Text and Images Copyright Juro Mukai

As I stood knee-deep along the rocky shoreline of the Graveyard Pool, I realized something. I'd always thought rivers got their legends from the great men who fished them, but standing there I realized that it's the rivers themselves that are legendary, and some rubs off on those who fish them.

Steelhead are all about obsession. We started out at o'dark-thirty to drive 100 miles south toward the Columbia River. There's a certain Columbia tributary that almost guarantees to get the "skunk off" a trip, so there we were motoring down I-5 despite the fact that we were heading to the other Columbia - British Columbia, later that same day.

It didn't make a lot of sense to head so far south before heading so far north, but you have to factor in the 3,000 miles I came to meet Brian and Bill in Seattle for this long-awaited fall steelhead conclave. The icebreaker strategy worked - Brian Lencho (aka. Doublespey) rose a nice summer run hen on a skating dry fly. Bill Littlewood and I had to settle for searun cutthroats, a large rainbow, and a couple of suspicious heavy headshaking pulls that I'd wager were reluctant steelhead. Our 15 foot Spey rods worked the big river until early afternoon. In the end, the sortie resulted in one steelie and a number of fat searun cutthroats for the team before we headed back to Seattle to regroup for the long run to BC.

(click for full images)

We couldn't have picked a more miserable time to embark for several more hours of driving. Rush hour traffic deadlocked the roads across the city. Once we broke out of Seattle the rain and darkness fell upon us as we wearily made our way toward the international border. Once at the border, our sense of having reached a milestone in the journey was dampened when Canadian customs picked apart the truck and all of it's contents - right down to our flytying kits. One of the officers walking by asked "Going to the Thompson?". I nodded. I took it as a good sign.

On our way again, we headed toward Hope, a town on the road to the Fraser River Valley northeast of Vancouver. I joked "hey - we're almost beyond Hope", to which laughter tapered to quiet contemplation of the appropriateness of the metaphor as we entered the mountainous s-curves of the Fraser River canyon in the driving rain and darkness. Our eyes were at half-mast behind windshield wipers slapping to an escort of log trucks on the canyon highway with the blunt brassy sound of their jake brakes echoing in the wet dreary night.

We were drifting in and out of consciousness, including Bill who was driving. I think we were coming up to Hells Gate in the Fraser Valley when I got a little concerned for our safety. Although already several hours vested in this odyssey, I proclaimed that "I'd rather turn right around right now and NOT fish the Thompson than die trying to get there". Brian became intensely silent for a moment, then replied with conviction "well that's cause you haven't fished the Thompson". We laughed raucously at the imposition, and headed onward, way beyond Hope, through Hells Gate, and finally rolled into our destination at Spences Bridge well on the other side of midnight.

Fraser River Valley

Within a couple of hours of our arrival, our host Tyler (aka. Kush) Kushnir came out to the truck to get us moving. Amused by our crazy ways, Tyler was rigged and ready and I sensed a certain urgency in his voice - the kind of urgency you feel when you know what's out there in the darkness beyond the trailer lights, something contagious to those who haven't yet experienced it. It got me moving like no coffee could.

Next thing you know, there I was in the Graveyard pool in my moment of clarity thinking about the legacy that drew us there. I was humbled by the size and glory of the river as the sun rose over the mountains. I watched Dave O'Brien of Micheal and Young (Vancouver) hook a steelhead that was so hot it appeared like someone was throwing cinder blocks in the water in front of him as he scurried down the bank 100 yards or so in pursuit. I was watching this from 150 yards away and the sight rivaled any battle I had ever seen of any species anywhere, including anything on television. I didn't just feel excitement, I felt concern... what the hell am I going to do if I hook one of these things? That's a problem I could live with, and I cast into the current, put a mend in the line, and held the fly under tension as it swung cleanly down and across the timeless flows of this great river.

A perfect fish - wild, strong & the personification of the word "steelhead".

Inspired by the activity at the head of the pool, I headed up there. By the time I got close enough to see how the water was structured I noticed Tyler was fighting a solid 15 pound buck in the upper pool. I ran 100 yards over greased rocks to capture the moment on film (those of you who've fished the Thompson will appreciate that feat). By the time I reached him the buck had come to the shore. A perfect fish - wild, strong and the personification of the word "steelhead".

Tyler was swinging a small dark fly on a long leader and a dry line over a classic boulder strewn Thompson River pool when the fish moved for his fly. He quickly revived the fish and it swirled strongly back into the heart of the river. He invited me to lead through the rest of the run. I looked over the pool, and suddenly every rock, pocket and slot appeared to be a potential steelhead lie, and in fact they were. I shivered excitedly at the thought. Every cast brought renewed excitement as the cobwebs cleared from my brain and it really sunk in... I am actually fishing the mighty Thompson.

>> READ MORE - Part II