Be Steelheaded Essay Finalist: Dylan Tomine

Editor's note: This essay is one of the five finalists in the Be Steelheaded Essay contest. It comes to us from Dylan Tomine a Patagonia Fly Fishing Ambassador, recovering sink-tip addict, and the author of Closer to the Ground: An Outdoor Family’s Year on the Water, in the Woods and at the Table. He lives with his family on an island in Puget Sound. Find more of his writing at dylantomine.com.

"Silver Lining"

The river is going out. Big time. Sure, it’s been raining since the helicopter dropped us off six days ago, but only enough to ensure that everything we own is wet. A week of soggy sleeping bags and wrinkled fingers isn’t so bad when the river’s green.

But now, this is different. The gentle, misting rain has transformed into a howling, spitting, front that roared off the Pacific in the middle of the night. Not that I’d been sleeping anyway. Exhausted as I was, I had been in the throws of paranoid insomnia, fueled by news we’d received yesterday. Steve, a long-time friend and guide for one of the lodges, had steered his jet boat near enough to shout, “Saw a big sow griz in here yesterday, with a wounded paw… and cubs. I’d be careful.”  In daylight, we thought it was funny. A laughable guide tactic to get us out of his prime water. And yet, we’d known Steve for years. He wouldn’t try anything that obvious. Would he? Something to ponder in a dark tent when the wind picks up and branches snap in the distance.

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In the morning, we bail out the raft and row across, knowing we have at most, a one-day window to fish. Visibility is limited to the river corridor, as ominous, black clouds obscure the granite walls and Windex-blue glaciers that loom somewhere overhead. Quarter-sized raindrops blast a foot of spray over the water.

We hike upstream, and spend the day fishing our way back to the raft. The weather, if anything, is getting worse. But we are finding steelhead in almost every run—explosive, flashing, slabs of bright chrome pushing in from the sea on rising water. And still, the rain lashes at us. Time is running out in paradise.

In the murky light of early evening, we are back at the raft, fishing across from camp. The river has lost its emerald green, tinged now with brown run-off and milky glacier melt. Tomorrow, it will be chocolate. As I work my way down into the sweet spot, something catches my eye across the river. A brief flicker of movement in the brush upstream from our sadly drooping tent. I squint through the gloom and can just make out a large, dark mass moving quickly towards camp. It’s hard to be sure, but I could swear it’s limping.

This is serious. We need to row over there right now and deal with the situation while there’s still a last bit of daylight left. Make noise. Light the lantern. Get a fire going. Walking into camp after dark would be terrifying.

Down in the tail out, just above the break, a fish surfaces in a slow, head-and-tail roll. The width of its back is breathtaking. I take two steps downstream, push my loop through the gale and fire. The upstream wind makes the mend easy, and as my fly begins to swing, I know he’s going to take. I just know it.