Skunked for steelhead: Still waiting for the big one to hit

The rivers are getting busy this time of year.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been very busy pulling any fish out of them.
It’s spring steelhead season here in Manistee and anglers are out in large numbers tossing their offerings to the fish, hoping to get a big “steelie” on the end of the line.
From what I’m hearing, I’m not the only one skunked for steelhead so far. Most fisherman I’ve spoken with at the Big and Little Manistee rivers have said the same thing: “We didn’t see anything.”
Only while fishing up on Bear Creek about three weeks ago did I see some guys carting some nice big steelhead to their trucks. The erratic weather that followed -- high winds, no rain, 80-degree days -- seemed to put a damper on things.
I’ve been out a half dozen times since then and still don’t have that framed photo of me up on my wall holding a 25-inch rainbow trout. I’ll admit I’ve got sketchy skills. I’m probably going to all the wrong spots. And I’m fly-fishing, which always makes it a little tougher to yield results. An artificial fly on the end of your line is comparable to baiting a human with a rubber cheeseburger.
Still, I’m having the time of my life.
For those of you who don’t know, a steelhead (Oncorhynchus mykiss) is a rainbow trout native to the Pacific Ocean. The species was brought to Michigan more than 125 years ago. Steelheads are anadromous, which means, like salmon, they return to their original hatching grounds in rivers to spawn after spending a few years out in the big lake.
According to the DNR’s Web site: “Great lakes steelhead are usually found in waters less than 35 feet deep at temperatures of 58-62 degrees. They are often found near stream outlets, especially in spring and early summer. In the lake-dwelling part of their life cycle, they wander along the shoals eating plankton, minnows, surface and bottom insects and other aquatic life. Although they feed primarily in mid-depths, they do take surface insects, including fly fishermen's flies.”
Just not this fly fisherman’s.
Yet.
I’ve only casually gone after steelhead since I first started fly-fishing when I was 12 years old, usually in the fall. But I’ve hit the river more times for steelhead in the past month than I have over my entire life. My angling career has mostly been fishing for brook trout on dry flies during the summer, so the long nine-foot rods and heavy floating lines rigged with sinking tip leaders and split shot needed to hook onto the huge steelies are slightly foreign to me. But I’m getting used to them, even as I flog the water with my line, scaring away all the respectable fish.
At the very least, I am getting good practice swinging streamers and bottom-bouncing nymphs, which I’ve never done before.
But I was getting sick of practicing. I wanted to at least see a fish. I was starting to doubt the existence of the elusive steelhead in the rivers.
I went down to Six-Mile Bridge on Saturday to try my luck on the Little Man. I fished (unsuccessfully) for an hour before it started to rain.
I did what any smart angler stuck in the rain does: I went back to my car, took a snort of whisky and read while the rain came down.
It rained for a good twenty minutes. Usually, I’m not so scared of getting wet, but a few days before, I got caught in a downpour on the Little Man near 9-Mile Bridge. The river there is deep, fast and not easy to wade. It took me a half hour to get back to the car, and when I did, I was so soaked I had to drive home in my underwear.
All the rain was needed after a dry early spring, so I wasn’t too upset in either instance. In both cases, I had a rain coat which I failed to put on before heading into the stream because if you put it on, you’re just asking for it to rain. Or so goes my faulty logic goes.
So, there I am, reading in my car, my waders still on, when the rain finally breaks. I walked down the steep embankment toward the river and saw some guys fishing with spin rods and spawn bags, usually a much more successful method than fly fishing. I asked them how they’re doing.
“We haven’t seen anything,” they both said.
I told them I hadn’t either and followed the trail along the river downstream about a half mile.
At a point where the trail literally abuts the river, I looked down into the water and saw something move. If you lift up river water in your hands, it’s clear, but looking at it rushing over the sand, gravel and logs, it’s sometimes a rusty color. In the swiftness of the water, I saw a giant fish dart out from the undercut of the bank, waver for a moment in the current, then zip under a downed tree branch.
It had to be two-feet long. A steelhead.
I had finally seen one.
My attempts at catching it are another story. But the sun started shining and I continued to hone my skills for the next two hours.
And when I left, at least I didn’t have to drive home in my underwear.