"Snake River" — Spin-a Story Third Place

Snake River
By: Andrew Simon

Fall starts every year when the Snake River drops to 62 degrees. The river changes from luke-warm system irrigation runoff hosting fisheries for bass and catfish to a dynamic thumping engine, charged by steelhead and salmon. I wait all year for fall and once fall is over, I want for it again.

Above Lower Granite Dam 67 miles of the Snake, designated wild and scenic, flows under natural gradient. The river’s character changes enormously in the area from Clarkston, Washington to Hellers Bar, the entrance to Hells Canyon. At Clarkston, the river lays tepid, a film of sawdust and fuel covers the surface near shore. The valley’s stink, courtesy of Potlatch mill, softly bites my nostrils as I pass thorough the languishing sister towns of Lewiston and Clarkston. The towns are awful, flat, and sprawling. I grew up near them and never found reason to venture there until I found steelhead fishing. Turning upriver past Clarkston, hope is renewed. For several bends of the road, the snake flows upstream invariably flat. Then near Asotin, jutting rock meets 20,000 cfs as the river’s gradient overcomes the dams stifling reservoir. Here the river begins. These are the biggest rapids I’ve ever seen. The scale seems fake, and the sound during high flow is disarmingly loud. Here begins one of the finest steelhead fisheries in the world. The road is narrow and big trucks scream along it with 26 foot jet boats in tow.

Contained within the watershed are some of the healthiest producers of wild steelhead in the country. The main Snake, Imnaha, Salmon, and Grande Ronde all contain sustaining populations of wild steelhead. The dozen or so of smaller rivers closed to fishing in the region contribute more wild fish. These fish emanate the vigor of the ocean. If the conditions are right, these steelhead rise to a dry fly as if they were trout. A bit of luck is required to bring steelhead to the surface. Being first down a run during the morning is fore mostly important, and swinging flies in a run being pounded by legions of jet boats, six lines in each, is a loosing proposition.

Our first fall trip was a suicide mission, leaving Missoula at 10pm for Washington, arriving at 2am with the time zone change. It seems like there are more people over here every year. Thusly, I figured I should wader up and walk down to my sitting rock. Others chose sleeping bags. I have never showed anyone my rock, but it’s fairly flat and good for sitting. I’m not sure if anyone else would like it. It lays with other rocks, about the river’s shore, at the start of the finest steelhead run I know. Bushes surround the rock so I’m half invisible in the dark, while still having a view of the entrance to the run. Here I can watch the silhouettes of other anglers framed against the morning-chrome river. Here I sat for 3 hours, until dawn lit up half the sky weakly lavender. I tried to be pensive but ended up cold and tired. Today no others waited with me. The river lay in a deep canyon, and the dawn streaks had yet to reach down here. After hours of silence, a steelhead rolled hard 40 feet into the current. I grew excited and stood, instantly lightheaded. The lava river bottom wasn’t getting along with my boots as I slipped from rock to rock. I put enough water between me and the brush to manage a d-loop.

Why am I fishing, it’s dark, I thought as I pulled running line from the big reel and shook the head free of the guides. The first cast rolled invisibly onto the shining surface, aimed above where the fish broke. I figured the river was possibly still receiving more light from the moon than the sun. It was too dark to see my caddis skating, but I could feel the sweet tension of a good swing in my left hand as it gingerly pinched the running line. Halfway through the swing I felt a series of soft ticks, and thought it strange that a smolt would be playing with such a large offering. I put another cast over the same water for no other purpose than to sharpen my casting before working down the run. I felt those ticks again, but after the third bump, a steelhead broke the surface into a shattered arena of droplets and flew over the fly in grandiose fashion. It looked black and still above the water for seconds. Holy fuck. It didn’t eat. Cast again. The fly had lots of elk hair so it whistled loudly when I cast. Same place, now a boil formed in the middle of the river as the hanging loop of line was ripped from my hand. The fight was standard, wonderful, a series of short dashing runs, two jumps, and a bit of close end slugging before he turned sideways and lay ready. My hand was now on his caudal peduncle, turning him on one side and then the other. It had been four months since I’d seen a steelhead, and the first of the fall is one I cherish.

I figured the ticks I’d been feeling were steelhead tracking and nipping the fly before committing to it. Several other fish boiled after the caddis before I reached the bottom of the run.

The last take was memorable. I was in the tailout, fishing over water two feet deep. Near the end of the run a steelhead rose to the surface, dorsal fin protruding, and tracked the caddis for 15 feet until the fly was hanging directly down river. A mouth broke the surface, and brought the bug down. The fish moved impossibly slow, lazily rolling its body back into the flow. I released the loop and felt a bump as the fish turned and left without the fly. It was a glorious morning. I walked off the run smiling deeply as the sun broke the ridgetop, spooking a flight of chukar into the draw above me.

Back at camp breakfast was simmering. Everyone was satisfied with their morning, something easy at steelhead camp. I ate some potatoes with eggs, cheese, sour cream. The breakfast chef has no spatula so used a glove to stir. The sun’s early warmth made me drowsy. The sleeping bag was finally unpacked and the sweet reverie of sleep came along to me.