Russian River grind

One of my favorite fisheries to visit each year is the Russian River. I know, flossing or flipping for reds isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But there’s something about casting into a pool and looking for just the perfect drift to line a big salmon and fighting it in the strong current. The fast, clear water and large slimy rocks makes fighting these fish difficult, fun and frustrating all at the same time.

Last week I made what most call the “suicide run,” driving southward to the Russian after work to hopefully hit a fresh run of fish. It’s about a three hour drive from my house and that puts my wife and I at the river about 10 p.m.. We fished for about an hour that evening, with not a single fish to be found. We did, however, watch a fairly large black bear amble its way through the brush and stand up on its hind legs to watch a group of fishermen before disappearing back into the brush. We were off to our AirBnB for the night for a quick sleep and then back to the river the next day.

By late morning we found ourselves hiking the trail that would take us to the Russian River Falls. It was warm, the air still and the blue sky was cloudless. The vegetation was lush along the sides of the trail and the flowers were out in full bloom. I again made the mistake of making the two mile walk in my waders and had already worked up a good sweat by the time we cut off the trail to fish our favorite hole.

We would sit at the hole for the next several hours, watching and waiting for a run of fish that would never push through. We didn't see a single fish all day. We had to be back home that evening and with only two hours left, we had a tough decision to make.

Do we stay here and hope a run of fish swims by? Or do we hike out, wasting time, and try fishing lower down on the river?

After a snack break, we decided to make the long slog back to the truck. It was a gamble, but one we were willing to take.

My wife opted out of my last ditch effort to race down to the river to find a fish. I quickly walked back upstream, surveying each piece of water and looking for the torpedo-shaped outlines of salmon holding in the pools. I walked for a half hour and hadn’t seen a single fish. Every angler I encountered I prodded with questions on how the fishing was and if they had seen anything that day.

I finally reached the fastest and deepest pool I had seen on the river to that point. A trout fisherman motioned over his shoulder upstream that there were some salmon hanging at the head of the pool. I approached the two lady anglers that were fishing ther and was told they, too, had seen salmon breaking the surface only minutes before.

I watched one of the ladies fish and after several minutes of failed casts, she offered me her spot. I assessed the pool and the location they anticipated the fish to be sitting. My cast would have to be directly across the river on the other side of the fast current. I would need a decent amount of weight to swing into the hole and get my fly down through the fast water. This would be no easy feat.

After several casts to get the feel of the current and to determine if my fly was getting down to the fish’s level, I felt something different on the end of my line. Typically I feel my weights ticking along the bottom of the river, but this time the sensation that I felt through my rod was… different. It felt spongy, like there was a little give. I set the hook hard and initially thought I had snagged the bottom once again. Seconds later my line ran upriver through the current and a large sockeye leaped high in the air.

The fight was over quickly, as I realized I had snagged the fish in the top fin, and pulled hard on the line to pull the hook out of the fish. Only salmon that are hooked in the mouth are legal to be retained. Within another couple of casts, I hooked into another one, this time hooking it in the top of the tail. That fish was also quick to be released.

With hooking the fish so high in the back, I determined that I must not have enough weight to get down to the same depth as the fish’s mouths. I added on an additional weight and proceeded to make more casts. More anglers moved in and I started to feel the pressure as I checked my watch, knowing that I needed to get back to the truck.

Within a couple of minutes I felt the familiar spongy sensation on the end of my line. I set the hook hard and felt the immense power of the fish as it thrust its way through the surface of the water, this time the hook set firmly in the corner of its jaw. I fought the fish carefully and negotiated my way around the other anglers that were now all around me and carefully scooped it up with my net. The chrome buck weighed approximately seven pounds and was pure muscle. I quickly bled my fish and worked it onto my stringer.

I was already past due to be back. I asked one of the ladies if she would like to take my spot among the growing crowd of people around us. I worked her into the drift where I hooked my fish and stayed long enough to help her net one for herself. It was then that I decided I would make the long walk back to my wife and start the long drive back to the Valley.

The Russian River holds a special place in my heart. It may not be everyone’s favorite, whether it be the crowds, the bears or the spotty fishing opportunities. For me it’s the challenge of negotiating the angler pressure, seeing the bears and grinding it out, even if it’s just for one fish.

And boy, that fish sure tasted good.