Maybe 8 years or so before my father passed away, he flew to Oregon to visit me, and we did a little fishing on the South Santiam for steelhead. I had just caught my first one, and had the bug something fierce. He threw spinners near Foster Dam all day and cherished every little trout he reeled in. The days of him being an ambitious outdoorsman had been replaced with a great deal of contentment in his old age. My mother, who had visited me a year or so later, managed to reel in a few salmon during the fall season out on the Alsea, and it was a memorable day of catching enough fish to grade out anything that wasn't spitting scales and covered in sea lice. Needless to say, we both got our limits. On another visit, we fished Buoy10 in Astoria. The weather was so bad, and she was obviously so miserable that we called the trip before 11am after catching only one jack we had to release.
When they told me they wanted to catch a salmon on their visit in May, I explained that chasing spring chinook is not an easy task. With the decline in all of our fisheries, spring chinook have taken the brunt of the collective issues that are to blame for low returns and decreased catch rates. I wanted to avoid a significant chunk of their visit being consumed with sitting in Portland traffic, and then trolling around with a few dozen other boats for maybe a chance at a fish. Instead, I wanted to take them somewhere they could have a little more of a pro-active and hands-on fishing experience without a ton of people around. Somewhere that they could enjoy some scenery and not be disappointed if we hired a guide with no control over the bite that day. There were lots of discussions about keeping their expectations low, and just enjoying the potential "boat ride" with our guide Matt Halseth on the Santiam, a river that seemed to fit the bill, and that we both had some kind of personal connection with.
My stepfather had only recently taken an interest in fishing. Living the lake life out in South Carolina, him and my mother had become owners of a pontoon boat, and occasionally, my stepfather would get lucky and catch catfish, spotted bass and striped bass out of Lake Murray and Lake Keowee. My mother being far more seasoned with the outdoors and him still being a very green New Yorker, the dynamic created the kind of clientele that every guide has to deal with at some point. "You're going to earn it," I told Matt the day we booked our trip. My mother had gotten her feet wet on her previous visits, but this was the first time she brought my stepfather Louie Russo with her.
Just as a warm-up, I decided to take them for a walk into the Siletz gorge the day before our trip with Halseth. I wanted to give Louie a primer for reading water, how to cast, deal with snags, all the basics that a guide would probably have to instruct a newbie on to get things dialed in. It was still a little early for summer steelhead to show upriver, but there had been several days of rain that spiked the river levels up a notch, and the weather was a bit overcast. I explained that the conditions were perfect, but we should still keep our expectations low. As we crept down to one of my favorite holes, I could see the faint movement of a chrome summer right where I would expect one to be. I took a cast or two to explain where to aim, the line to run a presentation through, and when the reel back up and start over again.
"You can't hold the rod like that, these fish don't mess around, they will kick your ass," I told Louie as he held the spinning reel on top and started reeling backwards, a cardinal sin for any angler that would make the hairs stand up on the neck of even the most intermediate beginner angler. "But I'm not used to reeling with my left hand!" I explained the best way to learn is to have a fish on the line and reel in your hand with the handle opposite of what you're used to. This was my way of preparing him for taking my rod if I managed to hook a fish with it.
In the meantime, I grudgingly switched the handle to the other side and handed him back his rod. As I was doing all of this, an ugly "cheesehead" sore back winter steelhead backed into the hole, and disturbed the chrome summer we had seen earlier. They seemed to be doing this docey-doe dance around the hole. "That fish is gonna get pissed enough to bite soon," I said. After getting my stepfather Louie dialed in with the handle on the right, he took a cast that went a little far on the other side of the seam I had been telling him to fish. He let it go to the end of the drift and I watched the fish charge at his bead as the float went down and began moving upstream. "YOU GOT HIM! REEL-REEL-REEL!!!" In a panic, he still managed to do exactly what I had instructed him to do earlier, "reel 'til you feel!" The drag was set low so that he wouldn't try to horse the fish in like a Lake Murray largemouth, and that summer took off out of the hole, down a tailout, and into the next hole, then down another tailout and started jumping in slackwater trying to shake the hook as it burned down to the backing. "Gimme the rod, we gotta go! We gotta go!" I yelled as he stumbled over the wet cobblestone in his New Balance dad sneaks getting drenched in oregon rain in his Canadian tuxedo of denim jeans and jacket. I scurried along to gain back a few feet of line so we didn't get spooled and yelled for him to come get the rod. "I can barely turn this damn crank on the right side, you need to get your ass down here and land this fish!"
As he stumbled close enough for me to hand him the rod, he got the fish in close enough I could almost reach it. "You're gonna have to move a few steps closer to swing him in," I said. He took a step and then slid down some ledge rock and wedged his foot in a bad spot. Being stuck and frustrated, he started barking back at me, "Quit yelling at me to reel! I AM reeling! I can't move!" Maybe it's the bratty sadistic stepson in me that got some kind of enjoyment out of his suffering, but I just started smiling and laughing hysterically. "Welcome to steelhead fishing! Now let's get this guy on the bank!" In spite of all the lost footing, nicks and bruising, he managed to keep the rod tip high and the line tight. Eventually, the fish got close enough I could tail it, and I went for it. That's when it slipped out of my hands and swam between my legs. I remember thinking, "Oh no, this is it. This is bad. This is how he gets away." As that thought entered my mind, I saw him turn the crank on the reel a couple more times and the fish finally just gave out and turned belly up long enough for me to grab it again. get on the shore, notice the lack of an adipose, grab the nearest rock and put it to sleep.
I couldn't believe it. He caught "the fish of a thousand casts" in less than a half an hour. Not even twenty minutes from having the reel upside down. Not just any steelhead, but an ocean fresh, chrome summer steelhead. My mother, who never wet a line that day, was happy to see him catch a fish, any fish. Having only caught a couple fall salmon, she might have even been a little jealous. "Well, I guess you guys can just get back on the plane now, because there's nothing left to see here," I joked. The primer mission was a success, and our expectations had already been exceeded. There's no way they weren't going to enjoy getting back out on the water again the next day.
As we met Matt at the I-5 ramp on the mainstem of the Santiam, he explained a little about his program and approach to fishing the river system he grew up on. We started by backtrolling a little diver and bait on the mainstem to get their feet wet. After a few trout and my parents becoming visibly bored with me playing deckhand and backing out their presentations, he motored up the South Santiam and we did a little bobber dogging. Halseth helped work out the kinks of casting, lining up everyone's presentations, and leaving them in the water. We started hooking pikeminnow left and right, which even if we couldn't find a springer or summer steelhead, was good practice for reading water, hooksets, and fighting fish.
After they grew tired of feeding pikeminnow to the eagles, we motored back downstream to the fork, and headed up the North Santiam. I could see that look of contentment on my stepfather's face as we dodged downed trees and jetted through sharp curves. Halseth could probably navigate the North Santiam in his sleep as long as he knew the dam flows and which channel to run, which was a little different than Louie was used to cruising the lake in his pontoon boat. We did a little more bobber dogging, and I missed an opportunity on something that felt a little larger than a trout. We went back up and floated through again, this time my mother pulled back on something big in the same slot. "I don't know what this is, but it's too heavy to be a trout," she said. As the weight began to move and dump line off the reel, I tried to explain that a steelhead is just an ocean-going trout. We floated with the fish and it made several screaming runs before getting close enough to put it in the net. Once we noticed it was wild, Matt and I kept in the water until we could get to shore for a quick grip-n-grin. "This is a special fish, these wild steelhead are endangered," Halseth told my mother. I added that it was also her first steelhead, which made it all the more special.
After capturing a photo or two, we sent her on her way to the long journey back to the salt, wishing her luck with the sea lions at Willamette Falls. With the recent changes in management and lethal removal of sea lions, that fish might actually stand a chance at returning to the Santiam to spawn again someday.
"I still want to catch a salmon," said Louie. Seemingly unsatisfied with his miracle feat of landing his first steelhead, he was still hellbent on telling the rest of his family that he caught a salmon. And even though we were still on high from the adrenaline of mom's first steelhead, he's right. That's what we were there to do, so went back at it. After landing a few whitefish, it seemed like we had worked over that area pretty good and moved on to a fast-moving deep hole with lots of boils and crazy hydro action. It was a spot that Matt had a lot of confidence in. We backbounced up a beautiful resident rainbow trout that I immediately released and went back at it. One of the rods started to move, and the bend began to bounce as Matt lifted it out of the holder and handed it to Louie. "REEL-REEL-REEL!" Matt said as he handed Louie one of his brand new Shimano Tekota lefties. "I'm not used to the reel being on this side," he said. Of course, as the sadistic stepson, I let out another maniacal laugh as I said, "You gon' learn today!" After some epic line-peeling action, Louie started to gain line as the boat floated downstream to a fallen log, where the fish was held up on and rubbing the line against. "We need to get him out of there," Matt said calmly. He pulled the boat away from the fish, and the change in the angle of pressure made the fish react by turning and burning back towards the next tailout and away from the fallen tree. As the cottonwood blooms began to collect on the surface, Matt started singing with the net his hand, "Cottonwood falling like snow in July, sunset, riverside, four wheel drives..." You could tell that in that moment, him being out on the water with me and my family, he was in his element as a guide. Not long after, the fish was within reach of the net and the bonker.
Two days, back-to-back, my stepfather landed his first steelhead and first salmon, both hatchery fish, both the least abundant of their species and the best table fare. Louie was a shining example of it being better to be lucky than good, but Matt was reveling in the fact that he was able to introduce two incredible firsts to his clients, in the same day. We floated back downstream doing some more bobber dogging, and I landed a hatchery springer on the way to add to our creel. Icing on the cake, and meat in the freezer, I couldn't have been happier with exceeding everyone's expectations, including my own. As we packed everything up in the truck, I had a moment with Louie and told him that I would have given anything for my dad to have had that experience with me before passing away. I wanted my stepfather to know how much it meant to me to be able to share that experience with him, and how much I appreciated his determination. My father always talked about visiting again after retirement, and died two weeks after retiring. As my stepfather is approaching retirement, he's gained a new appreciation for every moment, which is the kind of zen we're all fishing after when we hit the water.
This article was published in the July 2020 issue of Salmon & Steelhead Journal
