What follows is a long-overdue trip report from a pilgrimage to the Skeena river system near Smithers and Terrace, British Columbia. It has been said that the Skeena drainage, despite the current pressures and threats, is comparable to the productivity of our local WA state river systems several generations ago. If this is true, you owe it to yourself to go and experience it while it's still there. It's world class. I've read about it, watched videos, talked to shop friends about past pilgrimages of their own, and dreamt about these river systems for many years. When I finally got the time to go, it lived up to expectations. A hop, skip and jump to the north, the Skeena is still intact, and it's what the sport of steelhead fly fishing was designed for.

I count this as one of the best trips of my life, but things did not start well.

This is the hydrograph of the lower Skeena for the period of time I fished. It's a simple graph measuring the volume of water flowing through the system. I left Seattle on October 18th.

Nine-hundred eleven miles and two days of travel, and when I found a place to pitch my tent the rain on the fly was so loud I hardly slept the first night.

I woke to this. The water is not supposed to be that color.

Skating was out. There would be no dry line fishing. Even with tips, there might be no chance of catching a steelhead.

Every person I talked to told me it was futile. Find a bar a fish it. It's possible to luck into one. Maybe if you were Canadian you could chase the steelhead as they make their way up into a local lake, but that lake is closed to non-resident anglers. Your only chance? The upper system, beyond any waters you had researched. Way up. Head up the logging road, over the bridge and keep on going. Way, way up. Maybe the water will be clear enough to get a grab. Certainly, there are fish up there. This is Skeena country, after all, right? Right.

Fishing a swollen river is deflating. Sure, the fish move up along the sides, seeking quiet water for travel and rest. But honestly it just feels off. Runs that should create a swing with perfect speed are moving too fast. Logs and debris float past you. You constantly check and recheck the clarity. Can I see my boots here? The banks are soft, and the grass and vegetation are swept over, submerged and looking like somebody left the sprinkler on too long. The quiet spots in the river are loud in high water. It just sucks.

On day two, I ran into a couple of anglers who had been up in my neck of the woods for the last six days with very little to report. Hopefully it will turn around before they leave and go back to Alberta in a couple of days. Maybe it won't. It's been raining here every day for three weeks. Even the gear guys are coming up empty.

On day four, the last day of the week (non-resident anglers can only fish Monday - Friday), I ran a shorter distance on a now familiar piece of water. Right after the launch, the river comes along a sweeping bend, crashes hard into a high bank and creates a slow, deep depression with lots of debris. Snagsville, I thought. But just below that ... oooh buddy. Greasy. Swirly. Slow. Buck water.

A few casts, and I needed to lighten up the tip to stay off the bottom. A few more, and still too slow. High bank casting isn't my forte. Anchor is placed out a bit, smaller D-loop, more fluid and all lower hand. Right in the thick of the good stuff now. Cast, swing, step. Cast, swing, step. Almost to the end. Gotta be one here. It's been four days. Gotta be one here. Please let there be one here.

The swing stops on the hangdown. There is weight there, but only weight. The fish will not take line. He's almost directly below me. Hate that. Seconds do an extendo thing when a steelhead eats. Time has slowed down. He will not take line, he's just hanging below me but won't move. Move! Dammit, turn with the fly! How long is too long before I set? Turn! Take it! He won't take it! Doesn't matter, do it now or you lose him!

When I set towards the bank, the water erupts 30 ft. below me. The fish rages, all head shakes. Hope takes hold and starts to blossom, but in an instant the hook comes cleanly away. The weight disappears. The seconds snap back to a normal, crushing pace and my line dangles in the water.

Total psychological defeat apparently only takes about ten seconds. It's hard to remember clearly, but it may have started raining right at that moment. Certainly, off in the distance somewhere, there was something like the lonely howl of a wolf or the mocking caw of a raven. Was that a Sasquatch chortle? I let the expletives fly and slammed my rod into the surface of the water, offsetting the two upper ferrules.

Two days of driving, 911 miles, two A&W Papa Burgers, four days of searching and hours on the bike and the fish won't take line. 'I can get skunked like this at home, no problem,' I think. The last steelhead I had landed was more than a season ago, and I wasn't sure if I remembered what it was like to tail one. Clearly, the Fish Gods had something against me.

It's looking bleak, and when it looks bleak, I find the best thing to do is just to give up. For awhile, at least. As a non-resident angler, I can't fish Saturday or Sunday, but honestly it doesn't matter. I need the time to recoup and reformulate the plan. I gotta get back into town to get another week's worth of permits anyway, and my Canadian craft beer supply is definitely running low. Maybe they'll have a good weather report in town. Maybe I'll drive back to WA and call it. MBF steelhead. They do not come easy.

I'll make the rest of the story short, spare y'all the drama, and talk about what I really want to talk about.

It got better.

Day seven, I fished the same spot, and instantly got a grab. That fish I didn't land. Later that day, I brought this little guy to hand in what was probably the least confident I've been ever fighting a fish. Two casts later, I hooked another little hen.

Day eight was better. Day nine was better still. Day ten, and the confidence had been restored and the fires had been stoked for all the fishless days I would find back in WA state where our runs are dwindling and we fight over stupid things.

But what I want to tell you guys about, really, is Day 15. Plus maybe one more fish later that week.

First off, fishing for me is not about numbers. I am really bad at estimating the size and weight of fish so I pretty much don't even try unless I have a tape or something that works as a reference. I'm a pretty solitary angler unless I'm with steelheading buddies or I'm guiding or teaching, which I love to do. It's personal for me, and I probably take fishing more seriously than I should. I don't really care about how many. I do care about quality, what makes the fish you land special, and what the experience holds. I also realize that this experience in British Columbia is not as good as it gets. That place holds legendary days with anglers who are far beyond my skills and experience.

All the same I am so grateful for Day 15, because the river was switched to ON and it gave up some incredible fish.

The first hen took the fly on the strip just after I had hooked a bull trout in nearly the same place. The surprise of that short, snappy grab being a steelhead was delightful.

Hen number two only took after I switched colors and dropped down a size in the same run. I was betting there would be another fish there. In this case, the fly really did matter.

Buck number one sat in the best steelhead lie I've fished outside of some water on the Sauk that I love. It was simply incredible. Dropping water made it good.

Buck number two? A big guy. Not landed. After the initial run and wrestling match, I tried repeatedly to move him upstream into some softer water but he was dead, solid weight. When I saw an opportunity to move him into a side channel, I took the gamble and changed the angle of the pressure. It looked for a moment like I would succeed in getting him into water where I could tail him. He felt the change and timed a head shake perfectly.

Hen number three was one of the bigger fish I got to hand, and I pulled off a really satisfying tail grab in waist-deep water. She was so chrome.

Day 15 blew my mind. I can't remember a better feeling as I packed up my raft and headed for the takeout. Incredible runs with strong, healthy fish in them. Not like WA state at all. Here was a wilderness with heavy solitude and perfect beauty, and that day, it was only my own. Researched, discovered and conquered. It was a perfect moment.

The river continued to drop into the week, and the runs that held such astounding grabs dried up, although the good fishing continued. I thought I had reached the best part of the trip, but I'd like to share one more exquisite experience that I hope I will one day recreate.

I spent most my time in BC doing short floats on my NRS packraft (the Green Machine!), and using my MTB to shuttle between two and eight miles. I love this way of fishing because it combines the joy of floating on the river with a trail ride. The pace of travel is just right because you are not hurried, and you tend to pick up on subtle nuances of the experience you might miss otherwise.

On one of my last days, a piece of water caught my eye as I was pedaling up the the road. The river made a hard right into a short canyon and slowed down just enough on the inside to create two big buckets. The casting wouldn't be easy, but I was pretty sure those two buckets would hold fish at some point. I had to fish up and down a bit to find the best spots, but I ended up with some great grabs that day along with the certainty of fishy water. The following day I floated the same stretch, and I quickly paddled down to those buckets only to find the water had continued to drop and the run did not fish the same. The juicy part where I had hooked fish the day before was too slow and too shallow. But instead of heading downstream, I opted to start higher up with a lighter fly.

I set up the swing, and I fished down. The water was so-so at this level, and I had to make sure to stop the swing early or else I'd get hung up. Maybe not worth it? Nah, steelhead surprise you, so I stuck with it. Not inspired by the quality of the water, I continued to fish down, and within the span of one cast suddenly everything fell into place. There wasn't anything particularly different about my cast or anything obvious about the water, but there was something different about this one swing. Its speed went from too slow to just right, but even then, I can't really explain it. It suddenly was perfect, and I absolutely knew there was a fish there.

This was a feeling distinct from: "Boy, I really like this water and I can see it happening on any given cast." This was certainty. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end. It was a singular feeling, not unlike tight-line nymphing long, light tippet to tailwater trout and setting instinctively without any indication that you've gotten an eat. I can't say I've ever experienced anything like it. In retrospect the feeling may have been the product of fishing multiple days in a row—maybe too many! Or it could have been extreme wishful thinking, and I wouldn't even remember that strange premonition if I was wrong and my fly touched nothing. Either way, when the fish grabbed a second later it was the best grab I have ever had in my life, bar none. I was rewarded with this feisty hen. I can't imagine I'll ever have that feeling again.

Icing on the cake was taking my last doe of the trip, a nice chromer, from a deep, nearly circular run on a fast bend where my swing went about 120 degrees on every presentation. If God made a run to present your fly broadside to steelhead, I found it, and there happened to be an aggressive fish there.

When the snows finally came to BC that last day, they collapsed my three-season tent in eight inches of heavy mank and punched the jagged tent pole through the fly. I moved into my back-up tent (I came prepared) and enjoyed the last of my BC craft beer. I was some distance from the high of Day 15, but to stay any longer would not have been worthwhile. It was time to head back to Seattle. I had experienced the best steelheading trip I've ever had in a perfect setting. This was what it was supposed to be like; this is why I fish.