Wait Until this Year

Writer John Gierach noted that anyone who starts a fish story by telling you how beautiful the scenery was, probably didn’t catch any fish. Well, let me tell you how gorgeous the Cuyahoga Valley is at this time of year. Our first day of steelheading was more about driving and occasionally waving a stick at the water, than about catching fish.
Maybe I should back up and offer a few definitions and some backgrounder. In this neck of the woods, as temperatures drop and rain comes in sheets rather than droplets, some people hunker down and darn near hibernate for the next six or seven months. There is a small percentage who embrace the evil weather—wish for worse, even. We call ourselves steelheaders. It has nothing to do with the structure of our heads. It’s about the species of trout we do battle with. These fish, with their 2K brains, and us with enough money invested in tackle to bale out the Bush administration, will try to out wit each other for the next four or five months.
Steelhead (a form of rainbow trout) relax for a few years, swimming around in Lake Erie, trying not to be eaten or caught. When conditions are just right, meaning fresh, cold water in the streams, in they come with reproduction on their minds. They go at it like teenagers; lots of thrashing about without accomplishing much other than bragging rights. Our stream bottoms are not suited for the egg-laying process. The steelies don’t know that. With steelhead, reproduction is more about attitude than actuality.
And although it was a bit early in the season, cool weather and a flurry of emails between fishing buddy Tom and myself, filled us both with false hope. I volunteered to scout river conditions after last week’s rain. Looked good. The local fishing Web sites weren’t encouraging. We rationalized that away with the notion that these guys were not being forthcoming. They had hopes of keeping those first big fish all to themselves. Our steelhead fishery has improved so much that even catching a 30-inch-fish won’t get your picture in the papers.
Following the email came phone calls. Eventually, we settled on a time and meeting place. The fishing trip was taking on the trappings of a small invasion. We were discussing strategies and tactics like a couple of politicians.
Morning of Fish Day, while taking care of the things I should have taken care of the night before, my cell phone started chirping. It was Tom. Slight wrinkle, but nothing major. We were adding another troop to the invasion force. He’d swing by John’s house and still be at the appointed spot on time. Fifteen minutes later my cell phone started to make my leg vibrate, which only induces panic with me. Tom again. Another wrinkle. This one more serious.
He’d been busted going through a school zone by the slowest-ticket-writing cop in three counties. He used a lot of words I’d rather not repeat. Tom’s discomfort provided about all the material John and I would need for a day of cracking wise, as misfortune to one in the party tends to do with fly fishers.
After what seemed like an endless search for the right spot on the river to start, we settled on a spot that had a couple other fishers already in place. I also noted that we had about run out of river since I could see the mouth and the lake beyond if I leaned out far enough.
Well, suffice to say, we spent a pleasant day, driving around to a couple of rivers and fishing in some really scenic spots. We ended the day with virtually every cliché we could muster: That’s why they call it fishing and not catching, it’s not always about catching fish, a great day to just stand in the water …
Unlike our hapless baseball team that every year, usually on opening day, says, “Wait’ll next year,” we can at least look forward to November and say, “Wait’ll this year.”