A lucky two-fer fishing day: Angling for steelhead at Ringold Creek

Pasco’s Road 68 is not my favorite byway, but it’s the main route north to Ringold Springs and bank fishing for salmon and steelhead.

Once past the clutter of gas stations, fast food joints, and boutique shops, the rural road opens up to reveal expansive fields of corn, alfalfa, and adjacent feed lots where cattle gather on well-trodden soil.

I slow at a school yard where children play in small groups, pass white-wash houses shaded by tall cottonwood, and ponder idle farm equipment. An early arriving flock of snow geese of the year settles down on a newly plowed field near a large pond.

It’s the first week of November and I am anxious to wet a line. My plan is to cast for coho salmon and steelhead. A spinning rod and a fly rod both rest in the back seat of my truck. Which outfit I select will depend on the location and number of anglers present.

The approach is not so much playing both sides against the middle, but insurance against returning home skunked-or blanked as they say in Scotland.

Ominous storm clouds loom over sand dunes that populate the opposite shore of the Hanford Reach. Light rain pitter patters on the water’s surface. I did not bring foul weather gear. Skies were clearing when I left home.

I park where Ringold Creek feeds into the Columbia River and get out of my truck. Gulls loiter nervously at the water’s edge. Large, dark Chinook salmon roll, splash, and jump along the shoreline and halfway across the river to a gravel-bar island where spawning will soon begin.

My favorite fly fishing stretch is occupied by anglers who spread out downstream to the wastewater canal.

Flows dropped overnight, leaving several feet of exposed cobble. I spend the next half hour casting a rainbow-blade spinner in an open stretch of shoreline and imagining where a coho salmon would hold.

Only recently did coho begin their annual return to the Ringold Springs Hatchery. I soon lose interest in the art and craft of casting a spinner, return to my truck, and rig up my two-handed Spey Rod. I tie on a weighted, hot pink-and-black maribou pattern that catches my eye.

It’s been two years since I caught a steelhead on a fly rod and my pedestrian skills have gathered rust. Crossing Ringold Creek, I chase two large salmon from under the shelter of overhanging willow.

The upstream shoreline is empty except for a great blue heron that lifts off with a baritone “squawk” when I approach. My metal boot spikes scratch loudly with each careful step on slick, melon-size cobble.

My lunch (half a peanut butter sandwich) is consumed while I sidestep beaver trails and look for underwater features where steelhead might hold position.

Quickly spooling dormant line from my reel, I make a preliminary one-hand cast downstream of a kick-point where swift current crests over a boulder.

My fly tumbles into a slow-moving pocket and stops while I retrieve line to prepare for a two-handed cast. A snag? Back-and-forth movement of line and a dancing rod tip suggest an unforeseen fish.

A small coho jack, with bright red flanks and sharp teeth, is led to shore for release after it makes a few short runs.

Although in the category of dumb luck, catching that worn-out salmon reminds how good it feels to hook a heavy fish on a fly rod. But steelhead on a fly is what I came for and the question remains whether I can conjure up the latent skill to catch one.

The sun struggles to show through overcast skies. An upriver breeze ruffles the water’s surface. My early casts more resemble the sign of Zorro than the traditional “snap T” style strived for, but I get the hang of it after shortening the amount of line left out.

I am reminded that shake-down trips should be solo to eliminate the possibility of a more skilled companion sneering at your technique.

Finally, a series of good casts in a stretch of moderate current. A good cast slices through the wind and obediently stretches out to ensure proper swing of fly without generating a backwards loop in your line. Anything less than a good cast rarely catches a fish.

I remain alert to the possibility that a stream trout will take my fly. It’s different with steelhead. The time between a cast and the retrieve is typically longer and, in my case, filled with daydreams.

On this breezy afternoon, the grab of a steelhead shocked my senses like a sharp rap on the noggin.

As luck would have it, the steelhead stays hooked and my reel sings its heart out. The fish quickly goes cross-current and jumps twice to take fly line well into the backing, stirring up feelings both scared and thrilled at the same time.

The rest of the battle is blurred in my memory bank. As my son Matthew once said on a fishing trip to Alaska, “It’s difficult to capture the moment.”

What I do remember is it’s ten minutes and fifty yards down the shoreline when I lead a mint-bright, double-clip, hatchery hen to the shallows.

Although you slug it out with salmon, steelhead must be cajoled. Do not tighten the drag halfway into the battle. Wait until they slow down, give up, and roll on their side before you try to land them.

Gusts of wind generate a chop on the water’s surface. More anglers arrive to gather along the shoreline. I finish the run with a sloppy cast and call it a day well spent.

Weather willing, I will return to affirm what a sage friend recently stated, “You need to revisit the feeling. If only to cement the notion that it’s possible.”

Dennis Dauble is author of five books about fish, fishing, and associated human behaviors. His website is DennisDaubleBooks.com.