My Anadromous Addiction

Fly-fishing for anadromous species requires patience, perseverance, and a willingness to tough-it-out in bad conditions.

Since the dawn of humankind, the sea has been a source of fascination and inspiration. The shadowy blue depths call to us, and gentle waves breaking upon sandy shores beckon us to adventure. Ancient cultures used the sea as a highway, sailing into the unknown to discover new lands. The sea provided food and offered safe harbors for civilization to grow. The sea has always been a wondrous place, especially for fly fishers.

Fly-fishing on the ocean is one of the most thrilling pursuits for an angler. Whether you’re catching tarpon, bonefish, and permit on the flats, or battling billfish, stripers, dorado, or sharks in open water, fly fishing in the salt is a far cry from the roots of the sport—casting delicate flies for trout in flowing water. However, there is a middle ground, where the adventure, challenge, and magic of the ocean blend with the serenity and wildness of the river. This combination creates one of the most rewarding and addicting fly fishing challenges: pursuing anadromous fish.

What Are Anadromous Fish?

Anadromous fish, such as salmon and steelhead, are born in rivers and then migrate to the sea. They live in the ocean for a few years, surviving a harsh environment before returning to the river to spawn. During their early life in the river, they are much like other river fish—eating nymphs, chasing minnows, and resting in quiet pools. However, upon entering salt water, they begin to change. The challenge, fertility, and strength of the sea shape these river-born fish, forging them into something more powerful and mysterious.

For one to six years, these trout and salmon swim in the dark ocean, feeding and growing. They evolve beyond their humble beginnings into some of the wiliest and mightiest fish you can catch on a fly, becoming survivors who dodge predators and travel great distances. Then they’re called home.

Acting on instinct and the urgent need to spawn, the fish begin their perilous journey to return to their natal rivers. Some, like Pacific salmon, come by the hundreds or thousands, smashing upstream like a conquering army, leaping waterfalls and pushing through rapids in a wave of determination. Others, like steelhead and sea-run trout, trickle in more slowly. Having flourished in the sea, these fish return to the rivers alone as the rōnin of the angling world, lone warriors on a sacred journey.

When you finally connect with a steelhead and bring it to the net, it’s a moment of ultimate angling satisfaction.

Catching the Sea-Run Bug

Pursuing anadromous fish is unlike anything else in the fly-fishing world. When steelhead, sea trout, and salmon return to the river, their minds are on one thing—spawning. They aren’t in the river to eat, and some of them, like Pacific Salmon, are even physically unable to do so. Therefore, to catch these fish you have to turn away from everything you know about feeding fish and matching the hatch, and instead rely on patience, determination, and more than a little luck to be successful.

On my first steelhead and salmon trip to Oregon, I spent eight days fishing from daylight to dark without a single strike. While pursuing Atlantic Salmon in Nova Scotia, my buddies and I fished hard for 16 days and only hooked two salmon . . . and lost both of them. During one of the most brutal fishing excursions of my life, I spent a month on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, where I went 21 consecutive days without a single strike before finally hooking and landing a unicorn of a winter steelhead. On all three of those trips, I endured brutal winds, soaking rains, and spent days sticking it out in freezing rivers with little to no return. Yet I kept fishing and kept returning to those hallowed waters because with every cast, I hoped things would change.

That said, I’ve also had days of pure, shining brilliance that made every long fishless day worth the struggle. On a trip to a high-desert river in Washington, I hooked and landed eight steelhead in a single day while swinging dry flies, with each explosive take being more intense and each fish more beautiful than the last. While salmon-fishing in Patagonia, I hooked a chinook that was so large and powerful, it broke my 8-weight Spey rod like a matchstick as it stormed downstream, making me feel like I had lassoed a runaway freight train and forcing me to land the fish using only my reel. During a winter steelhead trip in southern Oregon, I hooked the largest steelhead I had ever seen and after fighting against the struggling silver monster for more than 20 minutes—at one point, I held it on the edge of a rapid and prayed for deliverance—I finally managed to bring it to hand. All of these moments became accomplishments in my anadromous fishing life that kept me coming back for more.

The author launches another cast, which represents another expression of hope.

The Thing with Feathers

Hope is your greatest tool. You keep the faith that the fish you’re after are in the river and in the mood to play. It is a game of persistence and perseverance, and perhaps just a bit of madness. These fish return to rivers during some of the most turbulent weather of the year. You must be prepared to face some of the most extreme conditions imaginable, from snow, sleet, and bitterly cold winds to endless, drenching rains, and even arid dry doldrums in the high desert.

Pursuing a fish that doesn’t eat and that has survived such harsh and difficult conditions is like going on a quest. You go out on an adventure to “slay” an aquatic dragon and whether you’re swinging flies or nymphing or whether you’re chasing steelhead or Atlantic salmon, tiny sea-run trout or monstrous Chinook, every anadromous fish you catch takes a little part of your soul. Yet it is a part of you that is given freely.

The Value of the Journey

The journey of anadromous fish inspires deep devotion from anglers. These creatures spend years in oceanic depths, fighting tides, eating squid, and evading predators. They then surge upstream for hundreds or thousands of miles, only to strike at your offering of feathers and fur. When it happens, their raw power tests your skill.

Fishing for anadromous fish makes you crave individual moments, little instances of time when you’re holding a fish in the river, feeling those quiet seconds of peace after the fight is over. There’s a depth of satisfaction and bliss that can only be found in looking down at a fish with translucent fins and a thick, cold body that seems to be built of either molten silver or a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors that somehow reflect the sea itself. It’s also in those moments when you realize the importance of these fish and how much they must be valued and protected.

Watching and waiting for the fish to arrive . . . .

A Failing Light

Against the threats of hatcheries, dams, mining, logging projects, and fish farms along our coasts, protecting anadromous fish demands vigilance. The challenges they face are enormous, yet with our help, these resilient creatures can survive.

Anadromous fish are special because they remind us of our place in the world and our ancient connection to the sea. The waters in which these fish spawn, live, and return to must be preserved and protected. For the rivers that anadromous fish chose to swim up are veins, connecting the flow of the sea to the very heart of the world.