Living Large Part II - Flyfishing Forum

Man was I energized by witnessing Tyler's fish! This was his sandbox, a place where the vistas shout their testament to the enormity of the earth and the Thompson steelhead do their best to do it justice. Tylers booming Spey casts fit right in. Brian was already a disciple of this magic place, it was his energized stories and Tyler's welcoming spirit that convinced me to make the oddesey. Bill and I were like the freshly head-shaven zealots. For me, seeing this fish and the one exploding across the river changed everything.

Suddenly, the prospect of a silver submarine side-swiping my fly became very real. My fly swung in a teasing arc over the myriad of pockets, slots and fishy lies formed by the enternal flow of glacier melt over a massive sinewy trail of butter-slick boulders that is the Thompson River. I could neither see nor fathom it's origins upriver and had only a notion of what lay between Spence's Bridge and the sea from the hundreds of driving miles we had just traversed a few hours prior. Despite the imposing surroundings, what mattered was the patch of fishy water that lay directly in front of me.

As the sun continued to illuminate the grand scene, I felt like I was entering into that old familiar groove, alone with my thoughts melting into the pureness of scene like cougar prints in the shore sand on a rainforest stream. The wading shoes I leave in Seattle with Brian or Bill were as hard as dried dog chew leather not long ago, but now their waterlogged supple protection massaged my feet with the comfortable tension of the current against my knees.

Fishing just below the snowline (click to enlarge)

That wordless, silent mantra of tumbling thoughts that helped urge many invisible steelhead to take my fly over the last two decades began to flow freely from my lips as the novelty of being there was replaced with the urgent business of making contact with a native British Columbia Steelhead. Lift, tuck, pop. Take a step. Repeat.

Someone mentioned " breakfast" and my stomach started groaning out it's own mantra... omelet's, pancakes, hash browns, sausages, bacon, toast... My resolve quickly waned. Considering the opener a success with Tyler's awesome buck, we bee-lined to a riverside cafe where wet waders and felt sole marks were not only tolerated but expected.

The view from the cafe (click to enlarge)

The cafe filled up with anglers in waders and plenty of hot food was served. Tyler seemed to know them all and the stories poured as fluid as coffee until we had all we could want and the river called us back again. The view outside the cafe, like everything else in the valley, was incredible. Sated, warm and anxious - we paid the bill and headed for the river once again.

With renewed vitality we started our afternoon sortie on a beautiful rocky stretch Tyler recommended. We followed his advice on where to begin and where to focus within the run, then spread out to cover it. This stretch presented some of the most challenging wading I've ever encountered. I never ended up taking a spill but spent a lot of time on the verge. My usually reliable carbide studded felts were not up to the task of keeping me upright on the greased-slick, round-edge stones sized just right to make human feet fail. Without the wading staff I would have been flotsam in the current. If you visit the Thompson, make sure you bring a wading staff and boots with a rigid sole that can't be compressed between two rocks. Felt is critical but can't do the job by itself.

Anyway, the sun was high and strong over the valley and the mantra once again began to tumble around in my mind. I experimented wildly with tippets, fly colors, patterns and presentations like a anxious guitarist searching for a new sound. I wasn't really thinking, just reacting. I fished the most productive-looking water thoroughly without a touch and was reaching the part of the run that appeared to be dead water with my eyes focused on the tail out. As the fly would come under tension it would come to the surface. As soon as any cross current would catch it, it would wake without a riffle. I was having fun with this to bide time as I hastily worked through the flat, not thinking for all the world that anything would occur until I got to better looking water.

Suddenly, just as the fly came up to wake a swirling silver whirlpool formed and made a huge sink hole in the water and my line tightened until I felt the telltale surging head shakes in my wrist and saw the huge silver underwater flashes of a big steelhead on my line. I set the hook as the line started to scorch into a slashing, leaping burnout run downriver with a Thompson native steelhead on the line! I felt as though I had died and gone to heaven.

The Thompson River is a truly magical place

The Spey rod bucked hard as the feisty hen defied my efforts to recoup the backing. Her first run ran hard into the rapids and deep into the backing leaping and slashing along the way. She ran up river above me, and ran back downstream with me in tow. Eventually, she came to the shore where Tyler and Bill had come over to lend a hand. Defiant to the end, she made a few more line ripping runs and came to shore. I quickly posed for a photo with this gorgeous native summer run hen. The moment she shot back into the depths my quest was fulfilled, my 3,000 mile odyssey worthwhile. It was a moment I'll never forget, burned into the journals of my life forever.