Heres how mine went... I remember it well:
It was a Wednesday after work, my fishing buddy who owned a large construction firm and sets his own hours called and said "fish are in the middle stretch". I packed my briefcase at the Renton Boeing Facility where I worked as a on-site computer consultant and said "I need to go to the office for a meeting".
By the time I got the the parking area Jack was already there and impatiently waiting as I pulled on some waders and strung up the silly fat line through the guides of the 9'6" RPL I bought at Kaufmanns from Dennis Worley the autumn before. Jack was an exceptional angler but not at all interested in fly-fishing. In fact this difference would eventually lead to our parting of ways as two avid anglers traveling the countryside in pursuit of chrome, sad to say - as he was a great friend and among the best anglers I had ever had the pleasure to meet. He simply didn't have the patience for my preferences in water and as he boondoggled a lot from the sled, I sat with hands folded a lot. When I started bringing the fly rod out to Neah Bay I think that was the last straw for him, understandably.
Anyway, Jack and I bushwacked to a favorite spot and the river was in great shape. He laced a small sand shrimp behind a small clown corky and the race was on. I stood on a logpile, staring at my flybox. Jack looked over, laughed, and said "is that how a fly fisherman does it?". I had not taken a cast yet, and we had been there for several minutes. I picked a pattern I saw in Trey Combs book, modified with a bucktail under-collar to hold the marabou out.
He continued to give me friendly grief as I walked upriver a bit, looking at a seam on the inside of the bend on the far bank above a rapid. I could see him still chuckling as I was wading in, and still hadn't made a cast. Finally, I stripped line out and made a cast.
The fly landed too close to the main current and I did not get a mend in fast enough, so the line zoomed out of the slot. I fed about 12 more feet of line out, walked 20-30 ft upriver as Jack continued to laugh at my antics.
There was a root wad creating a break in the middle of the far slot, just above the rapids that separated my pool from Jacks. I put out my best cast so that the fly landed in the softwater between the root wad and the shore, and made a near mend right away to keep the fly swimming in the wake of the wad. It was a nice slow path, cutting diagonally across and down. Nothing. The line started to tug to the middle of the river, and the fly was leaving the gut of the slot and I knew it would be zooming across the heart of the current again in an instant...
But much to my surprise a flash and the rod was bent to the cork with a dozen pounds of angry native winter buck thrashing in the tailout trying to throw the hook! I don't know if this is my own fantasy or not but I think Jack's mouth opened so wide his cigarette fell into the river.
Two casts, and I was on! The fish stayed in the upper pool, ran upriver, ran across, leaped twice, but never left the pool. Another fly angler was fishing across the river and waited for me to nearly land the fish before crossing and admiring the fish. It was a beautiful thick shouldered native buck, never removed from the water, and the barbless hook slipped out gently as the fish powered it's way back into the pool.
It was evening, and the light faded from the sky quickly as the crisp winter air dropped it's daylight warmth. As I recall it was one of the few times that I had actually humbled Jack while fishing, and I felt awkward as we made our way back to the lot. This was very rare.
I had caught many steelhead before, and caught many after - but that first winter native on a fly will never be forgotten as a special event in my angling lifetime. Funny thing is, since I went 100% flyfishing for them nearly two decades ago I remember them all individually, even on those magic fall days when I landed several before taking a lunch break.
It was a Wednesday after work, my fishing buddy who owned a large construction firm and sets his own hours called and said "fish are in the middle stretch". I packed my briefcase at the Renton Boeing Facility where I worked as a on-site computer consultant and said "I need to go to the office for a meeting".
By the time I got the the parking area Jack was already there and impatiently waiting as I pulled on some waders and strung up the silly fat line through the guides of the 9'6" RPL I bought at Kaufmanns from Dennis Worley the autumn before. Jack was an exceptional angler but not at all interested in fly-fishing. In fact this difference would eventually lead to our parting of ways as two avid anglers traveling the countryside in pursuit of chrome, sad to say - as he was a great friend and among the best anglers I had ever had the pleasure to meet. He simply didn't have the patience for my preferences in water and as he boondoggled a lot from the sled, I sat with hands folded a lot. When I started bringing the fly rod out to Neah Bay I think that was the last straw for him, understandably.
Anyway, Jack and I bushwacked to a favorite spot and the river was in great shape. He laced a small sand shrimp behind a small clown corky and the race was on. I stood on a logpile, staring at my flybox. Jack looked over, laughed, and said "is that how a fly fisherman does it?". I had not taken a cast yet, and we had been there for several minutes. I picked a pattern I saw in Trey Combs book, modified with a bucktail under-collar to hold the marabou out.
He continued to give me friendly grief as I walked upriver a bit, looking at a seam on the inside of the bend on the far bank above a rapid. I could see him still chuckling as I was wading in, and still hadn't made a cast. Finally, I stripped line out and made a cast.
The fly landed too close to the main current and I did not get a mend in fast enough, so the line zoomed out of the slot. I fed about 12 more feet of line out, walked 20-30 ft upriver as Jack continued to laugh at my antics.
There was a root wad creating a break in the middle of the far slot, just above the rapids that separated my pool from Jacks. I put out my best cast so that the fly landed in the softwater between the root wad and the shore, and made a near mend right away to keep the fly swimming in the wake of the wad. It was a nice slow path, cutting diagonally across and down. Nothing. The line started to tug to the middle of the river, and the fly was leaving the gut of the slot and I knew it would be zooming across the heart of the current again in an instant...
But much to my surprise a flash and the rod was bent to the cork with a dozen pounds of angry native winter buck thrashing in the tailout trying to throw the hook! I don't know if this is my own fantasy or not but I think Jack's mouth opened so wide his cigarette fell into the river.
Two casts, and I was on! The fish stayed in the upper pool, ran upriver, ran across, leaped twice, but never left the pool. Another fly angler was fishing across the river and waited for me to nearly land the fish before crossing and admiring the fish. It was a beautiful thick shouldered native buck, never removed from the water, and the barbless hook slipped out gently as the fish powered it's way back into the pool.
It was evening, and the light faded from the sky quickly as the crisp winter air dropped it's daylight warmth. As I recall it was one of the few times that I had actually humbled Jack while fishing, and I felt awkward as we made our way back to the lot. This was very rare.
I had caught many steelhead before, and caught many after - but that first winter native on a fly will never be forgotten as a special event in my angling lifetime. Funny thing is, since I went 100% flyfishing for them nearly two decades ago I remember them all individually, even on those magic fall days when I landed several before taking a lunch break.