
There is an inherent symmetry in the fall run of steelhead within the Great Lakes system. There is cool rain, and the fish move from the lakes into the tributaries. There is a run of fish, and the anglers move from the trout streams into the tributaries. The fish shed their silvery sheen, and the anglers don their fleece. All the while leaves fall, college football’s regular season begins and ends, and the world goes from back to school to Christmas decorations.
It is nonsensical to make qualitative comparisons between the fish and people. But a quantitative analysis of the previous eight months might reveal that many steelhead have been much more active and productive than some of the anglers pursuing them. Although their life isn’t nearly as harrowing as their truly anadromous forefathers, they’ve been cruising the depths and fattening up for the spawn. Undoubtedly, that has been a more goal-oriented existence than some folks. But who are we, or a fish, to judge?
Certainly one can fish for steelhead year round. Powerful boats, depth-plumbing rigs, and electronic fish-finding gear make this a reasonable endeavor. However, there is something ritualistically special about pulling off the road across from a supermarket, scrambling down the gravelly edge of a bridge’s slope, and seeing a 30-inch fish in a small creek. The rod has been left strung up in the car from the last fishing trip a few days ago. The boots, waders, and fly boxes are all primed to be equipped for a few hours’ worth of chasing big trout before dinner.








