When I was first told about the Salmon River trip, sometime in late October, I didn’t think much of it. I said I’d consider going and see how I felt when the time got closer. I was also told that it would be an epic experience, well worth the long cold days in the water. I didn’t even know what a steelhead was, and I sure as heck didn’t know where Pulaski, NY was. The end of November rolled around and I needed to make my decision. Sure, why not. I had nothing better to do really.
The pilgrimage began around 10pm on December 9. Itchi, our chauffer for the next five days, helped us pack our abundance of gear in the car and we headed off in the darkness. He drove. I slept. Make that, I tried to sleep. The “Mexican Mix” my friends fed me for dinner was doing somersaults in my stomach. It was going to be a loooong ride. At 5am we were finally there, waiting for the fly shop to open so we could get our licenses. Several other members of our party also pulled up right around the same time. I admit, I was nervous about meeting these guys for the first time. I was still a newbie to fly fishing, and wasn’t sure I would be accepted into this group of buddies.
Photo by: yashuone
The fly shop was crawling with fisherman telling stories of the “big ones,” and those that got away. They were all standing around in their waders, a sight I imagine is commonplace only in fishing towns like this one. After getting our licenses and attempting a quick nap (unsuccessful due to sheer excitement), we headed for the river, dawned our waders, tied on, and got wet.
Over the course of the next few days nearly everyone in our group hooked up and brought steelies to hand. The days were long, and sometimes quite cold. My lack of body fat, and too-tight boots made things even colder. Thankfully, we had a great camp set up and were able to make hot food to stay warm. But really, no amount of cold could shake my desire to land one of the beasts.
Troy's 16th birthday beast.
It was now day four. Not much time left for me in NY. There was snow on the ground, and now big flakes falling. I had decided to fish the opposite side of the river that day, although it provided much tougher landing area. I just needed to try something different. And finally, I hooked into a steel giant. As soon as it was on, it raced downstream, tearing line from my reel. There is only one way to describe my first steelhead battle…EPIC. I don’t remember the number of times it ran me into my backing, and I don’t know how long it took me to get him to hand, I just remember the rush. Luckily at the moment I was getting him close enough to grab him, a couple nice guys walking along the bank loaned me their net and boca grippers so I could get a couple glory shots on the camera. Ahhh, a sigh of relief. Pressure off.
Snowy conditions. Photo by: Nome
My first steelhead.
I did hook into a few more fish that day and the next, but none were brought to hand. When I left the banks of the Salmon River I felt somewhat disappointed. I had only landed one, while all of my comrades brought multiples to hand. They all assured me that it was a great success to even land one my first time out, especially since I had only been fly fishing since August, and that I should be proud of my week on the river. Now when I look back at the photos, and see the memories in my head, it was all worth it…the freezing cold water, the endless days and early mornings… I can’t wait to go back again, for the friends and the fishing.
If you have the opportunity to make a trek to the Salmon River to fish for steelhead, I highly recommend it. Yes, there are other great steelhead fisheries in the U.S., but I think Pulaski, NY provides an interesting experience in addition to big fish. It’s a town that has nothing going for it except fishing. You’ll find locals in the grocery store shopping in their waders (studs included, shhh!). There’s a Ponderosa Steakhouse there, that if visited around 4 pm, suddenly is chock full of elderly, and that’s when they restock the buffet bars. I also recommend staying at
Whittakers. The cabins are affordable and well kept. Just make sure it’s your non-snoring friends in the cabin next to you.
Itchi and his catch.
Spring has come early this year, and so has the urge to get my line back in the water. I’ve been an avid fisherwoman since about age 4, but only started learning to fly fish in September 2009. My line got tight less than a handful of times before the season was over. I couldn’t wait to get back out, but sufficed with tying flies and ice fishing during the short winter. Finally, sometime in March, my fishing buddy and mentor said it was TIME. Time to see if there were any fish active in the local streams. I was pumped, ready to face the cold air and even colder water. There was just one thing holding me back. For weeks I was nursing an arm injury that would prevent me from casting right-handed. Oh well. I was determined to fish. For several weeks we fished the local haunts, to no avail (for me anyway). I watched my friend land a few beauties here and there.
One particular stream we tried to visit on a weekly basis, as it was both close to home and supposedly, a real fishing gem. Week after week we went, fished the same holes, and I repeatedly got skunked. I spent more time with my line wrapped around twigs and my flies lodged under rocks than I cared to. I realized I was still a “beginner,” but I was getting frustrated.
One hole on this stretch of river gave me headaches larger than life, guaranteed, every time I was there. I call it the Hate Pool. My partner kept telling me “there’s fish in there,” and gave advice on how to fish it. It was a deep pool on the outside of a rushing curve, with a lovely submerged tree smack in the middle of it, right where the fish would be hanging out. The hole could be fished from either above or below the wood feature, and I tried both every time. From above I had to make a short swing across river to avoid several other woodpiles, and then let out more line as it swung downstream, and just as the line headed toward the tree in the middle, quickly swim my fly out of danger and hope that something would chase. I got one chase from this method, but otherwise I was just feeding my flies to the log. When fished from downstream, well, lets just say I wasn’t a fan of fishing the Hate Pool from downstream. I had even less luck with fish and more luck with trees and bushes from there. After fishing the area probably a half a dozen times with no luck, I was a little down. I even dreaded seeing the Hate Pool, but knew I had to give it a whirl because I just KNEW there were fish by that tree. It was now almost the end of April, a gorgeous sunny day. Not to warm, not too cold. A little buggy, but nothing too horrible. We had fished the usual holes with not much action, and were now at the Hate Pool. The week before we had managed to clear out some of the over hanging branches that made the downstream spot difficult, but I had a better feeling about starting upstream. The water levels were finally down a bit so it was easier to get a good position in the water.
A few minutes before we got to the Hate Pool I’d tied on a Basil’s Orange Creamcicle, a fly I invented thanks to my long-haired cat, Basil, in hopes that it would help change my luck. It was making its debut in the water that day. So I got in the water, picked my spot, and began casting. First cast I got a follow. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, wasn’t catching the log, getting enough line out. Second or third cast, BANG! Fish on! Right out from under the log came a little wild brookie. He was a wiley one, and made for a short but fun fight. Finally, my streak was over, and the Hate Pool showed me some love.
After hearing so much about this river and the rather large steelhead that winter in it I have to admit my interest was piqued. What fly junkie wouldn’t be? Most discussions did bring up a number of issues that would leave a solitary female flyfisher cold: the stench of rotting post-spawn fish; elbow-to-elbow combat fishing; being knocked over and deafened by a fellow angler that hooks up and immediately megaphones “FISH ON, FISH ON” while chasing his silver bullet; squabbling over water; being run over by a trolling drift boat; and my favorite, multiple recommendations that I always carry a rape whistle. My reply to all of this was “sounds like a charming place - how big did you say the fish are???”
Actually I ended up going for two reasons. A group of local flyfisher friends extended an invitation and the price was right. To keep the trip cost down the plan was to carpool, stay at a reasonably priced place, and bring the camping stove & crockpots with easy to prepare meals. For the most part that plan worked out. Something interesting I learned while on this trip is that you can fit three anglers with gear and cooking stuff in a Dodge Caravan. A smaller vehicle will only hold two anglers plus gear.
Our merry band of anglers shipped off at 3am from northern NH with the intention of arriving in Pulaski, NY some time around 11am. Thoughts of screaming reels and hooking up to monster fish magnetically pulled us through the night toward the Salmon River. One car in our party did arrive a few hours earlier as they started two hours closer to the destination. When I decided to playfully inform the lead driver that the early arrivals had hooked up and were landing fish already, his speed increased by 10 mph. Hehehe…
Even with the extra speed we still overshot our 11am target time. This turned out to be a good thing since we were able to check into our rooms upon arrival, dump our stuff off and gear up to hit the river ASAP.
Whitakers is a full service motel and fly shop with toasty warm rooms. That’s something any angler can appreciate after a day of standing in 34 degree water and whatever the weather gods throw down at ya from above. The rooms are not four star accommodations, but as a fisherman’s “crash pad” they were ideal. Our room was very clean and had fishing amenities such as numerous hooks for drying sodden gear, wall rod racks and a fly tying area complete with lamp. Ok, let’s get our waders wet…
We hit the river in the early afternoon with only a few hours of daylight left. First thing I noticed was lots of salmon rotters snagged in the brush along the river bank. You can smell rotting fish, but it’s not too bad, maybe it was the cold that kept the smell down.
The following photos are courtesy of
www.Clearwaterfly.com , Joe, Tim, Jim and myself…
We hit the Compactor Pool and a few from our group hooked up. I did not snap many pics this day as it was all about reconnoitering and getting back into the casting rhythm for myself. I was pleased to see that Pulaski had little lake effect snow to speak of.
Since half our cooking gear had not yet arrived and we were starving after a few hours of fishing, we opted to hit the Ponderosa Steakhouse across the street from our lodgings. Good call as we were all bushed from traveling. The food was hot & tasty and the buffet was very reasonable!
Got a call from a buddy that lives out west who knew the group was in his old stomping grounds. He informed us that just a couple of hours away it was “ON” if we wanted to venture away from the Salmon River. We figured we would give it another day on the SR and try a few more spots.
The last of our party arrived in the night so the full crew and all the cooking gear was in Pulaski!!!
——————————————————————-
Sunrise Wed Dec. 3rd from Fat Nancy’s…
Some of the group elected to stay upriver in Altmar (fly fishing zone) while another group explored the trail downriver.
Combat zone
The further you walked the fewer the number of anglers. It’s an experience to see so many fishermen lining both sides of a particular pool. I wouldn’t think an angler could get much fishing in as your drift area is ridiculously short with an angler on either side of you. Maybe you get to know your angling neighbor and you each stagger your offering while swinging the drift simultaneously. Of course that would last only if all anglers are catching. I didn’t bother to hang around and find out - I wanted to dig in and wet the line somewhere. I stepped into the river a few times before finding what I thought was a really fishy spot.
This spot was across from two fly fishermen. One gentleman in his 40s was a spey caster and the other in his mid 60s was using a 10ft fly rod. The older gentleman was slaying them. Through the course of the afternoon I watched him hook 30 steelhead right in front of me and land most. Once hooked he would hold the rod in the air, only hanging on to the cork grip, and turn his back to the steelie ripping line off his reel. Then he would nonchalantly walk to shore as if this was the tedious part of silver bullet fishing. Let me tell you it was a trip to see!!!
This guy is a crusty, gruff curmudgeon. Real loud with attitude, but he knew his stuff. I ate all the crap he tossed across river after seeing him hook up so effortlessly. Comments like: “That’s how easy it is when you do it right, Honey”; “You’re never going to connect using that crap line. You need to use what I’m using”; “Nymphing with strike indicators is for people who don’t know their arse from their elbow” and so on.
So the 40-something was getting chewed out for using his indicator and spey rod while the old man was hooking steel on every other cast. At this point I could have let the old man get under my skin or I could learn - I chose to learn. I switched my line as he so sharply suggested and still no connection. He continued to sling mud, and I just smiled and continued to plug away hoping to pick up some pointers since he definitely had the MOJO.
Finally after some back and forth between the old man and me, he learned that this was my first trip. I will confess I purposely did not cast my best so he would take pity on me. Finally he was sick of watching me bust my arse for nothing and called me over to the other side. I jumped at the chance! In a flash I was next to him, getting yelled at, and couldn’t have cared less so long as I could learn to connect like him. Bellowing for me to follow his every barking order, he promised I’d get tight in no time, but if I did not follow his orders I was to find another spot. He re-rigged my leader and tied on one of his flies. He ordered me to walk to a particular spot and cast just like so.
I followed his orders to the “t” (so would you if you saw the size fish he was landing), and I brought my first steelie to hand.
A guide in a drift boat with clients (both of whom know a mutual friend - small freaking world!) was kind enough to stop just upriver from me while I was fighting this fish and offered to net it for me. YES PLEASE!!! The guide tossed me a small mesh bag and told me to use it over my hand when tailing the fish. When posing for this photo he informed me I had a nice 15 pound hen steelhead. I was shaking like a leaf head to toe with adrenalin….. 
I 
to the old man and said I’ve got to get some food and I’ll be back probably tomorrow as it was getting late in the day. The old man was proud of me and himself and did not let me leave without some of his magical flies and offered a place next to him anytime. He informed me I fought that fish well.
His flies looked like he just learned how to tie and had slapped a sparse bit of material on a hook with thread sticking out all over the place, but how they slay ‘em!!! I hooked up with a member of our group on the way back to river base camp and I was on top of the world with a chit-eating grin.
Meanwhile another member was doing a bit of slaying himself with 11 fish to hand in the pool just above the bridge in the fly fishing stretch. Many other members were hooking up, but landing these monster fish is the challenge, especially in a heavy current.
At this point I realized I had lost a film container stuffed with flies way downriver where I met the old man. Bummer….
Sunset on the second day…
dinner was homemade chili with hot pepper cheese from one of the groups crockpot. It really hit the spot after a cool day on the river!
With a Guinness (Extra Stout) in hand, smiling friends surrounding me, laughter and recapping of the day’s events, warm delicious dinner in my belly and the instant replay of the battle and landing of that phat hen in my head, my day/trip just could not get any better!!! Great thing about going with a group like this is you get the benefit of all kinds of experiences as we discussed each angler’s day and tried to learn from one another. Before going to bed I did whip up a couple of copies of the old man’s fantastic flies and you can be sure I made them as haphazard-looking as his originals. I had a feeling I’d better - SO glad I did.
—————————————————–
Thursday Dec. 4th…..
The evening before two members of our group and I planned to get up early and get to the fly fishing hole where another member had been slaying fish. Wanted to be the first and hold the hole.
So we did just that. Up at 5am and in the spot by a bit after 6 with coffee and Mc’D’s breakfast.
After gearing up I was haunted by the thought of the old curmudgeon and that section of river. I knew where the fish were….I walked up to one of the guys and said “You don’t need me to hold the hole with you guys do you?” Nah, we’re good - go ahead… 
Like a shot I hiked across river and hit the bank for the long trail down to the honey hole. When I arrived I was the only one… 
Mmmmm, breakfast anyone?
I stepped into the water primed for action and closed my eyes. I visualized what the old man said to do. I opened my eyes and cast - BANG I’m tight to my first fish of the morning! It was part racehorse and I watched my line rip a rooster tail through the water upstream with a whale of a wake just 20ft in front of my rod racing upriver - WOW - after three runs and the most spectacular aerial show it broke me off… 
……More please
Two casts, tight again with one of the flies I whipped up last night….YEHAAAAAAAAA
Took quite a bit to land the fish on my own, because every time I’d get it to shore and lay it down to take a pic it would flop around back to the water and run! Same deal with the second fish landed. Screw the pics….more fishing…
Next I hooked a big fish that ran me into my backing and kept me there for quite a bit. In fact I don’t think I really got more than 10ft of fly line back on the reel before it peeled it off again and again along with more backing. I lost that fish when it hit the fast riffles at the bottom of the hole. My tippet popped when it turned sideways and put all its weight and the force of the current against my line. That fish could have been a late king, it fought differently than the steelhead I had been landing.
My third of the morning was more photogenic…
The girth of these fish is just amazing!!! From the tip of my pinky to the crick of my thumb is 6″ and I’m not even at the thickest part of this fish. What you can’t see is these fish are built more like bulldogs rather than the typical greyhound shape of trout.
and 4th….
I salvaged a number of flies from many of the fish I landed, but could not get them all out. This one is too deep and is best left to dissolve. I did clip the mono off.
Then the old man showed up and starts telling me I’m doing it all wrong again. I informed him that I’ve connected with more than 10 so far and was able to land 4. He said I could have done better if I bothered to remember what he taught me! 
So back to school I went, and he and I took turns hooking and landing more fish for the rest of the morning and early afternoon. I did not bother with pics as it was such great fun fishing with the old man. We actually began to crack jokes between us and laugh. He’s got a crusty outer shell, but he also has a soft heart!
A pic of Perry with my wee fish, schooling me about landing….
I decided to go back to river base camp and see if anyone wanted to come down and join Perry and me - plenty of water to share with the crew and I had already gotten permission from Perry. I had one taker. After I tied up a few more flies at the parking lot we headed back downriver to Perry.
Joe’s turn to get schooled…hehe.
I hooked a few and landed a few more fish, and as time went on more of the gang showed up across river since I left Intel as to where we went. Soon the whole gang was getting the full treatment from Perry.
Here’s Perry walking to shore with a steelhead on (notice the blurring of the reel). The man is a trip.
Joe shortly hooked a huge fish and the battle was on. The fish broke free - did not lose the fly but the skin gave way… but before dark he hooked another and got his first steelie to hand. Perry was proud a second time!
A rotter skin just in the water with Joe holding it all in until the moment was frozen with a photo.
Alright Joe! He had hooked a number, but this was his first to hand. Joe and I whooped and hollered in excitement for his accomplishment!
Dinner that evening was Joe’s creation using white beans, cream-of-something soup and chicken thighs with savory seasoning in a crock pot that was started at 5am. It was good! I really enjoyed taking turns dining in each of the cook’s rooms.
——————————————-
Friday Dec. 5th - SNOW….
Same deal, up at 5am… only one of the guys was willing to trek in the snow with me so early - 8″ at our ranch…
I tossed my gear in his truck and off we went. Got to the road leading to the riverside parking lot and that area had 2ft of snow - the road had not been plowed yet
Me: can we make it?
Steve: lets find out
He busted through the snow with his truck and we made our way to the parking lot down an unplowed road. Made our own parking spot by packing down the snow with the truck and jumped out to gear up.
A drift boat was already in the water and I could see a nice snow chute from the 1st boat with a second one waiting to be launched. We were going to hike our way back downriver to the honey hole. HARDCORE!
Just as we were gearing up I realized I forgot my wading boots…. 
I was on my knees saying “my bad”, I aint got no boots….. 
My fishing buddy was very understanding, but I was fuming - burning day light!!! We jumped into the truck and got back to the ranch to find some of our pals getting their car ready. Good thing we came back, no way they were getting into that parking lot without a truck. Grabbed the gear and Joe joined us in the truck. We made it back to the riverside parking lot in record time!
Off we went for a hell of a trail-breaking-through-2ft-of-snow hike in. I was drenched in sweat by the time we reached the spot. 
Worth it though… fishing in the snow was beautiful and sharing it was even better!!!
The snow let up and it got darn cold, making it necessary to break the ice off your guides every so often and take care not to dip your reel in the water or it was toast (frozen solid) - no more fishing unless you had a backup.
But the fish were still biting…
Joe putting the boots to a steelie..
Nice fish guys!!!
Found an exhausted king that was not quite dead under this snow-covered log . I picked it up to take a look and the fish swam off.
Only to be caught by two of us…
Landscape sucked as you can see!
I was getting cold and wanted to check the next spot so I broke from the group and trekked downriver, cut across and hiked in some more deep snow. It took me 20 minutes and a lot of sweat only to arrive and see a guide with two clients in the hole… 
Plenty of fish though. The guide shared the hole and gave me a few of his killer steel flies after helping me land one. They left shortly and I hooked up to many, but only brought two more to hand.
I love it when you connect and the steelhead launches like a rocket out of the water. That is what I feel is the most addictive part of steel fishing, that and the rooster tail water trail!!!
On the long trek back to meet up with the gang I came across a floating film case in a quiet back eddy (I am NOT making this up). I stopped dead in my tracks and thought “No way”, but had to look. I opened it up and I’ll be dammed, it was mine and still contained the flies that I lost on Wednesday… what’s the chance of THAT!!! 
Joe and Tim said their goodbyes to Perry and I was the last to walk up to him. I tried to exchange numbers or email but Perry, with a knowing smile, simply said, “I’m sure we will see each other soon on the river.” He stuck out his hand, but I brushed it aside and tucked myself under his shoulder giving him a big fat hug. I looked him in the eye and said thank you. He looked away and was still for a moment, then brushing at one eye he brusquely said, “Now get outta here!”
A spectacular sunset ends a fantastic adventure…
Until we meet again on the river, Perry, tight lines 
——————————————–
Conclusion… The Salmon River is a great destination for those who thrive on the heavy-tug drug. There are lots of big fish to be had. My 9ft 7wt performed beautifully, though I think I will invest in a better reel with a smoother drag. My fly line had two cracks in the outer layer, and I used UV knot sense to mend it before I left home. It held up well all week. Maxima tippet is the only way to go!
We timed it right as the combat zones and number of anglers dwindle by December. I have a feeling if it were September or even October when the salmon run is on it would have been a much different game. I was surprised at the number of bug chuckers that were on the river, outnumbering the spin & centerpin tackle 3 to 1. Granted more than half were spey casters.
All the anglers I met outside of my group were very helpful and practiced angling etiquette. When the call of “Fish On” was sounded all those who were within 100 feet or so, depending on the fish, reeled in and gave the tight-lined angler room to land his (or her) fish. I think the key was that we had a lot of good water at 500cfs so there was plenty of room for a reasonable number of anglers to spread out and share.
I felt that Pulaski, NY was not the scary backwater it is purported to be (I’ve seen worse in the hills of NH & ME) and gets a bad rap for the big-fish mania that occurs when the salmon run is on. The real question is would I ever go back… Absolutely!
