You Say Spey Rod; I Say Switch Rod

I wrapped up the 2012 Wisconsin fly fishing season with several days on steelhead water.  After much persistence that mingled with self doubt, frustration, and resignation, I finally managed to conquer the steelhead swing.  I came to the conclusion that I would prefer all my future steelhead to be caught by swinging a two-handed rod, which meant I would eventually need to procure my own rig. 

Being the frugal gal that I am, I hadn't minded borrowing friends' switch rods during my handful of steelhead trips the last few years, but after a certain point the guilt of being a moocher set in.  So when one of those friends (whose switch rod I had been borrowing) randomly sent an email suggesting he use his "good guy" discount to help me get a two-handed setup of my very own, I immediately took him up on his offer.  Either he believed I had become a "real" steelheader and deserved my own rig, or he was sick of loaning out his own steelhead rod to a sorry amateur.  Either way, the universe had spoken. 

 

I have very generous fly fishing friends.  If I were to list everything in my fly fishing arsenal that's been given to me by others, I'd appear to be a first-class mooch.  In most cases, people have had extra fishing gear or fly tying materials lying around and saw that I could put them to use.   My husband claims it's because I'm a girl, which I hope isn't entirely true; I honestly believe the people I fish with are just really considerate individuals. Fly fishermen end up accumulating a lot of fly fishing stuff over the years, and it probably feels good to spread the wealth--especially to an appreciative newbie. Hopefully I'll be in the position someday to do the same for another poor soul.

 

Back to the new steelhead rod........

The "good guy" suggested a new Redington rod and reel combo that he could get at a fairly affordable price, but as an alternative, I contacted another friend who keeps an eye out for used gear thinking he might know of some used switch rods that were available. He immediately sent me several links on some quality used switch/spey rods.  I like the idea of used gear; I feel I'm giving a second life to a rod that might be collecting dust in someone's closet or biding its time in the garage rafters.  After some research and contemplation, I settled on a real beauty of a used Beulah.  Beulah categorizes this rod as a "spey rod," though by most definitions it's a switch rod since it's under 12 feet in length.  Regardless, it's a two-handed 6/7 weight rod that should be great for swinging flies on Wisconsin steelheading waters. 

After deciding on the rod, the "good guy" ordered a new 9/10 reel that balances the rod pretty well, and I ordered some Miracle Braid shooting line and backing.  Once I had the rod, reel, backing, shooting line, and shooting head in my possession, I was then ready to start setting up my new steelhead reel.

I've set up reels before for my regular trout rods, but getting this particular reel set up presented new challenges.  All of my other reels start with an arbor knot to attach backing to the reel, then a nail knot to attach the line to the backing.  The line usually has a pre-made loop on the tag end, which makes the connection of looped leaders very simple.  With this new steelhead reel, I needed to create loop-to-loop connections between the backing and shooting line, as well as between the shooting line and shooting head.  I relied on my "Guide to Fly Fishing Knots" along with the handy-dandy internet.

 

I began by wrapping the Miracle Braid shooting line and the shooting head around the reel in order to estimate how much backing I would need.  I then cut the required amount of backing and used an arbor knot to attach the backing to the reel. If only all of the knots had been this easy.

I then had to create double nail knots on the tag end of the backing as well as on the end of the shooting line in order to make a loop-to-loop connection, which I had read was the best way to connect these two lines.  I haven't had to tie many nail knots--let alone double nail knots--so I ended up spending several frustrating hours attempting to get them just right.  I must have redone the knots over half a dozen times before I finally gave up.  The knots I settled with felt pretty secure, but I wasn't completely satisfied with them.  Luckily, the "good guy" had plans to stop by with his girlfriend for a weekend over the holidays, so I knew he'd fix the knots for me. 

My attempts at double nail knots.

Instead of folding over the end of the backing and using its own tail end to tie the double nail knots, he used a length of 1x tippet as the overlapping line. The knots ended up being much cleaner and tighter this way.  He repeated this knot on each end of the shooting line, which was then connected to the pre-made loop on the shooting head.  I still need to attach a sink tip and tippet to the shooting head, but the hardest part is over.


The improved double nail knots.

 

On a frigidly cold and sunny day in December, I rigged up the rod and trudged through the snow into the backyard. I spey casted on top of the 20 inches of snow that recently fell and visualized a cold, deep steelhead run.

 

A Steelhead Strike!

I'm not accustomed to failure.  I'm accustomed to succeeding at things as long as I put in enough effort and hard work.  That's how it's suppose to be, right?  As long as someone sets realistic goals and works hard to reach those goals, there's no reason they shouldn't succeed.  At least that's what I thought before I started the obsessive pastime of chasing steelhead in Northern Wisconsin.  I'll admit that I became a little obsessed this season with steelheading.  Over the past three years, I put in close to a hundred hours on the water with only minor results.  Sure, I landed a steelhead last year, but being under 20 inches, it wasn't a REAL steelhead.  I had also had a fish on briefly before it broke me off, but neither of those events were enough to satiate my steelhead appetite.  I wanted to land a real steelhead--I wanted to feel its power through the zipping line and see its beauty up close.  So after getting skunked on my first trip of the fall, I pushed aside my swinging tunnel vision and spent time tying new flies and planning a new approach.  If swinging flies wasn't fruitful the next time out, I was ready to trail an egg pattern behind a weighted nymph and dead-drift the runs, even though this went against my stubbornly purist tendencies.  Desperate times called for desperate measures.


There's a chance I may have blocked it out of my memory, but I honestly can't recall a point in my life when I wasn't able to accomplish something I set out to do. Growing up in a family of strong-headed men and women, "can't" has never been in my vocabulary, and being the competitive person I am, I've just always worked at things until I achieved them. Quitting is rarely in my radar, but my steelheading failure was really throwing me for a loop.  I even began to question whether I subconsciously gravitate towards activities I know I'll excel at and avoid those things that don't play to my strengths.   Maybe I wasn't cut out for this steelheading thing and I should just stick to casting dry flies to Driftless trout.  So what if I can't land a worthy steelhead?  I can be good at other things.  I could tell the steelhead slump was really working me over because I was already making up excuses in my head for continued steelhead failure, which was totally unlike me.

With all these thoughts going through my head, I called up a good friend who lives near the river and arranged to stay with him for a few days. I had two full days on the water set aside.....three if necessary.  He joined me the first day, and we took turns swinging through the deep runs of our selected stretch.  A few hours into the day, I had a grab at my fly, which had never happened to me before.  The two fish I had had on in other years never took my fly with much power.  They certainly didn't hit like a freight train, as some people have described them doing.  Instead, they felt like another snag on the rocks; there were no huge tugs on the line.  One minute my line was swinging and the next there was a fish on.  In contrast, the grab I felt this time shook me to the core and got my heart racing.  I definitely could tell it was a living thing at the other end and not just a snag.  The power transmitted through the line was awesome.


After several more hours of inaction, I decided I had given the swing a good chance, but it was time to switch to the weighted nymph and trailing egg pattern.  I re-fished the runs on our return hike but still had no results.

After a tailgate lunch, we headed to a different stretch of water a bit further upstream.  We planned to fish each run twice:  once with his swinging and once with my nymphing.  We hiked down to the first hole, and my friend started casting to the top of the run.  After about the fifth swing of his fly, he hooked into a beautiful steelhead.  Neither of us had a net along, so I stripped off my gloves and waded into the water to lend a hand.  He guided the fish towards me, and it became the first real steelhead I had the opportunity to hold.  It was beautiful.  In a way, it felt like a shared fish.  I remember thinking that it was almost as good as catching one myself.  Almost.

My friend had been fighting a bad cold and decided to stay home on the second day, which meant I'd be fishing solo. I was actually looking forward to a day alone on the river. At this point I had seen a steelhead landed on the swing and knew where the fish should be. On the drive over, I was very confident that I'd finally land a true steelhead this day; I could visualize it in my head.  I also wondered, though, how I would react at the end of the day if I were heading home skunked once again, which was a very plausible scenario.   Would I give up steelheading because I can't stand to fail, or would I become even more obsessed with it because of repeated failure?   I had a keen sense that the day of reckoning was upon me. 

I pulled into the parking lot of my chosen stretch of river expecting to find too many cars, which would force me to decide on a plan B.  Amazingly, only one car was there.  I took my time gearing up and adding to my multiple layers of clothing.  My friend generously sent his switch rig with me, which meant I could swing flies the entire day.  It was a good feeling to have no backup plan this time.  I would swing my flies and leave the nymphs and eggs in my fishing bag.  I crossed the river and hiked past the other fisherman who was trying his luck at the first hole.  I skipped ahead further downstream until I came to a run where I had seen fish previously hooked.  I took my time and quickly got into a rhythm.  Glide the line back, roll cast, swing the fly.  Glide the line back, roll cast, swing the fly.  After fishing to the end of the first run, I continued downstream.  Being on a stretch of river that normally has a good number of fishermen on it at any given time, I felt very fortunate to have no one downstream from me.  I could take my time and make my way down river without wondering whether a run would be occupied or not.

The third hole I fished was the spot I had been subconsciously approaching.  A fishing partner on my last steelhead outing had caught several nice fish in this hole.  I began swinging my fly through the top of the run.  The repetitive rhythm of the casting easily allowed my mind to wander to other things.  After half a dozen casts, I felt movement at the end of my line at mid-swing.  I raised my rod tip and felt the fish on.  As the rod danced up and down, I caught glimpses of silver as the fish rose to the surface.  Because I had visualized this moment so many times, I was surprisingly calm after I realized there was a REAL steelhead at the end of my line.  I let it pull some line out when it ran towards deeper water, and reeled line in when it gave me the chance.  The 12' rod forced me to land the fish on the bank, and after a quick snapshot to make sure the moment was real, I thanked the fish and delivered it back to its watery world.

The feeling I had in that moment was pure elation.  I had finally accomplished something that had eluded and frustrated me for some time, and it made all the previous fishless days evaporate from my memory. 

Did I owe a huge portion of this fish to luck, persistence, or both?  With the number of hours I spent on the river, had it been just a matter of time before a steelhead connected with my fly?  If the parking lot had been full that morning, would I still be in a steelhead slump?  Would this fish have grabbed an egg if I had been nymphing rather than swinging?  Regardless of how or why I finally landed a REAL steelhead, catching one on the swing with one of my very own flies makes me a very satisfied girl.  I can now enter the real offseason of fly fishing in Wisconsin without any regrets.

A Steelhead Slump

Statistics:

12 days on the water.
1 steelhead on.
1 (small) steelhead landed.

Depending on the reader, these stats will seem either pretty darn good or pretty darn abysmal.  Before my latest trip to the President's River, I was in the prior camp.  After seeing a large number of steelhead landed by everyone but myself last week, I'm now in the latter camp of statistical interpreters.  I was deeply humbled by the steelhead, and for once, even the beautiful surroundings weren't much consolation for a steelhead skunk.

I began making fall steelhead trips three years ago. It's about a five hour drive to the intended stream, so I usually stay at least three days and make the trip once or twice each fall. Like musky, steelhead are called, "the fish of a thousand casts," which seemed an accurate description after the first several years on the water. During my most recent trip, though, they seemed more like "the fish of a hundred casts," with everyone in my group landing multiple steelhead during our three days on the water. Everyone, that is, but yours truly.

There was a likely explanation for the zero steelhead stigma I earned this time out: pure stubbornness.

I haven't had enough success steelheading to warrant deep-seeded preferences, yet I still have a preferred method of fishing for them. If you've ever spey casted, you can recognize the Zen feel of the motion that goes with this type of fishing.  The President's River isn't as big as rivers out west where spey casting is more popular, but it can still be used effectively here.  Since trying it with some friends a couple years ago, it's become my favorite method of fishing for steelhead.  Swinging flies on a switch rod just feels right to me, and I know this approach works much of the time, as supported by the seasonal steelhead stats of friends who utilize it. Unfortunately, swinging flies were not preferred by the steelhead last week. Possibly due to a low flow and clear water, they instead chose snelled yarn, which was used by everyone in my fishing group who landed fish. As a result of my purist tendencies, I turned my nose up at dead drifting small lengths of yarn, which I guess is why I hooked into zero fish.

I started off the trip with high hopes. I had spent several hours tying up variations of the fly pattern that had successfully attracted the attention of the one and only steelhead I landed last season. I felt I had a good idea of where to find steelhead in the river, and I was confident they would choose my fly if I swung it past them. After the first ten hour day on the water with several hook-ups and steelhead landed by my yarn fishing companions, my confidence was deeply rattled. By the second day, I was severely questioning what I knew about steelheading. I even relented a bit and began trailing an egg pattern behind my original fly of choice, but I still went another day without even a grab. By day three, I gave up all my preconceived notions and dead drifted snelled yarn behind a weighted stonefly nymph. Unfortunately, it was too little too late. The fish had shut down and none were landed that day by my group, which made me wonder what would have happened if I had tried swinging my original fly through those holes........

Normally, I prefer to use particular methods of fly fishing that are most enjoyable to me even if that means catching fewer fish.  I still manage to catch enough fish to enjoy my time on the water, but will my preferences hold if it means zero fish in an indeterminable amount of time?  Apparently not because I'm planning on tying up some egg patterns today for a return trip to the river where I hope to redeem myself.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.


I'm happy I stuck to my guns the first two days, but I'm also happy I learned a new method of fishing for steelhead that can be tucked away in my growing fly fishing arsenal. I'm also kind of glad to be humbled. Sometimes it's the failures as much as the successes that keep steelheaders coming back for more. I think this past trip has taught me to be more flexible in my fly fishing methods. There's something to be said for being able to change the type of fishing you do to match the desires of the fish, which I'm sure is a characteristic shared by the most successful fly fishers.

When I head back up to the river next week, I'll still be swinging the flies I tied up with so much anticipation earlier this fall, but I'll also have a newly tied supply of large weighted nymphs and egg patterns for my fly box. I'm still not totally comfortable with fishing egg patterns, even though at their core I guess they're just matching what the steelhead are zoning in on---"matching the hatch" if you will.  Steelhead aren't really even feeding this time of year anyway.  Regardless of the flies I tie on next week, I know this personal conflict of mine will be forgotten the instant my line is zipping downstream behind a chrome torpedo (**fingers crossed**).