March 12, 2013
What I love about banner days is you never know when they'll happen. I've fished when conditions were absolutely perfect. I was pumped and hit the water hard. At the end of the day, I was lucky to catch one or two fish. My back and feet were sore after banging away hole after hole. I drove home pissed wondering what the hell happened. Then there's been times when I woke up and the weather was awful. I debated whether to dive back in bed. I sucked it up and made the drive out. I get the to river and it's a little high. I sigh and try to make the best of a possible bad situation. I couldn't keep fish off the hook. I'm like a kid in a candy store - whooping and hollering. I have a shit eating grin on my face when I tell the others what they missed. I've poured through almost 14 years of entries in my journals to see if there was a pattern. Unfortunately, there wasn't really one. I did well whether the river was high, prime or low. I checked to see if temperature played a role. The best range was between 36F to 45F, but I've done well when the water was barely above freezing. The time of year also didn't matter because, I'll fish out east in the fall and in the spring I'm primarily in Ohio. I guess it's one of those when the moon and stars align and having a little luck. Just like reporting the weather, trying to figure out a banner day is still an educated guess.
To have a banner day you need factors that go in your favor. The weather is the biggest of them all. A lot of people here on the Alley don't like the cold and snow. Only the diehards will go out and some will venture to far ends of the Alley. For the upcoming weekend, the price of gas is at an all time high for the winter. Lake effect warnings were issued for the snow belt and there was always the threat of slush. It was no brainer and I had one stream in mind. Sure it's a gamble and luckily I have deep pockets and a Jeep to boot.
I load up the Jeep and head east. I punch through a series of squalls coming off the lake. Not for the faint of heart as the truck in front of me is swallowed by the squall. I sip my coffee and the stereo is playing Kenny Wayne Shepherd - no problem. As I pass one exit I noticed the price of gas at Travel America is going for $3.75. I have a feeling that the stream is going to be a lonely place. I pull into the sleepy town and drive down what's left of main street. A lot of empty store fronts and the street is deserted. As I head down the hill there isn't a car in sight. To my relief there is no slush and the water is slightly off color. The banks are littered with massive chunks of ice in both directions.
It's a grey morning and it starts to snow. I reach the first pool and fish the tailout. It takes all but two minutes to hook into the first fish - a bright silver hen. Then its another and another and another. I shuffle farther upstream and its the same as I quickly get into fish. I have a feeling I'm onto something. I check the weather and it's 28F, light wind from the west and cloudy with snow. For many, it's not the most favorable conditions, but in my book it's just fine. I cross over to another pool and the snow starts to fall heavier, to the point that I have strain to see the float. The first fish of the pool produces a large robust male. The fish are parked under a tree along the seam that spills into a long sweeping pool. Despite the water temperature being 34F, the fish rip off line and have their way. It's a little after 9:30 and I'm already well into double digits. I could of been a douchebag and call the guys telling them I'm hammering the snot out of them. I could imagine the response and I have no time to call because all of the fish I'm catching.
I release another hen from the tailout and I've worked the entire pool. I look downstream and there isn't a person out. I start to head for a spot that usually on a Saturday has people fishing it. The snow has tapered off when I reach the run. The current flows hard along the opposite bank and there is nice hole that runs about 40' and the fish hold in there. It's late morning and the sun starts to peek out. As it was upstream I immediately get into fish and all of them are fresh. No stinking skippers as some of them are pushing over 8 pounds and full of piss and vinegar. The numbers are piling up and I can't contain my glee. Then there is one take. It wasn't a hard one but a lackadaisical one. The fish basically stuck itself on the bottom. No hard run or anything. I started to horse it in and then I watched its back come out of the water - my heart stop as it was massive. The fish started to head out into the current and I was mindful that I had a 4X tippet on and I hadn't check the line for over an hour. Numerous fish were caught previously so I had no idea if the knot would hold up. The water temperature was my friend and foe. The frigid water didn't drain the fish of energy but also prevented it from blasting downstream and possibly shredding the line. The battle wore on as the fish stubbornly refused to come in. I gradually gained control and I move it in slack water. It was a massive hen as I slid her onto the gravel. I could barely get my hand around her tail. Her was stomach was bulging from the large number of eggs inside of her. I moved the rod along her as there is a small gold ring on the blank. From the ring to the bottom of the handle is about 33" and she was a little over an inch. I figured she was about 34.5" and probably pushing over 15 pounds - a trophy Steelhead Alley specimen. I gently released her and watched her slowly swim off. She was at the lower reaches of the river and there was long distance for her to cover. Where she would spawn? Who knows I was lucky that I chance to catch her.
It's a little after twelve o clock and I can't imagine anybody making the drive from Cleveland. I looked back at the pool and the bottom is littered with sore jaws. But even on banner days there are times when the fish turn off. I struggled for an hour to get a bite. Wading was difficult as the huge chunks of ice had buried the trail. Boredom quickly settles in and I get that nagging feeling of heading back to the previous spot. In the distance, I see another car parked behind me and I doesn't take much to figure out where they are. Sure enough two of them are at the hole where I caught the huge hen. They look at me with puzzled looks and continue to fish. I could of told them but why bother? They struck me as the types that fish the most popular spots and never venture further. I was out of sight when I started fishing and the mid of the section started coughing up some more fish. I had finally ran out of bait and that was a good enough reason to head home. On the drive home, I thought about my day. Why did I have such a great day? Was my experience? My knowledge of the river? Or was it just my lucky day? I may never find a truthful answer.