This is the largest steelhead ever caught in Idaho...by me.
Steelhead mornings are reserved for fishing and vocal communication is generally frowned upon. This lack of conversation is due to ruffled feathers from the drive up and the fact it’s 6:00 a.m. Our heads feel like Tony Dogs in Scorsese’s film Casino right before Nicky Santoro gives the final turn of the handle on the vice, crushes TD’s skull and screams “Charlie M? You made me pop your fuckin’ eye out of your head to protect that piece of shit? Charlie M?” Yeah, we all feel that bad.
Based on the latest word-of-mouth fishing report, we elect to back track 20 some-odd miles to the narrows and fish the Dutch Oven hole. This will be a day of all out combat fishing, standing on an ice shelf asshole-to-elbow with 25 to 30 other fishers on a 50 yard stretch of river and taking turns casting. This will not be a relaxing day of getting back to nature; this will be a marathon and true test of everyone’s patience as a steelheader.
On the way there the line of trucks we are following is nearly run off the road as they are passed on the right by a jacked up Ford sporting Utah plates going at least 50 mph. No one in our truck has the energy to say a word; twenty minutes later we find the reckless Utah Ford sitting on the Clam hole with all four passengers out on the river’s edge floating bobbers. All true steelheaders know only toddlers fish with bobbers…we speculate whether the Utahans are using “Snoopy” or “Woodstock” poles.
The trucks that were ahead of us have massed on the roadside to discuss Idaho driving courtesies with our angling neighbors to the south. We keep moving upstream to the narrows, none of us are feeling froggy enough to stop fists with our faces this early in the morning. We figure the odds are in Idaho’s favor based on the number of irate locals marching down to the bobber fishers, apparently prepared to take the law into their own hands.
As we near the narrows, members of my clan revue the rules of engagement during the battle for fish superiority. While in combat, time in the water is of the utmost importance to successful harvest and a proper rotation technique must be followed to achieve that goal.
To summarize the Salmon River method of combat fishing:
Beginning with the furthest downstream fisher, a cast is made across the river in the upstream direction at a 45 degree angle with respect to the casting fisher, the next upstream fisher then casts just above the previous fisher and so on upstream until all anglers on the hole are in the water and drifting downstream. The line is allowed to drift until it reaches a 60 degree angle downstream with respect to the furthest downstream fisher. The line is then retrieved and the cycle is repeated by all, this way many can fish without getting tangled up with one another. These mechanical revolutions occur several hundred times per shift with a shift lasting up to 12 hours depending on the age, physical condition and amount of liquor the steelheader has consumed the night before.
Non-adherence to the combat method will result in swift disciplinary action from other steelheaders. These actions can vary from a scolding stink-eye to physical violence depending on the frequency and severity of the crime. The two main protocol felonies are Tinking and Long-Lining. Tinking is the act of casting over the line of the downstream fisher entangling the tackle of both resulting in lost fishing time. Repeat offenses may result in cut line, broken rods, and in extreme cases…stoning. Long-Lining is defined as letting the downstream drift exceed the previously described 60 degree angle resulting in an allowable Tink from the downstream caster or at the very least a verbal warning that usually includes a reference to sheep and the violator’s birth mother to get the point across.
We hit the Dutch Oven around 6:30 a.m. and the place is hopping. The fish are moving and as we scale down the 50 ft ice bank holding all our gear in one hand and a rope tied to the truck parked above in the other, we watch a cute little gal in a 70’s style pink ski suit land a nice hatchery fish (all wild fish must be released). I was condescendingly thinking “how nice for her, she caught a keeper.” Four hours later I had hooked five and landed two fish, the gal in pink had landed six and hooked countless more. She was spanking every guy in the hole and we were all smitten with this fashion conscience steelheading Goddess.
Dave, the only single guy in our ragtag clan, commented that if he were twenty years younger he would be inclined to pitch a little woo. We told him not to let his age or his lack of teeth dissuade him and offered encouragement after several draws off the flask and by sharing our best pickup line with him, “Do you have any raisins? No? How about a date?” but as fate would have it she was with her husband who appeared as if he could pound the lot of us, plus I’m confident she was not interested in a date with liquor breath toothless Dave anyway.
Back at camp a tally is taken and it becomes apparent we had a decent first day with twenty-one fish caught between the eight of us. No one set any personal catch records but no one got skunked either, which is a far more important statistic. As the evening comes to a close we tease toothless Dave about the gal in pink, we wonder how the Utahans with the kiddy poles made out against all those pissed-off fellow rednecks, and we speculate about where the fish will be tomorrow. All-in all it was a near perfect day on the River of No Return.