It was a Tuesday afternoon in midFebruary, and I was scarcely halfway
through a three-hour block of classes,
when my phone buzzed impatiently in
my pocket. It was a high school buddy
of mine, Will Barr, and in an instant, I
knew what he’d say if I picked up. As
I glanced around the classroom, the
professor eyed me suspiciously.
I declined the call and sent a hurried
text message when the professor
looked away. “What’s up? I’m in class.”
He replied a minute later. “Let’s go
catch some steelhead this weekend,
we’ll pack in and fish through Sunday.”
I needed little convincing. Will was
officially a steelhead junkie. He
promised the weekend would be filled
with a few good days on the water and
some long nights around the campfire,
nursing lukewarm Keystone Lights.
By Friday morning, we’d cleared our
schedules, loaded the pickup and
headed for steelhead country.
On Friday afternoon, we set up camp,
rigged our fly rods and donned our
waders for a quick evening effort.
When the sun slipped from the sky
on our first afternoon, we’d yet to
encounter our first steelhead.
Spirits ran high nonetheless,
fueled by the promise of
tomorrow and a splash or two
of liquid courage.
Rain fell that night, not hard, but
enough to soak the ground and any
gear stranded outside the tents. The
river ran clear though, and by daylight,
we’d eaten a quick breakfast and