EVERY DRUG ADDICT REACHES A POINT WHERE THEY LOOK AT THE BATTERED FACE IN THE MIRROR and ask how they managed to allow an addiction completely take over their life. My mirror was the rear hatch of a rental car on a gravel bar in British Columbia.

My addiction runs deeper than it ever has. It used to be about collecting time on the water. After that, a period of only fishing for trout with dry flies turned into an obsession with stalking carp along mud flats. Bored with finesse, my attention turned to big, dirty northern pike. These days, it’s about booming a spey cast out there with a two-handed rod, working a swung fly across the bucket, and finding a wild, 15lb steelhead.

I suppose when I really stop and think about it, it used to be about catching fish. Now, it’s all about catching a fish.

My Fish.

I refer to it is as My Fish, because it will be. I will fool it, I will fight it, I will land it, and I will release it. It will swim away and be burned in my mind as My Fish. To most, this all sounds like the most egotistical, self-centered quest; and it probably is. I try to tell myself otherwise, but lets be honest, I could have had a fish by now. I could be happy with all the Great Lakes steelbows I have caught on nymphs or swinging. I could have got some yarn balls, corkies, or prawns and hucked them out in the prime water with an 11’ float rod. But that’s not me, and those are not My Fish.

It was during the waning minutes of my third and final day of my first fishing trip to British Columbia. I knew how it would go, and didn’t have high hopes. While this river is a temporary home to some of the largest and hardest fighting steelhead in the world, they are also the most difficult to catch. There are stories of better men than I, going multiple seasons without as much as a bump. Then there was last season when the run numbers were so low, the river didn’t even open.

I said from the start, one bump was all I wanted. Just one of these amazing fish to be pissed off enough to touch the product of my self taught casts- presenting one of my self taught flies. I could feel confirmation that all the time spent thinking about My Fish wasn’t going to materialize, so with less than an hour of daylight to spare on the third and final day of the trip, I started going through my rolodex of self-esteem boosters. “You knew that chances were more than likely that you would be sent home with not even a look.” It wouldn’t be a failure of a trip- I don’t think that is possible- rather, one trip, one day, and one cast closer to My Fish. I was doing it. I was all in.

The first two days, I didn’t know how good I had it. Warm days, no wind, and killer sunsets. That third morning I awoke before light and stepped outside to a warm breeze that was the cruelest trick. As I made my first step into the water at daybreak it was like someone flipped the fuckyou switch. Downstream, 40mph winds began ripping whitecaps and sheets of stinging rain. But I stuck it out; later finding what drove me harder, kept everyone else off the river. I slugged and flogged and found myself at the Grease Pool, still alone, around 3pm. I made a slow pass and was getting nice swings as the rain and wind had stopped. At 4:15, only 30 more minutes of light remained.  With only 15 more degrees before the line straightened out downstream, I felt a small tick.  As much as you try not to jinx yourself, I’ll admit, I thought, “Shit, this would be a hell of a way to end.”  Thinking “its just a rock”, I lifted the rod to free it up. Then the “rock” moved and splashed. I don’t know if it was the defeatist attitude of the past few days or just my inability to comprehend the situation, but my first thought was “Fuck, it’s a trout.” A second later with a cartwheel upstream, all questions and doubts were answered. This could be My Fish.

This was my third trip for My Fish. My first to the Clackamas mid-September a few years prior was an eye opening experience. At the time, I didn’t know that it would be the roots of my forthcoming addition. I saw my first west coast steelhead (probably hatchery) and caught my first Chinooks on a swung fly with a 9’ 8wt. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I was awe-stuck by both the power and size of these ocean-run fish. I caught fish on my own and I was happy- but bigger seeds were planted.

The first seed grew into my first real trip- to the Smith. My two-hander, my casts, my flies. I saw rain and cold that made my eyelids twitch on every shiver. That trip I was able to identify what I didn’t know, and what I needed to do to get this right. But, I was jipped by this new addiction. It burned deep, the idea of a wild steelhead on a swung fly, even if I probably didn’t put a fly with in 15’ of any fish. It was this idea of a fish hidden in a 70ft downstream lie taking a fly tight on the swing, only to return to its home with 10x its power… it was a chance to feel an indescribable, raw power going straight to my arm- not absorbed by any slack line or the sinking of an indicator.

The fact that I was finally connected didn’t give me the adrenaline shot that most fish give. It didn’t make me shake, it didn’t make me curse, it wasn’t like a shot in the arm. Instead, a weight was lifted.  A release from the locked up, frozen position of 3 straight days of right hand on the foregrip and left in the chest pocket.  3 straight days of shoulders tight, staring down the barrel of 13’9” of rod, intensely watching the belly firm up after a quick upriver mend until it came to rest directly below my position. 3 straight days of two steps, repeat.

I was now victim of a euphoric-calm-momentary-zone out. The line went loose and I snapped-to, thinking I lost it. As I picked up the line I made a fatal mistake and adjusted the drag.

At this point, you know how this is going to end. No hero shot, no running down the bank sticking side pressure, no long reel-wrecking runs. I came tight, reaffirming to the fish and I that we were still linked together. Quick headshakes followed by a run that tried to take my right arm back to the safety of the deep pool ended it all. It wasn’t the pop, smack, thawack, or blacklash that usually accompanied this fate in past experiences. Rather, the line went limp and I smiled.

3000 miles away, and 3 days later the gravity of what happened set in. I had succeeded. I went to a new, unforgiving river and hooked a fish. A fish that people can go four seasons without seeing. A fish that wasn’t even allowed to be perused last year. One of maybe 1000 fish in the system this year. It was a great fish, just not My Fish.

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Kevin is still waiting for that moment when he feels His Fish glide out of his hands, but something tells us that the end of his quest will ultimately be a bittersweet moment.