"The silvers are just showing up, there's plenty of pinks, or you might find a late chinook. I caught my first steelhead of the season last week. You two should come back here at 7AM." This advice, fresh from the lips of the fly shop owner, came with a few of his home-spun marabou patterns - a hot tip paired with hot flies! We paid the man, walked out the door, and investigated his home water. The trail led to an enticing run. Rounding the river's bend, we realized that we were within cannon shot of the North Pacific. "Brown today, green tomorrow," I said. Having grown up fishing the coastal streams of Oregon, I'd seen rivers of this size flush the silt over the course of a good night's sleep. Back at the B & B, we nestled into bed with visions of sea-lice dancing in our heads.
To our cordial host's chagrin, we ducked out the back door before their signature breakfast could hit the table. Moose were the only creatures that stirred on the streets of Homer. The rain that had turned the river to the color of a caramel latte had subsided, and the level of anticipation inside our rented Turo that morning could rival any Christmas Eve. We pulled into an empty parking lot and rigged our ALLFLYs accordingly. I went with the 10' 6" 8WT and a 400 grain Skagit head. Lauren left hers in single-handed 8WT mode. As anticipated, the river's color had improved from latte to Americano. We crossed the river at a tailout and hiked upstream to the head of a classic walking pace run.
With Lauren a hundred yards above me, I worked my line out with a few compact Snap Cs until I reached the seam against the far bank. On the hangdown, I got ripped, and when the fish thrashed the surface, revealing chrome flanks, I was certain I'd found one of the silvers and dinner we were after. Not until I brought the fish to hand did I realize that I had caught an Alaska steelhead. She was a beautiful native hen, and once again I marveled at the happenstance of a landlubber standing in a coastal Alaskan river at the moment a great mariner returned to natal waters.
With the fish back on her way upstream, Lauren unapologetically supplanted me. A few casts later, I cackled as the surface exploded and her rod throbbed from the weight of a sea-bright silver salmon. She had never swung flies for anadromous fish before but managed to do everything right, keeping her rod high and swinging the fish into the bank so I could tail it. This fish wouldn't receive the same, gentle treatment as the steelhead we'd just released, and the event ended with the thud of a rock against fish skull. Fishing, like hunting, is a blood sport.
With dinner secured, we made a few more laps through the run, hooking, landing, and losing all three species of salmon and possibly another steelhead or two. About 10AM, a lone angler arrived at the tailout and leered upstream. From a hundred yards distant, I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Lauren had seen it too, and she turned upstream, nodded at me, and reeled up her line. We had just experienced the most epic anadromous fishing session and left the pool with our cups overflowing.
