Braving the wind and rain in high hopes of chasing some icy chrome.
Wallace River
7AM-2PM
Cabela's WLGUL Steelhead Slammer, 8'3" M

Oh and my rod isn't an actual Cabela's product. It was originally an 8'6" M Pro Guide before the tip snapped (people need to watch where they step on the SnoHo- might just step on someone's fishing pole...) So now it's a shortened, ugly beast that landed well over 100 pinks this year along with some summer steelies. The moniker stands for When Life Gives You Lemons... seriously my luck with fishing poles and other anglers...

My 9'6" lami isn't in use cause it's in the shop as well due to another rod-tip break, this one my fault. But come on, I applied literally no pressure to it... Moving on.

Ah, the mighty Wallace River. Stained water, higher than normal, and dropping. Steelhead slammin' water if you ask me. I prodded some holes with a mighty 1/8oz jig under a cleardrift, and in the middle of one of the drifts, the bobber sank. Like a rock.

BOOM! Fish on! The cry reverberated all throughout the river basin as my rod was raised high in salute to the opponent that decided to do me battle. Then all the anglers around me watched as I reeled in a lovely whitefish. Chrome, but not what I was looking for.

But now I'm movin' on. Explorin' the river like a driftin log. Smell that chrome call me fish-dog. Cast into the pool I hook a hog.

Bars. Straight fire. Giving up fishing to become a rapper.

After that musical interlude, I decided it would be best to keep fishing instead of spitting pure gold into a nonexistent microphone.

It was one of those things. As soon as I saw the run, I was like "there's a freaking fish in there." It looked massively fishy. I applied bloody tuna to my jig and hurled it out, and sure enough on the second cast, my float sunk again into the depths.

This time, the hookset revealed a much larger chrome being on the other end. Airborne the steelie went, one, two three times, then running against my drag up and down the river. Jumping again, and again, and again. Playing it out, perfectly countering the movements of the fish with my rod. I felt like a freaking pro out there: Finding my own water, a mile in each direction from a fisherman, picking it apart, and executing a proper cast and mending rhythm that resulted in a beautiful winter run steelhead on the end of my line.

He was dead to rights. Tuckered out, beat. Done. I swung him over into my reach, and why not tail the fish? I grabbed the tail, but the fish resisted. An improper grab! Between my legs the fish went, wrapping around my feet. I danced a silly dance wildly trying to untangle the dude. It worked, but the lac of control let him go where I did not want him to...

The f****** thorn bushes. I hate those damn things. Line gets caught around every thorn and then embeds in the stems, resulting in a mess. He then proceeded to break me off. And then he swam away, and I watched my dream fade right in front of my eyes.

Luckily for that hatchery dude I made a really stupid decision to tail the fish instead of bring him to the bank like any smart, conservative angler without a net. And I paid for it.

Very, very irritating. Hours of pounding rainy, stained water, and just as all the pieces aligned, they crumbled. Oh well, a lesson learned and a mistake never to be made again.

But why couldn't I have learned that on a pink or something?

Tight lines. Use your thinking cap y'all.

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