Kamchatkan Steelhead: The Speycasting Scientists

Wedged between the Sea of Okhotsk and the North Pacific Ocean, Kamchatka is one of the world’s last great wilderness regions. The remote peninsula clings precariously to the remote Eastern seaboard of the creaking Russian empire. It is a wild land of volcanoes, bears and a million tumbling streams full of salmon, trout and char. The Kamchatkan peninsular is fully 780 miles long, yet apart from the main hub of Petropavlosk, very few people live here. No roads connect Kamchatka with the outside world.

By MATT HARRIS

Was I poaching? No. You see, my friend Kyrill is a scientist. And, at least when I’m fishing for steelhead in western Kamchatka, as a member of the Kamchatka Steelhead Project, so am I.

The steelhead of Western Kamchatka come straight off of the Sea of Okhotsk into the tiny streams that drain this vast volcanic wilderness. They are iridescent, chrome-bright berserkers that any passionate speycaster would surely give their eye teeth to tangle with. Unfortunately, fishing for steelhead in Kamchatka – indeed anywhere in Russia - is illegal.

As my friend Kyrill will tell you, steelhead are listed in the “Krasny Kniga”, the celebrated ‘little red book’, an inventory of all the protected species of Russia’s innumerable fisheries. This is a shame! Yet despite the rules and the little red book, I have just returned from this pristine wonderland, having caught a clutch of its stunning silver steelhead. Every one fought like a tiger, crashing around the tiny Kvachina and Snatolvayam Rivers with a wild, unfettered rage that few anadromous fish can hope to match. Was I poaching? No. You see, my friend Kyrill is a scientist. And, at least when I’m fishing for steelhead in western Kamchatka, as a member of the Kamchatka Steelhead Project, so am I.

Let me tell you more: The Kamchatkan Steelhead Project is the brainchild of a visionary American angler, Pete Soverel. In days past, Pete traveled far and wide as a sailor in the US navy. Back in the early 90’s, whilst visiting Russia’s far Eastern seaboard, he stumbled across a little gem: “The noble trout of Kamchatka “ a book by an eminent Russian scientist, Ksenya Savvaitova’s (a professor of Ichthyology at Moscow State University). Amongst other things, the book described the steelhead of Kamchatka. The fish were suffering from endemic poaching, and Pete’s idea was that anglers might contribute to scientific study and also provide an anti-poaching presence on the river.

Pete contacted Ksenya, and with the help of the Russian and US governments, The Kamchatka Steelhead Project was born. This not-for-profit organisation required that interested anglers make donations to fund the data collection and the policing of the steelhead rivers of Western Kamchatka. It started collecting data in 1994.

Every fish the anglers catch is treated with the utmost care. It is carefully measured and tagged, and a selection of scale samples are carefully taken for analysis. The fish is then carefully released. The project aims to ensure the long-term sustainability of these precious fish, and so far results have been hugely encouraging. Fishing is with single barbless hooks only and – I repeat - all fish are carefully returned to the river to continue on their journey upstream to spawn. The program has helped head scientist Kyrill and his team start to understand the complicated life cycles of the Kamchatkan steelhead, and with knowledge, we are empowered to help these fragile but increasingly robust stocks to flourish.

Pete’s plan has been remarkably successful. On the rivers that I fished, the Kvachina and the Snotalvyam, the runs have burgeoned from around 3000 Fish each per annum to around 10,000 and 7,000 respectively. Another similarly diminutive river overseen by the KSP, the Utkholok now has runs in excess of 20,000 fish. The fly-fishing community might learn a lot from the KSP.

If we want to pass on sport fisheries worthy of the name to our children, we have to find ways to make those fisheries sustainable. The KSP redefines the role of the sport fisherman and formalises our position as a positive force for good. If we want others to stop harming these precious resources, we have to lead by example.

ABOUT THE FISHING

The KSP camps on the Kvachina, Snotalvayam and Uktholok Rivers are are all you could want from a remote steelhead camp. Simple cabins or tents provide warmth and shelter, and the main tent is a home from home with a lively, informal atmosphere. Operations manager Justin Miller is everything that a camp manager and head guide should be - full of relentless enthusiasm, humour and sparkling optimism. It’s simply impossible to be despondent in his company. Local Koryak folks Tanya, Pasha and Val run the camp immaculately, and they are disarmingly warm and friendly. The food, accommodation and service are all excellent.

Then the fireworks begin, and on my trip at least, we experienced some spectacular sessions of exhilarating, knuckle-busting violence.

As far as fishing technique goes, it’s important to understand that the rivers are fairly slow-flowing, and flies with lots of inherent movement are king. My favourite was a pattern known as a Hoser, a simple but lovely tie featuring palmered marabou, Flashabou and ostrich, that comes seductively alive in the water. Fishing it with a simple intermediate or light MOW tip was absolutely effortless, and the little Sage Igniter 12’6 7 weight rod I used was perfect - an incisive little scalpel of a rod that allows you to fish quietly and accurately.

As a bonus, it’s so light that you barely know that you are holding it. The fishing is exactly as good steelhead fishing should be: yes, there are long periods of quiet, spent hunting up and down the wild little rivers, utilizing jet boats and ATVs. But then, occasionally, there are those special moments of utter mayhem, when the anglers run into a pod of these extraordinary fish. Then the fireworks begin, and on my trip at least, we experienced some spectacular sessions of exhilarating, knuckle-busting violence.

MY FAVOURITE SESSION WAS THE LAST ONE.

Fishing with my good friend, the celebrated US Olympic show jumper Brian Walker, we were in the last chance saloon. After a slow day on the Snotalvayam, we had headed back to the Kvachina. Our guide, Sasa, had somehow capitulated and allowed us one last run through our favourite pool, the Dentist’s Chair, despite the fact that we were well over time, and the sun was sinking low into the west.

I’d had a lovely fish already that afternoon, and so I offered first run through the pool to my friend. Brian fished it down beautifully. I can’t deny I felt a shameful pang of jealousy when I watched his line come up tight and a big silver buck exploded into the air. It jumped again, and then it was away, greyhounding off downstream in a wild tour de force of high-flying chaos. After an epic scrap, Sasa finally managed to put his hands on the fish and he eased it gently up onto the soft, wet grass. Eighteen pounds. We gazed down at this perfect steelhead, fresh from the wilds of the Pacific Ocean. Its flanks were iridescent and utterly chrome, and the sea-lice clinging to them were testament to the fact that this fish had only been in the river for a few short hours.

I grabbed a quick picture of Brian cradling his prize, and then helped out as Sasa clipped the fish’s fin and collected the scale sample. “You are good scientist, Brian” laughed Sasa. Then I was into the pool, trying not to rush it as I made my way down to the “bucket”, despite the fact that Sasa was looking theatrically at his watch. I too wanted to be a good scientist.

The Kvachina is tiny, and a 12’6 7 weight rod is all you need to cover it. I flexed the rod sharply, and sent the lithe little fly whistling across the stream and tight against the far bank, where the fish like to hold. I made a smart upstream mend, and then eased the fly slowly across the current.

The suns started to slide towards the ancient hills, far to the west, and the autumn landscape lit up in an unforgettable fire of rich, golden magic. I was momentarily lost in the bittersweet emotion of knowing that tonight was my last evening on this beguiling, enchanted little river.

I’m 53 years old, but I can’t deny that I was shaking with elation as we took in the perfect, sleek lines of this heroic creature. Steelhead can do that to you.

And then, there it was. That magical moment when a big silver steelhead comes from nowhere, and is suddenly cartwheeling in the last dying embers of the day. My reel sang, and I watched the fish skyrocketing around the pool with a fierce abandon emblematic of this wild, elemental place. We went at it for a fair while, but the little barbless hook held fast, and finally, after a million more cartwheels and what seemed like an eternity, I eased the fish into the shallows, and Brian shoved her up into the grassy margins.

I’m 53 years old, but I can’t deny that I was shaking with elation as we took in the perfect, sleek lines of this heroic creature. Steelhead can do that to you. Like Brian’s fish before it, everything about the fish, from its translucent, steelblue fins and tail to its sparkling diamond-bright fuselage and the barely perceptible magenta flush of its gill plates told us that it was a wild thing, straight from the sea.

At a shade over 17 pounds, it was a fraction smaller than Brian’s fish, but I felt nothing but euphoria and the simple unalloyed happiness of having caught a very special fish, right at the last. “You too are good scientist” grinned Sasa, as he shook my hand and then carefully took the scale samples.

For a few special moments, I held the beautiful creature in the icy current, and watched it find its equilibrium once more. Then, suddenly, it gave one last angry flourish of its big square shovel of a tail, sending up a huge roostertail of spray that left us soaking wet and laughing like idiots, and in an instant it was gone.

Back into the crystal waters of the Kvachina and onwards up the river on its epic journey to spawn. We stumbled back to the raft, babbling and happy, looking forward to one last nip of Tullamore Dew from the hipflask, and yes, perhaps one or two vodkas under the stars later that evening to celebrate the perfect end to an unforgettable adventure.

As we clambered into the raft, I noticed two sparkling steelhead scales stuck to the back of my hand, their pearlescent sheen catching my eye in the last guttering rays of the sunset. I didn’t wash them off.

Contact: Matt Harris is hoping to return to Kamchatka in 2019. If you are interested in becoming a KSP scientist, contact him via:

matt.harris3333@gmail.com

The Kamchatka Steelhead Project can be contacted via The Fly Shop. Speak to Justin Miller at: justin@theflyshop.com Doug Brutacao’s Aqua flies are some of the best commercially tied steelhead flies I have ever seen. They are utterly seductive to both anglers and steelhead alike.