Shaped by natural selection to swim in their home waters, steelhead are like a river’s fingerprint. When ascending British Columbia’s Dean Canyon, it helps to have a massive tail and high mitochondrial density, for producing energy. Similar considerations apply when climbing BC’s Fraser River all the way to the Chilcotin and beyond. Mass and strength come in handy when swimming halfway to New York through heavy water and steep, thunderous rapids. On the other hand, carrying all that bulk up Oregon’s Rogue would be inefficient, like running an ultramarathon at 6’4”, 250. Flat, shallower, meandering rivers are better suited to sleeker, smaller fish.
Rivers like the Skeena host dozens of different runs throughout their lengths, with fish varying dramatically in run timing, size, and appearance. I like to imagine them jostling together as they crowd into the Grand Central Station of the Skeena estuary, eyeing each other’s strange dress and habits before politely introducing themselves. Perhaps they tell stories of their various ocean travels while riding that fish superhighway. Then, somewhere between Haida Gwaii and the Klappan Range, they bid each other adieu with a tip of their grey caps and turn off into their respective tributaries of birth.
Similar to steelhead, anglers travel from disparate origins to stage in outpost towns before moving upriver to our final destinations. Proletarians fishing public water mingle with those going to exclusive camps, and dry fly milquetoasts greet inveterate tip fisherman. Even Skagit casters are welcome. One of the great pleasures of traveling to steelhead country is having a stranger prop a bazooka tube of two-handed rods against the wall before sitting down next to you at the airport bar. Once I met a good friend while waiting out an Air Canada delay in the C-gate
