I was nearly through the little piece of holding water when the fish grabbed near the end of the swing. I must have been thinking of something else, because I didn’t even feel the fish taking the loop. Just sudden, strong headshakes. Is it a steelhead? The instant that thought occurs, the fish does a sweet little jump, suspends himself above the water for an instant of heightened perception, and buries the line in the deepest section of the run.

Why was he there?

I’d like to think that the boat just before I got there moved the fish down into the lower part of the run. When I spotted the water, I did move pretty quickly to let the encroaching boat know I’d like to fish it. It didn’t prevent one of the rods from throwing his jig into the main line of the run, about 5 ft. from shore and literally within a rod’s length of where I was standing. The oarsman didn’t stay long (to his credit), he moved his guys through. Maybe the hurried motion pushed the fish into a slightly shallower lie where I could swing a fly to him.

Or maybe he was just there.

There is often a striking characteristic about each fish you land, something that tends to set it apart in memory. For this winter buck, it was his fight. It was measured, tenacious and unhurried. He wasn’t a big fish, but he didn’t know that. After the first long run (which did the cool line going downstream/fish jumping upstream thing … I love that!), he conserved his energy. Much of the fight was with my sinktip inside my rod tip. At one point, he wrapped me on a submerged branch and I could literally feel his headshakes in the soft current below it. I had to wade in and undo the line by hand. When it was still tight, I was relieved. I missed the first tailing attempt. He wasn’t ready and shook out of my grip easily. He kept making short, energetic runs into the safety of the pool. Out, and back, and out, and back. I’ve lost my patience before. This time, I tailed the fish on my second attempt.

If he had been bigger, he’d probably be dead. Just the right size to slip through a Hoh gill net, this little wild fish was missing part of his dorsal. Clearly he’d been in the river awhile. But the net scar wasn’t slowing him down in the least.

After the release, he swam back into the safety of the pool, for an instant giving me a glimpse of a steelhead actually swimming in a river–an image my mind often fabricates but something I virtually never see. He did a little circle in the knee deep water right in front of me, picking up speed before he smoothly vanished into the glacial blue of the Hoh.

It was incredible to touch a fish that swam through a net to get to where I could entice him to eat. Earlier that day, I had driven through the Hoh village to look at the ocean. It is still strange to think that steelhead swim through crashing waves to get into a river. I’m not sure why, but it would be something I’d have to see to fully conceptualize. They are such creatures of the river, I find it hard to imagine them in the saltwater.

I thought I might be able to ascertain whether there were nets in the water, or maybe track down a netting schedule. Instead, I was greeted by the harsh reality of the reservation.

Some days you wake up early, fish till dark, throw the jar of peanut butter and the jar of jelly in your pack to save the time of making a lunch, fish with intense concentration on your first run until your last and every piece of good water in between. There are lots of runs. Confidence is high. Casting is crisp and easy. You are in the zone all day long. And when a fish doesn’t materialize on days like that, it’s easy to beat yourself up.

Then there are the days where you wake up late, decide to explore and take it easy instead of fish. When you do get to the river, it’s pressured water. You fish behind a slow angler, but don’t care because you’re relaxed. You get a grab when you’re not even really paying attention on the very next run. The fish is more memorable than usual, things go right and you land it, and you don’t really need anything else. You really don’t.

On those days, it has nothing to do with you. It’s really about the river, and for whatever reason, you've synced up with it.