Nothing.
The morning unfolded and after baby chickens and cased pork like product was consumed I shot MK a message and asked him about the day.
He said he was going....I said I was going.
We met at the creek and peered into 6-8" of visibility and promptly decided to throw (in MK's vernacular) "Junk".
Quarter down, mend up, swing, strip retrieve, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
On a stream where the best option most days is tied on a size 18 hook, the 4" long marabou string leech I was throwing was indeed looking like "Junk". MK's pattern of choice was directly out of Kelly Galloup's play book and I am certain that we were both sending 8" fish fleeing in fright.
We worked upstream, leapfrogging to the heads of runs and then fishing back down.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
After a numbing two hours, I pitched across a shallow gravel bar, threw a mend and waited for the line to come tight for yet another swing. The line came tight in a long downstream belly and when I lifted the rod tip to free the fly from the shallow gravel where I assumed it got hung up, the rod bucked, the water frothed and I got a sneak peak at a nice 16"-17" brown before it came unpinned and I stood there looking (and feeling) like a complete stupe.
1 shot.
1 fail.
It's a good thing I have been practicing this sort of think for 24 years and that I spent the entire winter dreaming of this opportunity so that I could be on my "A" game when I finally got the chance.
Or Not.
The temps continued to drop and I wished that I had thrown on the other jacket under my rain jacket.
At least I had the brains to bring the rain jacket.
Because it started to rain.
Cold rain.
I stood, in the cold rain, swinging junk catching nothing and blowing the only shot I had.
Which is just like winter steelheading.
Before it was all over I'd missed 3 more fish, landed a small one and also hooked and landed a decent fish.
The good fish instantly warmed my fingers and my soul.
Just like winter steelheading.
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