Fire & Ice� �

Early Winter Stee lhead Flyf i shingin the Lower Skeena Val ley

Fire & Ice

story and photos by

Jeff Bright

Early November in the Lower Skeena Valley is a special time. The sun arcs

low in the sky, air temperatures are brisk and hoarfrost decorates the landscape.

Each morning greets a sparkling wonderland. The bustle of late summer and

autumn is over, and all but a few dark coho remain from the vast salmon runs.

Along the rivers, moose appear on the gravel bars, and wolf tracks dent the sand

at the water’s edge. But the bears are gone, headed upland, larded with salmon

for a long winter’s slumber. It’s a time of rest for life along the river and those who

visit will find a contemplative stillness unique to this shifting season.

In the river, despite this chilled environment, survival’s flame continues to

burn. And for the hardcore angler in search of British Columbia’s world-renowned

steelhead, this is reason enough to endure most any climatic inconvenience. For us,

early winter is a time to don woolen gloves, heavy socks and ski caps. It’s a time

when a hot cup of coffee warms your stomach, a dram of whisky warms your spir-

its and the pearlescent pink sheen of a hen steelhead’s cheek will warm your heart

beyond measure.

For the fly

angler, it’s a season

for large, undulating

flies fished deep and

slow on heavy lines,

and patient search-

ing in the softer lies.

Conditions are chal-

lenging to be sure, but the fish are there — with enough aggressive nature intact

to pounce on a fly swimming within close range. Skeena tributaries like the

Zymoetz will be holding the full tally of their summer and fall runs. And, even as

these prolific runs taper off, fresh fish will continue to slip into the river each day to

find their wintering pools — where they’ll stay until the spawning urge takes over

in spring.

Fire & IceFire & IceEarly Winter Stee lhead Flyf i shing

in the Lower Skeena Val ley

story and photos by

Jeff Bright

A smaller return of fish is not all we’re up against.

Adding to an already challenging task, upon arrival in

Terrace, we find river conditions in the valley less than

favorable. In fact, they’re downright prohibitive to

fishing. A major rain event has ravaged the northern

BC coast for the past week. The Skeena will be churn-

ing chocolate and the Zymoetz will be hissing through

the trees, running an opaque hue that I can only

describe as dirty metallic white. In my steelheading

travels, I have not seen a river with a more unique

range of coloration; from low flows to flood stage, it

sweeps through a spectrum of blues, greens, reddish

and copper browns and opaque whites. This is alto-

gether pleasant and fascinating — unless you are

For the uninitiated, it may

seem an act of insanity to flyfish in

these hand-numbing, ice-in-the-

guides conditions, but for the

devoted, this is the nexus of our

sport. Here, it all comes together:

perseverance, patience, con-

centration, skill, knowledge, luck

— and big fish. The adverse ele-

ments shade the experience with

a tinge of danger, the landscape

is stark and aesthetically captivat-

ing, and steelhead — energized

with an unstoppable life force —

own the rivers.

For this game, an angler needs

to arrive prepared. Gear should be

in top condition. Clothing should

be properly chosen and layered.

And perhaps most importantly, he

or she must be mentally ready to

meet the season on its own terms.

Any fish caught will be hard-

earned; any fish hooked, a small

victory. But even fishless days will

leave a lasting impression and the

sum of the experience will likely be

a fond memory that you’ll keep for

a lifetime.

Needless to say, I’m excited to

be here — to see the Skeena in

this transitional dress and pursue

these remarkable steelhead.

Dirty Metallic White

At the Vancouver airport, I meet my fishing part-

ner for the trip, Jim Zech. Besides being a world-class

angler and fly tyer, Jim coordinates travel for Fly

Fishing Specialties in Sacramento, California, and is

well-acquainted with November fishing on the

Skeena. I’ve seen the photos, I’ve heard the tales —

and I’m glad to be paired with Jim for the week.

Fishing with him, I should be able to learn a thing or

two about enticing these coldwater fish. We’ve heard

Skeena steelhead numbers are down this year, com-

pared to the previous 7–8 years. We know it won’t be

easy — but if we stick to it, we’ll find our fish.

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need to stop snow and glaciers from melting and

bring the rivers back into shape. We’ll drive up and

have a look at the Clore tomorrow. It’ll drop in and be

fishable first,” Dustin offers.

“Sounds good. Hey, how about driving up to the

Nass the day after?” I say.

“Yeah, let’s have a look at the Bell-Irving or the

Meziadin,” adds Jim.

“Yeah, let’s get some scotch and a good

Okanagan Cabernet for

dinner.”

I’m not sure which of

us said that. But as we

gathered our gear from

the luggage conveyor

and headed for Dustin’s

truck, it sounded pretty

damn good. We had a

plan and, like Dustin, Jim

and I were feeling guard-

edly optimistic about our

prospects.

Building a Fever

After breakfast the

next morning, we tour the

logging roads along the

Zymoetz. Stopping to gaze

at the freshly dusted

peaks of the Hazelton

Mountains, we encounter

a wayfaring porcupine.

The quills roll along its back

as it scrambles to avoid a

photo opportunity.

We drive over bright

creeks tumbling through

snow-frosted timber, each

setting an enchanting win-

ter scene. Numerous ruffed

grouse dart from the road

into the adjacent brush.

Scudding gray clouds roll

over the peaks.

On the north side

road, we wind high above

the river toward Lake

attempting to provoke a cold-blooded fish to move

ten feet through 36-degree soup to chomp on a

vaguely life-like concoction of feathers.

Dustin Kovacvich, head guide and manager at

Nicholas Dean Lodge — and good friend — greets us

at the Terrace airport. His first words tell us all we need

to know about our immediate fishing prospects: “Well

boys, how do like sightseeing?”

“It’ll be a couple of days before you can wet a

line. Do you need to pick

up some adult beverages

on the way to the lodge?”

he adds, with a smile and

the guarded cheerfulness

essential for working in an

occupation to a great

degree dependent on the

whims of the weather.

Jim and I are disap-

pointed. We had visions of

an early morning on the

Zymoetz and a hook up

before nine o’clock —

maybe a 16-pound hen-

fish cartwheeling down

the bucket of Weber’s

pool or a bulldogging,

double-striped buck sulk-

ing at the bottom of 19.

Given the current condi-

tions, neither of those

dreams is in the cards for

our first day.

We’re disappointed but

not disheartened. Nicholas

Dean has become our

British Columbian home-

away-f rom-Cal i forn ia.

We’re happy to be here —

talking fishing and fish,

catching up on stories and

jokes with Dustin and not

dodging traffic and negoti-

ating the cares of daily life

at home.

“The good news is, the

forecast is for cold, clear

nights — exactly what we

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McDonell. As we climb, the moun-

tain ridges and glacier saddles

appear deceptively near, as if we

could easily walk over to them, look

around, and be back for dinner. It’s

fascinating and chilling. I’m struck

by the raw-boned quality of the

promontories and draws, the knobs

and spires, the jagged cornices.

They are ancient and mysterious,

with locked up secrets and

accounts of great salmon and

giant trout 10,000 years running.

Mountains never fail to cause a

deep stir in me, especially when I

consider what they really are — the

mothers of all wild and great rivers.

We spy a cow moose ambling through a swampy

clearing and an immature bald eagle surveying the

river valley from a cut stump, remarkably close to the

road. We ease up and stop for a quick photograph.

The young raptor obliges then takes flight, soaring far

and away, out over the canyon.

The river is occasionally visible

through the dense forests below

and my thoughts drift back to fishing

and the stash of gear back at the

lodge waiting to be put to the test.

“Good water for the skated fly

down there,” Dustin remarks, as if

sensing my thoughts and a growing

fishing fever in the truck’s cab. “It

was really good in early October.

You should come back next year in

the first week.”

The truck continues to wind

along the rutted gravel road and

the fever in the cab rises another

few degrees.

“Ah…that’s far enough here.

Have you guys had enough? Let’s go have a look at

the Clore,” says Dustin, rolling down the window to let

in a blast of bracing outside air, perhaps sensing the

shoulda-been-here-last-week blues starting to creep

up on us. I’m sure it’s a talent you learn quickly in his

line of work.

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terious. For an angler, there truly is a lifetime of dis-

covery waiting in this remote country.

We pass through Cranberry Junction. The Skeena

Mountains are on our right, the Cambria Snowfield

looms to our left and the broad Stikine Plateau is just

over the horizon. Beyond that, Alaska. Finally, we cross

the Nass near Meziadin Lake.

The mainstem Nass is a formidable flow — even

without the substantial inflow from a week-long del-

uge. It runs deep and swift in its channel, stained with

gray glacial flour. From all appearances and reports,

it is not a fly-friendly river.

We continue through Meziadin Junction heading

northwest until the highway crosses and runs parallel

with the Bell-Irving River. On another day, this may have

been love at first sight. The Bell-Irving is a wonderfully

The Clore is the major tributary in the Zymoetz sys-

tem. It meets the Zymoetz, entering from the south,

roughly 30 kilometers from the main Skeena. The

Clore is an attractive boulder stream with short runs,

riffles and pockets. When it’s in, it’s a good river for

the fly. Today it’s flowing high and dirty, but with

clearing weather and two cold nights, it should be

fishable. We just need to

tough out one more day

before we string our rods.

A Trip to the Nass

The next morning dawns

crisp, clear and cold. Air tem-

peratures are in the 20’s. This is

good. We still have one more

day to endure, though, and

need a serious diversion.

Jim and I have both heard

of good fishing to be had on

the Nass system, the next

major river north of the

Skeena. Dustin has guided a

few trips there with success.

We’re interested to see it first

hand and, at over six hours, a

roundtrip will consume most of

the day and alleviate some of

our fever. We’ll tow a jetboat

and take our gear just in case

we find a river flowing within its

banks and with more than a

few inches of visibility.

The drive to the Nass sys-

tem along Highway 37,

known as the Stewart-Cassiar

Highway, is impressive and

skirts the fabulous Seven

Sisters Peaks, the keystone of Hazeltons, near the

small town of Cedarvale. We pass through the musi-

cally-named settlements of Kitwanga and

Kitwancool, and then quickly the signs of human

population become few and far between. Along the

way, Dustin gives a rundown of each river and

stream we parallel or cross — which are numerous.

Many he has fished, for some he has only second-

hand knowledge, and a few remain enticingly mys-

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Elf Creek’s Elves

Ice drops hung from the branches of a toppled

alder — a sign the water level had dropped quickly

overnight — as Dustin launched our raft into the

creek. The early morning air was crisp and froze in my

nose. My fingers ached. It was difficult to run the fly

line through the guides and a tough task to knot a fly

to the leader. But Jim and I would soon be fishing —

and after two days of waiting even the biting chill

couldn’t diminish our anticipation. We walked our raft

down the creek and soon were gliding along in the

swift flows of the Clore River.

At our first stop, Jim quickly pulled in a bull trout.

Not actually trout, but a member of the char family,

these pugilistic fish have saved many a steelheader’s

day with their willingness to attack flies and lures with

no regard to size. The Zymoetz system supports a

healthy population of bulls and even the foot-long

specimens don’t shy away from a steelhead leech

half their own size.

In the next pool, Jim and I both hook steelhead

that were resting in the pockets between boulders.

configured stream with broad runs, riffles and the

graceful sweeping turns that produce soft inside seams

perfect for holding steelhead — and perfect for swing-

ing a fly through. However, as we feared, on this day

the Bell-Irving is blown out as well. It appears that no

system along the North Coast escaped the effects of

last week’s storm.

Our last hope for the day is the Meziadin River, a

short river that connects the outflow of Meziadin Lake

with the mainstem Nass. On this river, the only access

is by boat from the lake and there are but a few pools

to fish. Rumors and reports about fishing on this river

have piqued my interest for some time. A steelhead-

ing friend told me it is a well-kept secret and I’ve

heard from various sources that it can be amazingly

good. Confirmation will have to wait for another trip.

Filtered by the lake above, it’s running clear, but also

spilling well over its banks and up into the surrounding

trees. At this flow, the sheer volume of water would

obscure its pools and wading would be out of the

question, even on stilts.

The light faded as we headed back to Terrace —

with thoughts of the Clore percolating in our heads.

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my shoulder at the creek valley snaking into the

mountain shadows behind me. At the moment, it

looks mysterious enough.

I look back to the river and follow the line as it swings

around, holding it back slightly, putting a slight bend in

the rod top. The long fly should be pulsing seductively

along the tops of the Clore’s bottom stones, its

marabou tips breathing in the current’s weave.

Sprites, elves, leprechauns, pixies, little forest peo-

ple…the fly swings just past a boulder jutting out of the

water and I feel a light electric tingle on the back of

my neck. In the same instant the line goes tight.

Jim’s fish comes to his feet

before slipping the hook — a

buck close to ten pounds.

Mine — a bit smaller hen —

slashes the surface and

shakes free.

The sun begins to warm

the air, and feels good on my

back. I’ve just experienced

the adrenaline surge that

accompanies a steelhead’s

grab on a swinging fly. I’ve just

connected to the heartbeat

of the wilderness. The trifles of

modern life have dissolved

into the click-and-pawl clatter

of a Hardy reel — and all is

right with the world.

After fishing through some

promising water and coming

up empty, we’re at the mouth

of Elf Creek. From river left, a

single spey and a Perry Poke

set up my cast into the rock

garden near the run’s tailout.

I’ve stepped and cast

through the lower half using a

double-handed rod, a 14-

footer for a 9 weight line, toss-

ing one of Dustin’s 10-foot

Descension tips and an out-

sized purple marabou shank

fly. Jim is working the upper

half with a similar rod and line

system but a different pattern.

After the quick action in

the morning the early afternoon has fallen into a lull

and my mind has drifted to thoughts of apparitions

and paranormal sightings. What was it that prompted

the naming of Elf Creek? Surely the name must have

some significance. It must reflect some experience. I

tried to imagine the circumstances.

Another step and another cast. A quick mend to

slow down the drift. Feed a few feet of line for depth.

Is it possible the early mapmakers saw, or thought

they saw, small pointy-eared people here? Was it a

Tsimshian legend? Was it a joke? Without moving my

feet, I swivel my hips and crane my neck to look over

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My rod flattens and bucks. My reel sings and

a clean, bright hen steelhead vaults and hangs

twisting in the air, spray glistening in the sun. The

scene seems frozen before me, soundless and

mixed with strange, fuzzy imaginings of Elf

Creek’s secrets.

This is truly one of fishing’s magic moments

and one that etches deep into the memory. A

leaping wild fish; a tumbling wild river; fresh, crisp

northern air; golden light; every nerve charged

with life; the moment suspended in time.

After what feels like minutes in mid-air, the

steelhead finally drops and shatters the river’s

surface in a ringing crash. Percussion reverber-

ates through the valley, seemingly loud enough

to startle every inhabitant — animal, mineral,

vegetable, or otherwise. Like from a daydream,

I’m jolted back to Pacific Standard Time and

elated to see I am actually connected to a hard-

fighting steelhead. For an instant, I was afraid I’d

been duped by afternoon drowsiness and an

overactive imagination — or by Elf Creek’s elves.

Dustin and Jim scramble down the bar to get

a better look and offer encouragement. After a

series of runs and checks, I have the fish tailed in

the shallows and all are gathered around to

admire one of nature’s finest works.

I’d have to say that this steelhead, while not

the biggest, was perhaps the prettiest I’d ever

encountered. Something about the set of her

eye and her delicate coloration appealed to my

sense of aesthetic balance. If a man can be

seduced by a fish, at that moment, I was.

Fire and Ice

The day wore on with little more than a few

tense moments in the raft. Dustin deftly maneu-

vered the small rubber craft through a dicey

canyon stretch — where a spill into the frigid water

could have been fatal — and we reached the

take out at the bottom end of a short gravel bar.

Here, with the sun slipping behind the moun-

taintops, a strong, heavy steelhead took my fly

solidly. The grab was on a short line near the bank

and I could distinctly feel the fly being sucked in

and the fish turn. I came up hard with the rod and

it arced into a half-circle. For several seconds it

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the third time the fish powered off — a shorter run this

time. I soon regained the line and had him close

enough to beach. I sensed the moment of truth — I

had to make a move. I started to back up, away from

the water, and brought one more turn of line onto the

reel. During that short retrieval, my line’s loop-to-loop

connection slipped inside the top guide and immedi-

ately froze in place. I saw the water begin to drip off

then solidify. A wave of exasperation rolled over me

and took my breath.

The fish thrashed in the shallows and burst once

more for deeper water and the line stayed put. The

rod bent hard; I lurched forward, but it was too late.

Something had to give. The hook pulled out and the

big fish disappeared back toward the riffly slot where

it had been resting — its tail briefly cutting through the

thickening water, leaving me with a vivid and lasting

visual impression.

shook and dipped, absorbing the gyrations of the fish.

The fish hugged the bottom then surged up and away,

rolling on the surface. As it did, I caught a glimpse of a

broad, fiery red stripe, elongated jaw and wide tail. It

was a large male and I knew the odds were stacked

against landing it. The river ran hard and fast into a

deep slot directly below me and against a high bank.

I wouldn’t be able to follow if the fish went down.

In the end, it wasn’t the river’s configuration that

aided the fish, but the dropping air temperature.

Twice the fish steadily peeled line from the reel and

stopped. Twice I cranked him back, the second time

to a point very near the bank. One or two more times

and I’d have him, I thought.

Just then I noticed the ache again in the tips of

my fingers and the ice crystallizing in the top several

guides on my rod. It was getting harder to feel the

crank on the reel and I was loosing my dexterity. For

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It was a bittersweet end to a brilliant day and the

best day of fishing Jim and I would have for the rest of

week. We each caught another steelhead and had

other chances, but as the river quickly cleared and

dropped so did the temperatures and metabolism of

the fish. Winter was coming on fast and the fish

seemed to hunker down in preparation.

By week’s end, ice was floating down the

Zymoetz and the main Skeena was turning slushy. The

skies remained cloudless and on

the flight back to Vancouver

from Terrace we were afford-

ed a clear view of the

glaciers in

the rugged coastal range. I pondered the energy

latent in those giant creeping rivers of ice — an ener-

gy and a force not unlike the powerful steelhead in

the soon to be frozen waters of the mighty Skeena.

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To warm up your own Skeena adventure, contact:Dustin Kovacvich, Head Guide/ManagerNicholas Dean LodgePO Box 434, Terrace BC Canada, V8G 4B1phone: 250-635-5295fax: 250-635-8835email: dustinko@nicholasdean.comwww.nicholasdean.com

Jim Zech photo

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