On Steelhead and Obsession
Steelhead on the brain. The river is far away, but close enough to be dangerous. Sleep comes intermittently, restlessly. I don’t dream — I don’t have to. I see the waking world through a hallucinatory fabric, a veil of blushing pink and silver-brown. I feel a slick, muscular tail in my right hand and open my grip to let the life sift through my fingers and fade to water. It has been more than 24 hours since I caught the fish, but I still can’t shake that feeling.
Steelhead on the brain. To catch a steelhead you must cast and swing and wait and sidestep, and cast and swing and wait and sidestep, day after day. It is ritualistic and obsessive. It is an act of love. And when you have finally touched a steelhead you will never rest. People talk about steelhead fishing as an addiction. They say a person will neglect their responsibilities and make questionable life choices to follow that wild chrome. I understand this now, but I also know it is too late for me.
Steelhead on the brain. The miracle is not only in landing a big fish. It is in the story of a rainbow trout that swims for the sea, becoming a salt-water-breathing, ocean-braving bullet, fulfilling a destiny that no one understands and no one can explain. I find myself wondering what it must be like for a fish that grows up among river rocks, downed trees, and caddisflies to find itself adrift in an endless expanse of blue water. Is it disorienting? Terrifying? How many times will they make this journey? What is it like to feel the mysterious pull of the ocean or to smell the sediment of your home waters when you return?
Steelhead on the brain. Waking up early, putting on as many layers of wool and synthetics as I can fit into my waders. Frozen fingertips. Frost on the ground, crunching underfoot with every step down to the water. Set the anchor then sweep the rod, load, and fire. A long, slow swing. I watch through the haze of my breath and the fog of my glasses, but it’s all about the feel of the running line on my fingers. The line is taught, silent, and then two quick jabs, two decisive tugs, and the reel begins to scream.
-EH, November 2018