In this new series, Chilliwack trio Alan Penner, Willie Holmes and James Carter share the seasons, culture and wisdom that make BC steelhead fishing a way of life, not just a passion
Part 1: The steelhead experience
HUNTING STEELHEAD with a fly has an ineffable element. Some protagonists turn to poetry, some to art, and some to story. The following narrative offers newcomers a glimpse into the essence of the steelhead experience.
I’m privileged to live within walking distance of my local river. That privilege doubles when salmon and steelhead are present. Whether with a rod or simply wandering the bank, I visit it almost every day. I see it in every season, state of flow, and mood. This has its advantages during steelhead season and specifically after last winter when big storms caused flooding, landslides, and a rapidly fluctuating river. This rise, fall, and changing habit of flowing water calls to those of us who pursue steelhead. It beckons us to step in with a two-handed rod. If improving water clarity coincides with a drop in levels, the urgency intensifies.
In February this year, as I watched the river falling daily, I plotted the perfect time after work to fish in the last hours of daylight. I knew where to start: a new run carved out by high, winter water. It looked incredibly “fishy.”
The word “fishy” is an inadequate description, but if you have spent a lot of time swinging flies, it is enough — it evokes feelings in an angler that other words can only allude to. It plants an image in the brain and a sensation in the soul that comes with experience on the water. In fishy water, your tip digs deep, your fly swings slowly, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Anticipation is electric and time is forgotten. Such runs are a joy to fish, even when you exit the tail-out without a single grab.
The day came and I rushed home to pick up my gear, then stood on the bank scanning the run. I forced myself to start at the top, even though I could follow the line of the stratified bank down to the log that marked a ledge where hope lay hidden. This was where previous excursions had been rewarded with interest.
Cautiously, I slid down the bank avoiding gnarled, intertwined roots extruding at all angles. Two months ago, the rocks at the river’s edge were buried under ten feet of soil and the network of roots — now suspended in air — were covered too. There is a feeling of intimacy and reverence standing below the forest floor. An underworld exposed by the raw power of moving water.
I breathe it all in, unhook my marabou tube and make my first cast.
Learn how to tie Alan’s steelhead marabou tube
How does a fish hit a fly that hard and not stick?
Short casts are required here; the steelhead sit close. Half of my Skagit head, 10ft of T-11 and 3ft of leader are long enough, until I reach the tail-out. I’m soon in the rhythm. Cast, mend, swing, step, repeat. Slowly moving down the run, systematically covering water, anticipating the arrival of the ledge. The fly arrives first and is hit hard, pulling my line taut. It is one of those grabs I want to see up close. “How does a fish hit a fly that hard and not stick?” I ask myself. My heart rate elevates; I step back several meters and try again. More touches come. By the time I reach the submerged trees blocking access to the tail-out, I’ve had six brief interactions and zero hook-ups.
With all this attention, I’m amped up and confident as I scramble up the bank to negotiate the blockage. I have a full view of the tail-out. It looks promising. The current is faster compared to the top, but large boulders provide breaks. I’m not in deep — submerged to my thighs I can cover the good water with a long cast and reach the opposite side without filling my waders. The tail is shallow and drops swiftly over a gravel bar and into the run below. These are places I search for — a refuge immediately above a difficult upstream route. Leaving the pool will require an elevated climb through swift, shallow water where a scraped belly and an exposed back are stress-inducing experiences, causing a running steelhead to seek places of rest.
Replayed in my mind, this scene had a gap; a millisecond of memory lost
I can see a convex dome of water midstream, indicating the presence of a large boulder, which then spills into a foaming “V”. Behind it is still water, a perfect resting place. Here, depth is not a barrier to a well-presented fly, but speed is. The fly must move slowly across the current giving fish a chance to see it and react.
Casts are angled downstream followed by a strong mend and a rod tip held high, keeping line off the water. The correct pace is crucial. First, I guide the fly in front of the boulder (they sometimes sit in front). The second cast is over the top, and the third will be just behind it. On the next cast, the fly will reach the idle water. My senses sharpen. I make it, set up the swing and guide the fly behind the boulder. I see it there, then feel a jolting weight. Replayed in my mind, this scene had a gap; a millisecond of memory lost. The fly was swinging, it reached the spot — all went blank — then a heavy weight, a flash of chrome, and finally a screaming reel.
The next moments are rare in my experience. Complete presence — a singularity of body, brain, and soul. I am connected to a wild creature and my hands feel its power. The ensuing moments are a brawl. The steelhead reacts and hurtles downstream, weaving between boulders, breaking the surface. Holding it or stopping it are not options. The line peels from my reel.
Hard-earned: a wild steelhead prized for years to come.
Simultaneously, I chase, retrieve line, and direct it away from boulders and roots. It seeks escape while I push it to fatigue — hoping for a quick fight and gentle release. Its moves are countered by opposing pressure — giving it no chance to rest.
Eventually it lists and finally rolls onto its side. Now I’m in control and guiding it into soft water at my feet. Holding a truly wild steelhead is impossible to describe. That moment of interaction, feeling the taut power of its body and seeing its brilliant colours up close temporarily fulfils the needs of my biophilic tendencies. A hidden world has been revealed and I feel connected. When I point this river denizen back into the current and release my hold on the wrist of its tail, my euphoria does not leave with it.
James’ steelhead tricks
Are you ready to beat the chill?
Willie Holmes wrapped up and ready for action.
WHEN YOU’RE warm and comfortable on the water, it’s far easier to stay focused. You fish for longer and can truly enjoy everything that makes steelhead fishing in British Columbia so special.
It’s easy to imagine spring and summer steelheading in T-shirts and shirtsleeves, but the reality in BC is often very different. Much of the time, it still feels like winter. Early starts, persistent glacial runoff, and ever-changing coastal weather keep conditions cold, wet, and unpredictable, regardless of what the calendar says. Bright sunshine can give way to rain in moments, and those mild afternoons often begin with near-freezing mornings.
That’s why comfort is key. Even as the days lengthen, I make a point of being prepared for whatever the river has in store. Getting your layering right can be the difference between calling it quits after a couple of uncomfortable hours and settling in for a full day of effortless, enjoyable fishing.
A lightweight wading jacket (I wear the Loop Dellik) is a constant in my kit, ideal for damp starts and sudden showers. Beneath that, I stick to simple, breathable layers that adjust with the day as temperatures rise. A neck gaiter or buff is a must — whether it’s for stopping the chill creeping down your neck or protecting you from the sun and wind later in the day.
Even in the height of summer, I’ll almost always be in waders. Air temperatures can climb to 30 deg C, but the water remains fed by snowmelt and can be close to freezing. A good pair of merino wool socks makes all the difference in keeping you in the water for longer.
Six garments to keep you warm and dry
PHOTOGRAPHY/VIDEOGRAPHY: JAMES CARTER/ JOE EVANS/BRADLEY FUNKHOUSER/SCOTT SHERIN
IN THIS SERIES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pacific Rivers Outfitting Company
Pacific Rivers Outfitting Company manager Willie (left) and sales associate and guide James (middle) are based at the store in Chilliwack (British Columbia), while Alan, a local science and PE teacher — and equally fanatical steelhead fisher — runs a series of evening fly-tying courses at the shop.
