If there is one November event that stands out to me here in northeast Ohio, it is the steelhead run. As soon as a significant rain event occurs, as if on cue, these behemoth trout begin making their way out of Lake Erie and up into the many tributary streams that empty into the lake in an effort to spawn.
For the angler community here in the Great Lakes region, this event is one of the most anticipated of the year, and I have spent many an autumn traversing the local steams with rod in hand.
When I was but a tiny tot, my dad introduced me to the sport of fishing. Throughout most of my childhood, this consisted of a bamboo rod with some fishing line terminating in a large red and white bobber. He taught me how to bait the hook with worms, and told me that if I left one end of the worm free, it would appear as a finger, beckoning to the fish to “come here” beneath the surface. I waited patiently for that bobber to disappear downward, then gave a quick heave.
How I loved catching bluegills, their iridescence gleaming in the sun as I hauled them up above the water. And those powerful largemouth bass, a dark stripe on either side, left me screaming with delight as they gave me a memorable fight, emerging from the pond with the largest chops I’d ever seen on a fish. My dad instructed me how to grab the fish firmly, making sure those sharp dorsal fins were lying flat along its back, and how to carefully remove the hook, so as not to do any lasting damage. At a very early age, he taught me the conservation practice of catch and release.
When I was in high school, dad bought his first fishing boat and presented me with a fancy, new rod and reel. We headed out to try our luck on Lake Erie. It was quite a ritual, rising at the crack of dawn and gathering up all of our fishing equipment, tackle boxes and a lunch box filled with goodies packed by my mom. We would make our usual stop at the bait shop for a couple containers of night crawlers and several dozen minnows for our bucket. Then we would head out to our desired launch location and get the boat into the water. Dad and I were quite a team!
We were also either quite talented fishermen or very lucky, because most days we had much success nabbing perch with our minnows or trolling for walleye. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for me to realize that if the lake wasn’t like glass, with little or no wind, I would end up with such severe motion sickness, I’d be green. My dad got seasick too, but only when the waves were more active.
I remember one day when large waves unexpectedly kicked up. We were over a mile out and as the boat rocked and pitched, the movement that was created in our lines drove the walleye crazy. We started hauling them in one after another until we both ended up so sick, we each hauled in one final fish, cut the lines and headed back. All I remember was hanging off the back of the boat while my dad hung off the side while he piloted the boat along. It seemed like forever until we were finally on terra firma again and even longer until we felt like we were actually going to live. In those days, we always brought home a cooler of fish for the freezer, and my dad taught me the art of filleting.
When I met the love of my life, I found out that he, too, was a fisherman. Phil introduced me to the art of flyfishing. The style opened my eyes like never before and I was completely “hooked.” This angling technique uses lures, referred to as artificial flies, which mimic both aquatic and flying invertebrates to attract the fish. Being an insect lover, I was overjoyed to study the type of insects that might be found at the location where I was fishing and their timing of emergence from the streams. “Matching the hatch” was crucial for success. I even dabbled in the art of fly tying, as there is nothing like landing a fish on your very own hand tied fly.
Phil and I were married in Grayling, Michigan, where he presented me with a gorgeous Orvis flyrod for a wedding present. We spent our honeymoon flyfishing the Au Sable River, nabbing some of the most beautiful trout I had ever seen. Our vacations centered around areas where great fishing could be found. We spent time out west, fishing in the Bighorn Mountains of Montana, the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho, in Colorado, Utah and Wyoming. We also headed east, fishing our way throughout New England. The dog we had at the time went with us. No matter how cold the water, she would stand out in the river beside my husband as he fished, anxiously waiting to see what he would pull in next. Pennsylvania, which is a hop-skip-and-a-jump from our door, has also offered some great trout fishing opportunities over the years.
I don’t do much steelhead fishing anymore. It has become such a popular event for anglers that sometimes it is difficult just to carve out a spot to call your own along the stream. One thing I have come to realize over the years is that fishing really isn’t all about catching the fish, it is about the experience. For me, the solitude and seclusion of my fishing location means more than anything else.
Flyfishing gives me a reason to relax, clear my mind and convene with nature. It enables me the opportunity to enjoy the tranquility and to allow my mind to drift back to the days when my dad first taught me the art of the sport. These days, I’d like to think he is looking down upon me when I fish, continuing to bestow some of that fishing luck we had from years ago.
