No Guarantees

NO GUARANTEES

The stoke had certainly diminished a bit as the north state was being pummeled with unseasonably huge storms. The week had been spent constantly checking flow charts, scrutinizing weather reports, formulating plans B, C, and D, and a whole lot of finger-crossing. No fishing trip is ever guaranteed, especially when it comes to steelhead. The migratory nature of the fish makes it hard to plan a trip in advance; however, this trip to this river during this week of the year was as close to a guarantee as you’ll find. After days of internal deliberation, you eventually get the sense that worrying is useless, and you’ll find out when you get there—a “you don’t know unless you go” sort of thing.

By Dominic Bruno

The excitement was back in full force driving the windy road through bigfoot country as we approached the Klamath River. “High, really high. But fishable...”

That was all I needed to hear to regain my optimism. After 7 anxious hours on the road, we pull off onto one of many unsuspecting dirt roads we’ve come to know and love. You need to be careful around here as one wrong turn can lead to one of countless illegal cannabis grows in the area. The hair stands up on the back of my neck as we pull into the first spot of the day. We fished hard all day for little reward, constantly looking for fishy water in a river bordering on a torrent. It becomes harder and harder to remain hopeful as the hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks without a grab. Between the absurd amount of lines our group has in the water, we surely would have found life had there been any in the river.

So you keep fishing, and drinking, and hoping. But that only goes so far. The popular cliches come to mind, “that’s why they call it fishing and not catching,” or worse yet, “a bad day fishing is better than a good day at the office.” Even the gas station attendant remarks that sometimes it’s just nice to be out. I find a lot of truth in that, and nothing brings me more joy and satisfaction than being immersed in the natural world, especially when I’m standing waist deep in a river surrounded by mountains and forest.

However, at some point, a distinction must be made between birdwatchers and fishermen. Gravel bar conversations with highly regarded guides only confirm our worst fears—the river is void of life. The worst he’s ever seen it, he says. Great...

Nightfall comes and is spent the same way we’ve spent the last few days: good food, good drinks, and plenty of lamenting over the sad state of this once prolific river. It’s been days since we’ve had any kind of cell service or contact with the outside world, and we start to feel the itch. We take a short hike up the hill in an attempt to reach out, and that’s when the texts came flying in...

“Drop everything and come over to the coast!”

“Fishing is unreal... countless salmon and steelhead...”

“Arms are sore, landed a pile. Headed out in the morning; hope you guys can join me.”

Then the pictures and videos came through. Indisputable hard evidence, but we were already sold. Plans were made to give bigfoot country one more shot the following day before heading to the lost coast. A proposition that seemed crazy given how much time and planning went into this trip, but it’s pretty easy to throw everything out the window when your buddy’s phone is blowing up with proof of historically good fishing.

It’s nearly impossible to tell at times through the thick morning fog, but the scenery has certainly changed. As we approach the coast, the rivers are running green and lined with giant redwoods. It feels odd being here this early in the season, but then again, nature doesn’t look at the calendar.

“If I don’t get a grab, I’m fucking done.” My buddy mutters. A desperate declaration that this is indeed our last shot. I’d have been lying if I said I didn’t feel the same.

We scramble through gear and line our rods with drastically different rigs than we had planned on throwing this trip. We’re lucky we have anything applicable. I guess that’s where plans B, C, and D come into play, preparing us for plan E. Along our walk to the run, we come across a local who comments that he hasn’t seen a fish here in years. Normally that would have thrown me off, but I can’t help but feel like we know something he doesn’t.

I step into the first run of the day full of hope, holding a big colorful wad of feathers that resembles a cat toy more so than a fly. Not far into the run and I feel a hard grab. Although it feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve last hooked a fish, my mind takes over, and my body goes into autopilot, coercing a small steelhead onto the bank. Not a huge fish, but a fish nonetheless. Beautiful, bright, fresh from the ocean. This is why we’re here.

Feeling reinvigorated, I pick up where I left off in the middle of the run, hoping to connect with his older brother or perhaps one of the many salmon boiling around us. I send another cast out across the river, just as I’d done a hundred times that day, a thousand times that trip, and a million times in my life. But this cast is different. My line surges forward as the rod is nearly ripped from my hands. This is THE grab. Line is peeling off my reel loudly, the rod is doubled over before my brain has a chance to overthink it.

Some ten minutes later I finally regain my fly line, and we finally lay eyes on the fish. A big, bright chinook salmon comes to the surface. The king of the river. Or should I say the queen of the river? She’s a beautiful hen of about 25#, the one from my daydreams.

We slide her into the shallows and admire this amazing creature for a brief moment before releasing her back into the wild.

If I showed you, I’d have to kill ya.