I was walking carefully because I know this particular path to the river is slipperier than deer guts on a doorknob. Sure enough, I went down flat on my back, spread eagled. If anyone had come upon me, they might still be telling their friends about the guy making a snow-angel on the banks of the Sky at seven this morning.
I strung up my two-hander, stepped into the river, where I found I had missed the stripping guide. "No problemo," I'll simply back the #4 GP back through the guides. By the time I got the fly down to the missed guide, it bore no resemblance to it's former self. After doing several squats in the water to wash the mud off my butt, I made my first cast at 7:30. I fished through the run once then changed to a big black mystery fly someone had given me last year. At 9am I hooked up. I got a good wallow and waited. The hot, reel-screeching run of a double-digit wild native steelhead was a no-show. Instead, I reeled in the wimpiest, most docile steelhead I've ever encountered. It was a hatchery hen of about eight pounds that looked to be in good condition but, by her lack of action, was spawned out. I shook her off the hook and watched as she turned slowly into the current and disappeared. I've had a small dog at the end of a leash fight harder. Soon, a couple gearguys showed up and lowholed me, ending my morning. As I walked by, one of them asked how I did. "Nothing to brag about," I said. Leland.
