Fire and Ice – Early Winter Steelhead Flyfishing in the Lower

Fire & Ice
Ea r l y Wi n t e r St e e l h e a d Fl y f i s h i n g
i n t h e L owe r Sk e e n a Va l l e y
story and photos by
Jeff Bright
Early November in the Lower Skeena Valley is a special time. The sun arcs
low in the sky, air temperatures are brisk and hoarfrost decorates the landscape.
Each morning greets a sparkling wonderland. The bustle of late summer and
autumn is over, and all but a few dark coho remain from the vast salmon runs.
Along the rivers, moose appear on the gravel bars, and wolf tracks dent the sand
at the water’s edge. But the bears are gone, headed upland, larded with salmon
for a long winter’s slumber. It’s a time of rest for life along the river and those who
visit will find a contemplative stillness unique to this shifting season.
In the river, despite this chilled environment, survival’s flame continues to
burn. And for the hardcore angler in search of British Columbia’s world-renowned
steelhead, this is reason enough to endure most any climatic inconvenience. For us,
early winter is a time to don woolen gloves, heavy socks and ski caps. It’s a time
when a hot cup of coffee warms your stomach, a dram of whisky warms your spirits and the pearlescent pink sheen of a hen steelhead’s cheek will warm your heart
Fire & Ice
Ea r l y Wi n t e r St e e l h e a d Fl y f i s h i n g
i n t h e L owe r Sk e e n a Va l l e y
beyond measure.
For
the
fly
angler, it’s a season
for large, undulating
flies fished deep and
slow on heavy lines,
and patient searching in the softer lies.
Conditions are chal-
lenging to be sure, but the fish are there — with enough aggressive nature intact
to pounce on a fly swimming within close range. Skeena tributaries like the
Zymoetz will be holding the full tally of their summer and fall runs. And, even as
these prolific runs taper off, fresh fish will continue to slip into the river each day to
find their wintering pools — where they’ll stay until the spawning urge takes over
in spring.
For the uninitiated, it may
seem an act of insanity to flyfish in
these hand-numbing, ice-in-theguides conditions, but for the
devoted, this is the nexus of our
sport. Here, it all comes together:
perseverance, patience, concentration, skill, knowledge, luck
— and big fish. The adverse elements shade the experience with
a tinge of danger, the landscape
is stark and aesthetically captivating, and steelhead — energized
with an unstoppable life force —
own the rivers.
For this game, an angler needs
to arrive prepared. Gear should be
in top condition. Clothing should
be properly chosen and layered.
And perhaps most importantly, he
or she must be mentally ready to
meet the season on its own terms.
Any fish caught will be hardearned; any fish hooked, a small
victory. But even fishless days will
leave a lasting impression and the
sum of the experience will likely be
a fond memory that you’ll keep for
a lifetime.
Needless to say, I’m excited to
be here — to see the Skeena in
this transitional dress and pursue
these remarkable steelhead.
Dirty Metallic White
At the Vancouver airport, I meet my fishing partner for the trip, Jim Zech. Besides being a world-class
angler and fly tyer, Jim coordinates travel for Fly
Fishing Specialties in Sacramento, California, and is
well-acquainted with November fishing on the
Skeena. I’ve seen the photos, I’ve heard the tales —
and I’m glad to be paired with Jim for the week.
Fishing with him, I should be able to learn a thing or
two about enticing these coldwater fish. We’ve heard
Skeena steelhead numbers are down this year, compared to the previous 7–8 years. We know it won’t be
easy — but if we stick to it, we’ll find our fish.
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A smaller return of fish is not all we’re up against.
Adding to an already challenging task, upon arrival in
Terrace, we find river conditions in the valley less than
favorable. In fact, they’re downright prohibitive to
fishing. A major rain event has ravaged the northern
BC coast for the past week. The Skeena will be churning chocolate and the Zymoetz will be hissing through
the trees, running an opaque hue that I can only
describe as dirty metallic white. In my steelheading
travels, I have not seen a river with a more unique
range of coloration; from low flows to flood stage, it
sweeps through a spectrum of blues, greens, reddish
and copper browns and opaque whites. This is altogether pleasant and fascinating — unless you are
attempting to provoke a cold-blooded fish to move
ten feet through 36-degree soup to chomp on a
vaguely life-like concoction of feathers.
Dustin Kovacvich, head guide and manager at
Nicholas Dean Lodge — and good friend — greets us
at the Terrace airport. His first words tell us all we need
to know about our immediate fishing prospects: “Well
boys, how do like sightseeing?”
“It’ll be a couple of days before you can wet a
line. Do you need to pick
up some adult beverages
on the way to the lodge?”
he adds, with a smile and
the guarded cheerfulness
essential for working in an
occupation to a great
degree dependent on the
whims of the weather.
Jim and I are disappointed. We had visions of
an early morning on the
Zymoetz and a hook up
before nine o’clock —
maybe a 16-pound henfish cartwheeling down
the bucket of Weber’s
pool or a bulldogging,
double-striped buck sulking at the bottom of 19.
Given the current conditions, neither of those
dreams is in the cards for
our first day.
We’re disappointed but
not disheartened. Nicholas
Dean has become our
British Columbian homeaway-from-California.
We’re happy to be here —
talking fishing and fish,
catching up on stories and
jokes with Dustin and not
dodging traffic and negotiating the cares of daily life
at home.
“The good news is, the
forecast is for cold, clear
nights — exactly what we
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need to stop snow and glaciers from melting and
bring the rivers back into shape. We’ll drive up and
have a look at the Clore tomorrow. It’ll drop in and be
fishable first,” Dustin offers.
“Sounds good. Hey, how about driving up to the
Nass the day after?” I say.
“Yeah, let’s have a look at the Bell-Irving or the
Meziadin,” adds Jim.
“Yeah, let’s get some scotch and a good
Okanagan Cabernet for
dinner.”
I’m not sure which of
us said that. But as we
gathered our gear from
the luggage conveyor
and headed for Dustin’s
truck, it sounded pretty
damn good. We had a
plan and, like Dustin, Jim
and I were feeling guardedly optimistic about our
prospects.
Building a Fever
After breakfast the
next morning, we tour the
logging roads along the
Zymoetz. Stopping to gaze
at the freshly dusted
peaks of the Hazelton
Mountains, we encounter
a wayfaring porcupine.
The quills roll along its back
as it scrambles to avoid a
photo opportunity.
We drive over bright
creeks tumbling through
snow-frosted timber, each
setting an enchanting winter scene. Numerous ruffed
grouse dart from the road
into the adjacent brush.
Scudding gray clouds roll
over the peaks.
On the north side
road, we wind high above
the river toward Lake
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McDonell. As we climb, the mountain ridges and glacier saddles
appear deceptively near, as if we
could easily walk over to them, look
around, and be back for dinner. It’s
fascinating and chilling. I’m struck
by the raw-boned quality of the
promontories and draws, the knobs
and spires, the jagged cornices.
They are ancient and mysterious,
with locked up secrets and
accounts of great salmon and
giant trout 10,000 years running.
Mountains never fail to cause a
deep stir in me, especially when I
consider what they really are — the
mothers of all wild and great rivers.
We spy a cow moose ambling through a swampy
clearing and an immature bald eagle surveying the
river valley from a cut stump, remarkably close to the
road. We ease up and stop for a quick photograph.
The young raptor obliges then takes flight, soaring far
and away, out over the canyon.
The river is occasionally visible
through the dense forests below
and my thoughts drift back to fishing
and the stash of gear back at the
lodge waiting to be put to the test.
“Good water for the skated fly
down there,” Dustin remarks, as if
sensing my thoughts and a growing
fishing fever in the truck’s cab. “It
was really good in early October.
You should come back next year in
the first week.”
The truck continues to wind
along the rutted gravel road and
the fever in the cab rises another
few degrees.
“Ah…that’s far enough here.
Have you guys had enough? Let’s go have a look at
the Clore,” says Dustin, rolling down the window to let
in a blast of bracing outside air, perhaps sensing the
shoulda-been-here-last-week blues starting to creep
up on us. I’m sure it’s a talent you learn quickly in his
line of work.
The Clore is the major tributary in the Zymoetz system. It meets the Zymoetz, entering from the south,
roughly 30 kilometers from the main Skeena. The
Clore is an attractive boulder stream with short runs,
riffles and pockets. When it’s in, it’s a good river for
the fly. Today it’s flowing high and dirty, but with
clearing weather and two cold nights, it should be
fishable. We just need to
tough out one more day
before we string our rods.
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terious. For an angler, there truly is a lifetime of discovery waiting in this remote country.
We pass through Cranberry Junction. The Skeena
Mountains are on our right, the Cambria Snowfield
looms to our left and the broad Stikine Plateau is just
over the horizon. Beyond that, Alaska. Finally, we cross
the Nass near Meziadin Lake.
A Trip to the Nass
The next morning dawns
crisp, clear and cold. Air temperatures are in the 20’s. This is
good. We still have one more
day to endure, though, and
need a serious diversion.
Jim and I have both heard
of good fishing to be had on
the Nass system, the next
major river north of the
Skeena. Dustin has guided a
few trips there with success.
We’re interested to see it first
hand and, at over six hours, a
roundtrip will consume most of
the day and alleviate some of
our fever. We’ll tow a jetboat
and take our gear just in case
we find a river flowing within its
banks and with more than a
few inches of visibility.
The drive to the Nass system along Highway 37,
known as the Stewart-Cassiar
Highway, is impressive and
skirts the fabulous Seven
Sisters Peaks, the keystone of Hazeltons, near the
small town of Cedarvale. We pass through the musically-named settlements of Kitwanga and
Kitwancool, and then quickly the signs of human
population become few and far between. Along the
way, Dustin gives a rundown of each river and
stream we parallel or cross — which are numerous.
Many he has fished, for some he has only secondhand knowledge, and a few remain enticingly mys-
The mainstem Nass is a formidable flow — even
without the substantial inflow from a week-long deluge. It runs deep and swift in its channel, stained with
gray glacial flour. From all appearances and reports,
it is not a fly-friendly river.
We continue through Meziadin Junction heading
northwest until the highway crosses and runs parallel
with the Bell-Irving River. On another day, this may have
been love at first sight. The Bell-Irving is a wonderfully
6
configured stream with broad runs, riffles and the
graceful sweeping turns that produce soft inside seams
perfect for holding steelhead — and perfect for swinging a fly through. However, as we feared, on this day
the Bell-Irving is blown out as well. It appears that no
system along the North Coast escaped the effects of
last week’s storm.
Our last hope for the day is the Meziadin River, a
short river that connects the outflow of Meziadin Lake
with the mainstem Nass. On this river, the only access
Elf Creek’s Elves
is by boat from the lake and there are but a few pools
to fish. Rumors and reports about fishing on this river
have piqued my interest for some time. A steelheading friend told me it is a well-kept secret and I’ve
heard from various sources that it can be amazingly
good. Confirmation will have to wait for another trip.
Filtered by the lake above, it’s running clear, but also
spilling well over its banks and up into the surrounding
trees. At this flow, the sheer volume of water would
obscure its pools and wading would be out of the
question, even on stilts.
The light faded as we headed back to Terrace —
with thoughts of the Clore percolating in our heads.
couldn’t diminish our anticipation. We walked our raft
down the creek and soon were gliding along in the
swift flows of the Clore River.
At our first stop, Jim quickly pulled in a bull trout.
Not actually trout, but a member of the char family,
these pugilistic fish have saved many a steelheader’s
day with their willingness to attack flies and lures with
no regard to size. The Zymoetz system supports a
healthy population of bulls and even the foot-long
specimens don’t shy away from a steelhead leech
half their own size.
In the next pool, Jim and I both hook steelhead
that were resting in the pockets between boulders.
Ice drops hung from the branches of a toppled
alder — a sign the water level had dropped quickly
overnight — as Dustin launched our raft into the
creek. The early morning air was crisp and froze in my
nose. My fingers ached. It was difficult to run the fly
line through the guides and a tough task to knot a fly
to the leader. But Jim and I would soon be fishing —
and after two days of waiting even the biting chill
Jim’s fish comes to his feet
before slipping the hook — a
buck close to ten pounds.
Mine — a bit smaller hen —
slashes the surface and
shakes free.
The sun begins to warm
the air, and feels good on my
back. I’ve just experienced
the adrenaline surge that
accompanies a steelhead’s
grab on a swinging fly. I’ve just
connected to the heartbeat
of the wilderness. The trifles of
modern life have dissolved
into the click-and-pawl clatter
of a Hardy reel — and all is
right with the world.
After fishing through some
promising water and coming
up empty, we’re at the mouth
of Elf Creek. From river left, a
single spey and a Perry Poke
set up my cast into the rock
garden near the run’s tailout.
I’ve stepped and cast
through the lower half using a
double-handed rod, a 14footer for a 9 weight line, tossing one of Dustin’s 10-foot
Descension tips and an outsized purple marabou shank
fly. Jim is working the upper
half with a similar rod and line
system but a different pattern.
After the quick action in
the morning the early afternoon has fallen into a lull
and my mind has drifted to thoughts of apparitions
and paranormal sightings. What was it that prompted
the naming of Elf Creek? Surely the name must have
some significance. It must reflect some experience. I
tried to imagine the circumstances.
Another step and another cast. A quick mend to
slow down the drift. Feed a few feet of line for depth.
Is it possible the early mapmakers saw, or thought
they saw, small pointy-eared people here? Was it a
Tsimshian legend? Was it a joke? Without moving my
feet, I swivel my hips and crane my neck to look over
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my shoulder at the creek valley snaking into the
mountain shadows behind me. At the moment, it
looks mysterious enough.
I look back to the river and follow the line as it swings
around, holding it back slightly, putting a slight bend in
the rod top. The long fly should be pulsing seductively
along the tops of the Clore’s bottom stones, its
marabou tips breathing in the current’s weave.
Sprites, elves, leprechauns, pixies, little forest people…the fly swings just past a boulder jutting out of the
water and I feel a light electric tingle on the back of
my neck. In the same instant the line goes tight.
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My rod flattens and bucks. My reel sings and
a clean, bright hen steelhead vaults and hangs
twisting in the air, spray glistening in the sun. The
scene seems frozen before me, soundless and
mixed with strange, fuzzy imaginings of Elf
Creek’s secrets.
This is truly one of fishing’s magic moments
and one that etches deep into the memory. A
leaping wild fish; a tumbling wild river; fresh, crisp
northern air; golden light; every nerve charged
with life; the moment suspended in time.
After what feels like minutes in mid-air, the
steelhead finally drops and shatters the river’s
surface in a ringing crash. Percussion reverberates through the valley, seemingly loud enough
to startle every inhabitant — animal, mineral,
vegetable, or otherwise. Like from a daydream,
I’m jolted back to Pacific Standard Time and
elated to see I am actually connected to a hardfighting steelhead. For an instant, I was afraid I’d
been duped by afternoon drowsiness and an
overactive imagination — or by Elf Creek’s elves.
Dustin and Jim scramble down the bar to get
a better look and offer encouragement. After a
series of runs and checks, I have the fish tailed in
the shallows and all are gathered around to
admire one of nature’s finest works.
I’d have to say that this steelhead, while not
the biggest, was perhaps the prettiest I’d ever
encountered. Something about the set of her
eye and her delicate coloration appealed to my
sense of aesthetic balance. If a man can be
seduced by a fish, at that moment, I was.
Fire and Ice
The day wore on with little more than a few
tense moments in the raft. Dustin deftly maneuvered the small rubber craft through a dicey
canyon stretch — where a spill into the frigid water
could have been fatal — and we reached the
take out at the bottom end of a short gravel bar.
Here, with the sun slipping behind the mountaintops, a strong, heavy steelhead took my fly
solidly. The grab was on a short line near the bank
and I could distinctly feel the fly being sucked in
and the fish turn. I came up hard with the rod and
it arced into a half-circle. For several seconds it
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shook and dipped, absorbing the gyrations of the fish.
The fish hugged the bottom then surged up and away,
rolling on the surface. As it did, I caught a glimpse of a
broad, fiery red stripe, elongated jaw and wide tail. It
was a large male and I knew the odds were stacked
against landing it. The river ran hard and fast into a
deep slot directly below me and against a high bank.
I wouldn’t be able to follow if the fish went down.
In the end, it wasn’t the river’s configuration that
aided the fish, but the dropping air temperature.
Twice the fish steadily peeled line from the reel and
stopped. Twice I cranked him back, the second time
to a point very near the bank. One or two more times
and I’d have him, I thought.
Just then I noticed the ache again in the tips of
my fingers and the ice crystallizing in the top several
guides on my rod. It was getting harder to feel the
crank on the reel and I was loosing my dexterity. For
the third time the fish powered off — a shorter run this
time. I soon regained the line and had him close
enough to beach. I sensed the moment of truth — I
had to make a move. I started to back up, away from
the water, and brought one more turn of line onto the
reel. During that short retrieval, my line’s loop-to-loop
connection slipped inside the top guide and immediately froze in place. I saw the water begin to drip off
then solidify. A wave of exasperation rolled over me
and took my breath.
The fish thrashed in the shallows and burst once
more for deeper water and the line stayed put. The
rod bent hard; I lurched forward, but it was too late.
Something had to give. The hook pulled out and the
big fish disappeared back toward the riffly slot where
it had been resting — its tail briefly cutting through the
thickening water, leaving me with a vivid and lasting
visual impression.
It was a bittersweet end to a brilliant day and the
best day of fishing Jim and I would have for the rest of
week. We each caught another steelhead and had
other chances, but as the river quickly cleared and
dropped so did the temperatures and metabolism of
the fish. Winter was coming on fast and the fish
seemed to hunker down in preparation.
By week’s end, ice was floating down the
Zymoetz and the main Skeena was turning slushy. The
skies remained cloudless and on
the flight back to Vancouver
from Terrace we were afforded a clear view of the
glaciers in
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the rugged coastal range. I pondered the energy
latent in those giant creeping rivers of ice — an energy and a force not unlike the powerful steelhead in
the soon to be frozen waters of the mighty Skeena.
To warm up to your own Skeena adventure, contact:
Dustin Kovacvich
Nicholas Dean Lodge
(250)635-5295
dustinko@nicholasdean.com
www.nicholasdean.com
Jim Zech photo