful, looking more like a remote BC stream than something a few minutes from Portland. The water looked perfect, just the right color and speed and surely holding some fish.
The fish hit like a freight train smolt, a dull tap, a few clicks from the reel, and another tap. It felt like 10 seconds went by before I really felt some weight and set the hook. Makes me realize that some of those unknown grabs that I attribute to cutthroat could actually be steelhead.
A nice and tasty 8lb hatchery fish.
