Finding Solitude, Steelhead

SMITH RIVER, Calif. — It was in this coastal town’s namesake river that I caught my first steelhead. It was an experience I’ll never forget because the spirited fish, after taking the bait, interrupted peaceful solitude unlike any I had enjoyed on any other river, on any ocean or even on land.

Guide Jeff Zennie, another client and I had a long stretch of the river’s South Fork to ourselves. Water was spilling not just down but literally out of its thickly forested banks, in some places as mere trickles and in others as cascading falls.

As the river went, and it went swiftly, so we went, seemingly as insignificant as the branches and other debris likewise drifting seaward, although not aimlessly and with a definite purpose.

In the moments before the steelhead struck, the river widened and fell in a series of terraced pools, which mirrored the sky and the trees. It was as if we were part of a painting, and when the great fish leaped clear of the water and began to run, it yanked us from the painting back into reality.

A steelhead fight is a chaotic affair. An ocean-fresh steelhead charging upriver to spawn is full of attitude, more powerful and far warier than the fall-run salmon that also utilize this wild and scenic waterway.

“Physically, a steelhead is designed more like a torpedo,” Zennie says. “It’s like an F-16, whereas a salmon is like a B-52.”

Fooling a steelhead is especially difficult on a river as clear as the free-flowing Smith, whose bed of gravel allows for speedy cleansing even after heavy rains. Landing a large steelhead -- and this river produced the state-record, 27 pounds 4 ounces -- is one of the sport’s great challenges.

The one at the end of my line was no monster, but neither was it something to be taken lightly. In only a few seconds, it had stolen half the spool of line and was disappearing downriver around the bend. It traveled through a long series of rapids and around another bend before it eventually succumbed, thanks only in small part to the skill of the angler.

The real skill belonged to Zennie, who with his powerful oar strokes kept the boat and the fisherman perfectly positioned throughout the 15-minute battle.

When the fish -- a respectable 10 or 12 pounds, or so I’m claiming -- was set free, around another bend we went, into the shadowy darkness of late afternoon, and onto a small pebbly beach used by Zennie to haul out.

The day’s tally: three steelhead caught and released, the others by Zennie and Phil Prichard, a Hermosa Beach resident who, by mere days, followed through on a quest to catch one before turning 50. Twice as many were lost, for one reason or another, but that took nothing from a day best described as glorious.

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This excursion took place last spring, toward the end of the season and at a time when the water was low and fishing conditions tough. That Zennie was able to produce so many chances for clients new to this type of fishing was testament not only to his skill as a guide but to his knowledge of the river and the habits of the anadromous fish that return to it seasonally each year to reproduce.

In fairness, I chose not to run a story until a new season got underway. It opened three weeks ago -- and runs through March -- and it’s off to a promising start. Heavy rains have raised the river enough to enable winter-run steelhead access to the North, Middle and South forks.

Zennie again has bypassed the lower river -- nearest its mouth -- in favor of the more rugged Middle and South forks

“It’s like [Interstate 5] down there, it’s so crowded,” he said of the lower river, adding that he has already enjoyed five- to eight-steelhead days on the Middle Fork. “On about 99% of my trips, on the South Fork anyway, we never even see another person.”

Zennie is the only area guide to fish the forks almost exclusively during the winter steelhead run. It’s clear why others don’t: The lower river is easier to access and navigate, and productive enough to help qualify the Smith as one of the premier steelhead and salmon rivers in the Pacific Northwest. (Its fall Chinook salmon run is equally famous.)

By contrast, the sections of the Middle Fork and especially the South Fork immediately above the lower stem, with their incredibly steep banks and limited put-ins and take-outs, are difficult to access, especially with a boat. And piloting a boat ranges from tricky to dangerous over routes strewn with boulders -- some of them barely submerged -- and stationary rafts of timber put in place and built upon, over the years, by the forces of nature.

Nobody wants to go through the trouble it takes to regularly run the forks except Zennie, a self-proclaimed mountain man who prefers the serenity they afford as much for his benefit as that of his clients. He first started drifting them more than 15 years ago and spent three years doing so before he felt comfortable enough to take everyday clients.

Today, Zennie has created quite a niche for himself on a dazzling river that meanders collectively for more than 300 miles, passing through the Smith River National Recreation Area and Jedediah Smith Redwoods National and State Park before spilling into the Pacific Ocean just beneath the California-Oregon border.

Zennie, whose office is in Brookings, Ore., and who can be contacted at www.zhuntfish.com, typically fishes the Middle Fork early in the season because it has a strong early run of fish and more manageable flows. He adds the South Fork as rains subside and flows allow, and occasionally dabbles on the smaller North Fork. His biggest steelhead was a 24-pounder caught 12 years ago on the South Fork.

His clients use eight- to 10-foot bait-casting rods and fish with cured roe on barbless hooks, which are mandatory. Or they use seven- to 10-weight fly rods and mostly egg-pattern flies. Each is allowed to take one steelhead a day, but Zennie and most other guides are strong advocates of catch and release.

Zennie has obtained permission from land owners on both forks to pass through their property after take-outs at the end of each run. As for put-ins, ours on the South Fork was 14 miles beyond where both forks converge at the lower river, beneath a towering bridge on a densely forested county road.

One wouldn’t think of this as a place to launch a boat. Zennie asked his two clients to take a steep, meandering path leading to the river and wait for the boat, which soon came sliding stern-first down a 40-foot cliff.

Once in the river, we had no choice but to just go with the flow.

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It was in the middle of the second day, somewhere on the South Fork, when I landed my third steelhead. It was my most memorable catch because it was made without assistance from the guide.

You learn quickly when you fish with Zennie. You miss your mark by only a few feet and he tells you to reel in and cast again. He points to the soft water, or the “seams” in which the steelhead like to hold, along the edges of faster water; and to the “tail-outs” at the end of long holes or flats, which also attract fish.

As you “bump and run” or side drift past such prime holding areas, you get only so many chances so every cast counts. Sitting in swivel seats, you cast from side to side, in front of and even behind the boat. At times, you even leave the boat, scramble up the banks and cast from the boulders and cliffs.

It was from a towering boulder, with a stunning view of a long stretch of sparkling river, that I plopped a perfect cast into what I presumed to be a seam.

The fish hit almost immediately and began a sizzling run downriver, causing me to whip the long end of the rod around the edge of the boulder to keep the line from catching, and to leap to another boulder in an attempt to keep up.

Fortunately, the steelhead turned around and ran back upstream, leading me back to the original boulder. Ultimately, pressure applied by the angler and by the downhill force of the river was too overpowering.

The fish was guided to river’s edge, where Zennie stood with a net. He scooped it up, carefully removed the hook and used both palms to place it back in the river, facing the current to allow water to pass through its gills. With a few wags of the tail it was gone.