Dave Richey (left) and George Richey with big Chinook salmon.

Those people who just got started steelhead fishing in the last few years really missed out on the best fishing ever in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Superb numbers of steelhead were being planted all around the state, natural reproduction was fairly good and the Betsie, Little Manistee and Platte rivers offered sport that was as good as it gets.

There was some natural steelhead reproduction 35-40 years ago, and the DNR was planting fish as well. The number of anglers who knew how to catch steelhead were few, and the numbers of fish available in spring and fall were very high.

My guiding career began in 1967, and brother George joined me in guiding fly fishermen to salmon, steelhead and broad-shouldered brown trout. John McKenzie, my late twin brother George Richey and I became the Tres Amigos, and we cut a wide swath through the spring and fall spawning brown trout, salmon and steelhead runs.

Reliving a time that salmon and trout fishermen will never see again.

We were three angler-guides who helped teach anglers that snagging fish was both stupid and wrong. Snagging of salmon began because the DNR told people that spawning salmon don’t feed once the hit river water. They may not feed but will attack anything that approaches their spawning redd.

Snagging became rampant back then, but we fished with No. 4, 6 and 8 single-hook nymphs and wet flies, and it may sound like bragging but it's not: we were good guides, and there was no need to snag fish. We fair-hooked fish on a regular basis. The sheer numbers of fish available meant if we spooked them in one spot, a short distance away would be another batch of willing fish.

The spring steelhead runs were huge in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and I can remember days on the Little Manistee River when we could hook 30 steelies in a single day. Not all fish were landed, but George and John experimented with and tied various flies while I handled the bookings for three of  us.

We were a busy bunch, and were on the river every day. We knew where the salmon, steelhead or browns would be from one day to the next, and we seldom had any competition. We came and went, and sometimes Tres Amigos were all on the same stream, and at times we would be spread out across three different rivers. We'd compare notes at night over dinner, and decide who would fish where the next day.

We were matched to small groups of anglers by age and type.

John, 13 years younger than George and I, was a good-looking guy. I often paired him with husband-and-wife teams or father-and-daughters, and his great talent -- besides catching fish -- was being able to teach people how to fish. He was patient, and clients easily learned from him.

George and I were older, and by nature, seemed to attract the older anglers or the chief person who brought a crew up fishing. We treated everyone the same; we'd fish from sun-up to sundown every day if clients wanted, and then clean fish at night and be up early the next day.

Guiding fishermen was a way of life for Tres Amigos, and we were very good at what we did. We could spot fish, coax anglers into putting the fly in exactly the right spot so it would be scratching gravel when it passed the fish. Often the fish would take, and we'd have a big fight on our hands.

One thing captivated us: putting people into big fish for the first time. The smiles that crossed their faces when they fought a 15-pound steelhead for the first time; got hooked into a 30-pound Chinook salmon; or was trying to land a big hook-jawed male brown trout weighing 12 to 18 pounds. It's been many years since those faces broke out into a smile, but I vividly remember most of them.

John McKenzie (above) was a popular young guide and part of Tres Amigos.

There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for each other. John was known to tie flies by hand on the river bank when we ran out. George was always there to coax anxious anglers into following a big fish downstream, and I was the guy that made it all work with the precision of a Swiss watch. All of us had a job to do, and we greeted each peach-colored dawn with a smile on our face and a jump in our step.

We reigned supreme for 10 consecutive years as a fly-fishing trio.

For 10 years we were Tres Amigos -- three friends -- who made a living in the best possible way -- being outdoors, on the river, and with a client holding tight to a big fish jumping in the river.

We often went without eating, found ourselves upside down in the river current trying to net a client's fish for them, and we looked out for each other. We also paid attention to our clients, catered to their every wish that was ethical and legal, and we coaxed more out of our client's skill levels than they knew they had.

We put people into fall-spawning rainbows that had tiny tails, fat waists, and 23-inch fish that weighed 13 pounds. The browns, especially the big males, were a golden-bronze with big spots; the steelhead were mint-silver and high jumping; the Chinook salmon were tackle busters of the highest degree, and some mighty battles would cover a half-mile of river. The coho salmon were seldom finicky about a fly: put it to them at their level, and they would hit.

It was a magical 10 years, and now brother George has been gone for eight years, and is dearly missed. John McKenzie phoned some time ago, and we took a trip down memory lane. We were there for the finest salmon and trout fishing this state has ever seen, and we pride ourselves on being the first fly-fishing guides on the rivers back when big salmon and trout ruled the state.

And that, my friends, is something we'll never forget.

Remembering great pheasant days of yesteryear. Two long-tailed roosters.

Today was a great day to be alive. The air was cool at 7 a.m., and it's that little touch of coolness that brings out strong urges for fall hunting.

It's months until autumn colors will start showing up, and the color spectacle will then ripen like a tomato on the vine until it splashes forth in full glory. And then, as if a silent reminder to one and all, the color glows briefly, the leaves fall, and we are left with many months before fall color graces our lives again.

Today is the kind of day when I remove my Winchester 101 over-under from the gun safe, stroke the fine walnut stock, run a Hoppe's No. 9 soaked patch down the barrel even though it doesn't need it. Hoppe's No. 9, with just one whiff of this famous odor, is enough to bring back a half-century of wingshooting memories.

Memories are something wonderful to look forward later in life.

I harken back to my first rooster pheasant exploding in my face from a Genesee County cornfield, and it rose, wings cupping air, and cackling like a poor demented soul, and my shotgun barrel pushed out in front of the bird. I kept the barrels swinging, and down he came.

Close examination of that pheasant's feathers, the bone-white ring around its neck, the glistening red head, and oh, those long barred tail feathers. This was a bird as beautiful as an autumn sunset.

Quick to mind came a memory of Fritz, a German shorthair pointer of mine, that was steady to wing and shot, and came with a snuffling nose that could ferret out pheasant scent like a Hoover vacuum chasing dirt. That dog could hunt for me, for the neighbor kids, and if a rooster existed, he could find it, work it into a corner, where the only possible opportunity for escape was to flush.

He and I were a pretty good team many years ago. He'd point them, and I'd shoot, and if he was of a mind to do so, he would retrieve. Most times, he'd lead me to the bird, and work off to find another one. My job, apparently because I shot it, was to pick it up. He was too busy hunting to care.

Pheasanr hunting in thr 1950s and 1960s was something very special.

Back to the forefront of my memory was a dandy 8-point buck I shot on Oct. 2 one year. I was hunting from a pit blind, and it was a day much like today but a bit cooler. Two bucks showed up, and there was an 8-point and a 10-point, and they got to getting pretty wound up. Heads would drop, and together they would come, antlers clashing as they pushed each other back and forth. They kept at it for 15 minutes, and the smaller buck was as strong as the bigger one, but they raged on.

I had the chance on a dozen occasions to shoot the 8-point but kept holding out for the 10-point. The problem was the larger buck was quartering toward me all the time while his sparring partner was quartering-away. Both were wonderful bucks, and the distance was 12-15 yards. I finally gave in to temptation, and when they separated and both stood 10 feet apart, their chests heaving from the exertion, I drew and shot the big 8-pointer. He ran 40-50 yards before dropping.

Days like today bring back memories of many days spent hunting ducks. Those days with hard stiff winds, lowering skies, and a breeze with a bite to it were something special. The ducks would come like feathered speed demons, screaming in low over the cattails before flaring up, turning into the wind, and pitching into the decoys.

I can remember the days before the point system began. There were ducks a hunter could shoot, and some they couldn't. We knew how many birds we could take, and we went about our business in a methodical fashion. The shooting was good some days, poor on others, but there were real duck hunters in those potholes. If they worked a bird, and it passed over us, we would let it go and they would do the same for us if we were working the birds. Now, it seems to be every man for himself, and duck hunting is much the poorer for it.

Remembering nor'easters and ducks that with it is another great memory.

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end, but sadly, many of them have. I hunt daily now, not so much to feed my family as I did before, but to experience the glory of our outdoors.

There were far fewer anglers and hunters back then, more room to move around in, and sportsmen respected each other. Some of that still exists among the older hunters, but some young hunters need to spend time with an old-timer and learn about peaceful coexistence and mutual respect.

Days like this morning bring a flood of memories. And oddly enough, most of them are absolutely wonderful. It's not all about fish caught or game killed, but it's more about just being there.

And if was considered a bonus if you could spend that special time with a good friend, one who would blurt out "Take 'em!" as a flock of mallards teased the decoys, banked into the wind, dropped their wings and methodically dropped on to the water.

I'd stand up, shout "Hey!" and start shooting the greenheads. It makes my heart, these many years, do flip-flops. That's the great thing about memories; remember the good times and forget the bad ones.

This silvery fish was caught one night about midnight on the Sturgeon River.

The night was dark, the moon almost non-existent, as three of us stood quietly talking alongside the river. The water chuckled and gurgled as it swept under a big sweeper that formed a hole where my late twin brother George and I learned to trout fish back in the early 1950s.

We listened for the slurp, splash, and sizzle of a broad-bodied trout trout hazing minnows in the shallows. A few small fish fed the first night but none of them were the big brown trout that nearby Burt Lake once held. Those fish moved up-river in July and early August, and held in deep holes before spawning in October and November. For me, this trip was a reunion of sorts.

It's been said that a person can never go home. That's not true because I returned to my Home Stream -- the Sturgeon River in Michigan's Cheboygan County -- for two days. Well .. really it was for two nights of after-dark fishing for the brown trout I caught 55 years ago as a 15-year-old and hoped to catch now.

It was like coming home to one of my favorite holes on the river.

I was joined by two Hoosiers -- Les Booth and Ed Hauser -- on this trip back to yesteryear when I caught brown trout to 11 pounds here, but the stream has changed, and Private Property signs are more common. Fortunately, a number of years ago, I was befriended by a sweet lady, the daughter of the late Russ Bengel of Jackson, who was the last Michigan waterfowl market hunter of ducks and geese. This late and wonderful man also befriended me more than 25 years ago, and now his daughter has granted me permission to fish what is now her Home Water. Russ was a kind and generous man as well, and donated large sums of money to Ducks Unlimited, paying back what he felt was a debt for the waterfowl he killed as a youthful market hunter.

The first night of fishing meant more listening for moving fish than fishing but fly rods and spinning rods stood at ready. We just needed to hear some fish moving, and we'd start fishing. A few small trout splish-splashed around but not a big fish moved.

The next night was somewhat different. A cloudy sky blanked out the stars, and we began hearing a few fish working the tail-out of several pools. We used big flies that more resembled mice, huge moths or injured fish. We'd time their rises, and one whist-whist of a back cast and forward cast, and the fly landed like a small bird hitting the water. Les had three strikes, Ed had three and I had three hits that memorable evening.

The difference between one night and the next can be dramatic.

My vision problems prevent me from seeing well at dark, and I pitched a seven-inch Jointed Rapala in silver-black and a chartreuse-orange Rebel that also measured seven inches. I worked the tail-out of each hole with determination, and one big fish (it may have been a husky brown trout) slammed the lure so hard it nearly pulled the rod from my hands. Bing-bang, and it was gone, leaving me breathless. There's something about strikes from big fish once the sun goes down that takes your breath away for a few moments. The other two strikes were complete misses.

Ed, fishing a downstream pool, hooked a big and powerful fish, and had him on for several long seconds before it too shook free. Les, like me. had three hits but no hook-ups. One might ask if any of us did anything wrong, and the answer would be no. Big trout trout don't hit flies or lures if the anglers makes a mistake with their presentation.

For me, this was a return home. It's where I sprinkled twin brother George's ashes in the river after his 2003 death from cancer. I spent hours both nights thinking of my brother, remembering his first steelhead from one of the holes we fished, and drifted back to yesteryear when life was much different than it is now. Most of all, it was a return to the river of my youth. Perhaps next time the fish will lose and we may win a round.

One can always dream.

If you decide to go:

*The Sturgeon River flows north into Burt Lake. Try fishing the downstream end closest to Burt Lake. I prefer fishing from White Road (the end closest to M-68) and on downstream. Much of the land along this water is private. Be courteous to landowners, and pick up your trash and that of others. The summer brown fishery will begin in four or five weeks, based on my more than 55 years of experience on this stream.

*This river is extremely swift, and anglers should wade downstream through a likely spot during daylight hours to determine where they can and cannot wade. Some holes are lined with clay, and an angler who gets caught on a clay ledge will go swimming. There is a great amount of stumps, sweepers and other debris in the river.

*A few big brown trout from Burt Lake move into the Sturgeon River in mid-summer. They are not easy to catch, as our two-night fishing trip would indicate. The fish move upstream in small schools and often can be heard splashing as they move up. Don't slosh around, make noise or shine a light on the water. A light flashing across your fishing spot will put the fish down.

*If a fog starts rising off the water, head for the sack. The browns stop hitting when a fog comes off. I’ve caught these fish under a bright full moon.

*Fish safe, and avoid the river during daylight hours if you wish to maintain your sanity. You may be upset by hordes of canoers, kayakers and tubers, most of whom are out-of-control once they start downstream. If local legends are true, there is one spot on the river where the current flows at 22 miles per hour. The current is swift and heavy, and log jams and sweepers are common. Use special care when fishing at night, and pay attention to where you wade. There are a few treacherous spots when an after-dark swim is not recommended.

*The biggest brown trout that I know of was caught by the late George Yontz, once the owner of Hillside Camp, three miles north of Wolverine, Michigan, on old M-27. The fish weighed 13 ½ pounds on certified scales. There are big native stream browns, and silver-sided lake brown that that move up the river in the summer. The silver fish are fresh-run from Burt Lake while the darker golden-sided trout are natives. Count yourself fortunate if you have a big fish on. There are some walleyes in the river as well.

*Approach each fishing location by land. East quietly into the water within easy casting distance, and then stand there and listen. If big brown trout are there, you’ll hear them moving just under the surface. Cast minnow-imitating lures across and downstream, and fish the lure on a tight line. Once it finishes its drift, jig it up and down two or three times before reeling it in.

A nice steelhead for the Old Man. One is enough for me these days.

Decades ago, there was a place on the Little Manistee River that was almost like home. It had many shallow gravel bars where steelhead spawned, and rather than charging off elsewhere, my son David and I chose to returned to my hotspot from the late 1960s.

"If that's where you want to fish," I'm happy to tag along. "Show me a place you haven't showed me before." He and I had fished a good many spots but there were a bunch he had yet to see.

So I did, and it was like going back in time. And he fell in love with it just as I did 45 years ago. No, sorry, but I'm not revealing its exact location although I can get you fairly close.

Taking a big step back in time brought us to the Little Manistee River.

The river, between the 9 Mile and 6 Mile bridge, was running low, fast and clear that day as we stepped into the river. Strongly felt was the old familiar tightening of water pressure against my legs as we began wading slowly upstream in hopes of finding a leftover steelhead or two.

We poked along slowly, easing into the current, checking out gravel bars for the dish-shaped white overturned gravel from the fanning of a hen steelhead's tail. The bed is slightly upstream from the white gravel at the tail-end of the bed. Some people wonder why these beds are white, and the quick and easy answer is this gravel has been turned over as a hen digs her spawning redd.

David, much younger than the old man, has speed to burn. I nodded for him to charge off in his personal quest for a lively steelhead while I walked slowly, stopped often, and looked for the near-invisible shadow of a fresh hen or the darker and blockier shape of a male.

I covered 200 yards, and stood motionless, looking near a fallen log that had toppled into the river. My vision, at best, is poor but I know what to look for and quickly found it.

First came the dark shadowy shape of a male holding in slightly deeper water along the edge of the redd. The water was four feet deep here, and I studied it for 10 minutes. The trick is to locate both fish before starting to cast to them.

I just fish for male steelhead. Hooking a female can ruin the fishing.

Make a mistake at this point, and hook the female, and she is gone and the males will vanish with her. I studied the bed, both sides of it, and finally found her holding next to a log 10 feet downstream from the redd. The female was bright silver in the sunshine, and she was very close to being invisible. At first I couldn't see her, but then I spotted her shadow, and then she became instantly visible. It's a matter of knowing what to look for, and any skill at spotting these fish comes from many years of experience.

She was in an impossible spot to fish, even if I was stupid enough to try for her. The male held alongside the redd, and in a perfect location. My line was lengthened, and reading the current speed and depth gave me the ideal spot to cast. My orange yarn fly drifted downstream along bottom, and the fish moved away from it.

The fly was lifted out, cast again, and again the male moved aside and allowed the fly to drift past. Time after time I cast, and each time the male slid away, but he was becoming agitated, and on the 20th or 30th cast, he grabbed the fly and the hook was pounded home.

That fish ripped off on a downstream run, ran past the hen, went between two fallen logs, and wheeled in midstream, splashed out of the water in a corkscrewing jump, and ran back upstream. He took 10 yards of line upstream from me, rolled on the surface, and headed back down and turned. He bulldozed into a submerged brush pile in front of me, and in less than a second tangled my line and broke off.

I moved back up to shore, sat down, tied on another orange yarn fly, and rested the spot. It took 30 minutes before the hen moved back into her holding position, and 15 minutes later, the male reappeared. This time there was something different: an orange yarn fly was firmly embedded in the corner of his mouth.

Hooking and losing a nice buck steelhead was exciting.

It took at least an hour for both fish to settle down, and I admired the day and the scenic beauty of this portion of the river. It seemed a great day to be alive. Upstream, I heard David talking to himself as a fish splashed. He was into a steelhead, and was telling the world about it.

My male with the lip decoration lay beside the female, and she let loose a jet of yellow eggs as both fish rolled on their sides, mouth agape, and he fertilized the eggs. I got a good look at the hen, and she was flat-bellied and had successfully spawned.

She headed into a log jam and disappeared from sight. She would now rest, and I had no problem casting again to the solitary male. This time he was more eager, and grabbed the orange fly on the second drift but he'd learned his previous lesson well. He darted into the brush, twisted around, and the hook pulled free.

Minutes later David came back downstream. He had landed a nice male and released it, and said he had covered over a mile of river and saw just those two fish.

Was it a perfect day? The weather was wonderful though a bit windy, and we each found a male fish to cast to. David hooked and landed his and released the big 12-pound buck, and I hooked and lost the same fish twice. Did  we have a good time?

The answer was an emphatic "yes!" We fished several other areas that day, and never saw another steelhead. But, finding two males and hooking both of them, was just part of a perfect day. Fishing a spot I hadn't fished in 30 years was a bonus, and it was nice to know that fish still hold in the same locations as they did more than 40 years ago.

David will soon be in Alaska running his fishing boat, and I'm here and lacking company. Perhaps I'll return to that spot, but it's more likely I'll try another spot I haven't fished in years. Going it alone doesn't bother me, and sometimes I count myself lucky to still be able to fish for steelhead.

I'll soon be 72 years old, but fly fishing is much like shooting pool. Once you learn how, it only takes a bit of practice to become proficient. I'll never be as good at this type of fishing I was 40 years ago, but that's just fine. One fish is enough to make me fall in love with steelhead all over again.

TITLE: Returning to an old, favorite steelhead stream

TAGS: ((Dave, Richey, Michigan, outdoors, fly, fishing, steelhead, Little, Manistee, River, bond, son, David))

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in. "Somebody has to do it," he said, wading in. "Might just as well be us."

The fish were like young baseball players: they often went for our first pitch. Kerby hooked up, and 10 seconds later I was into a bulldozing steelhead that ran at me, jumped clear of the water, and doused me with cold water from three feet away. It took 15 minutes to wear him down.

My philosophy is to beat 'em up. I seldom keep spring fish, and want them to spawn, so a long battle saps their strength, builds up lactic acid and they may die later. If they jump, I pull them off balance. If they dog it, I get below and make them fight the rod and current.

If they run at an angle I pull from the opposite side. It breaks their spirit, and I can usually land fish within five minutes. They recover faster than those landed after a prolonged struggle the current and rod pressure.

The sleet quit but the temperature dropped. Kerby tripped while chasing our 91st steelie, got soaked and once he landed it, he quit. The number '100' never came up but we both knew what the day's goal would be.

The 92nd steelhead was my smallest, and it took my fly so deep in its gills it would die even if released. It was stringered. Paul was soaking up car heat, and the wind began blowing upstream as it steadily grew colder.

The next six fish came easy, and were released. I was chilled through and shaking like an aspen leaf in a strong breeze, but would catch two more fish if it took all day. No. 99 grabbed a No. 6 Platte River Pink as it scratched along bottom. I saluted it with a snappy hook-set, and released it three minutes later.

The eternal fisherman question: Stick with the 'old reliable', or switch to a new fly?

New fly or old for Number 100? It was an easy choice; I'd use the same fly because my fingers were too numb to knot on a new one. My line flicked back over my shoulder and shot forward as I drove the fly above the school of fish that seemed to be growing larger as the minutes ticked by.

One cast, another and a third but no takers. Keep trying, give up or try a new fly? The body shaking was almost uncontrollable as another cast shot upstream, and stripped slowly with my left hand that had been wet all day. The fly ended its drift, and the line twitched and I set the hook.

This fish hit the air like an acrobat, tipped nose down, and sliced into the river like a high-board diver. The rod was up, throbbing from the run, and I stumbled downstream on leaden legs into the strong wind, trying to keep up. The fish slowed at the next small hole until I caught up, put more pressure on him, and he jumped again. This one, a chrome bullet of 12 pounds, leaped again before ripping off on a short run.

I caught up and sensed the fight was over. I was beat as it tried to tug the line under a bush, and I pulled it back and it rolled over in submission. I eased the rod back, and used my pliers to twist the hook free.

It was done. Two angers had caught 100 steelheads in one day. It was so cold, and I was shaking so hard, that it was all I could do to untie the small keeper fish and walk to the car. I opened the trunk, laid the fish on my raincoat, put my fly rod away and looked up to see the local conservation officer pull up.

"How's fishing?" he asked as he looked into my trunk. "Can I see your license? Cold, huh?"

I nodded, too beat to talk. I fumbled out my license, showed it, and he nodded. "Cold," he said, "it looks like the fishing wasn't very good."

"No," I said, the cold and weariness showing, "it wasn' good..."

He was walking back to his car and didn' hear the rest of the sentence because it was lost on the keening wind "...it was absolutely wonderful. It was the best steelheading day of my life."

STEELHEAD INFO SHEET

What: Steelhead fishing.

Where: The Platte River near Honor, Michigan. This stream flows into Lake Michigan's Platte Bay north of Frankfort.

When: The best spring steelhead normally occurs in late March of early April and continues for two or three weeks in the river downstream from Platte Lake. Anglers can find some fish in the upper river (it opens April 1) into early May. The best fall action is in October and November, and it peaks with the Nov. 15 firearm deer season opener.

Equipment: Anglers must match equipment to the area being fished. Some spots are wide open to allow for traditional fly-fishing with a floating fly line or a sinking-tip line. Other areas are so tight that flies may be used but splitshot is needed to take them to bottom. Fly rods and reels with fly lines must have at least 100 yards of 20-pound-test braided Dacron backing.

Approach: Polarized sunglasses are needed to cut surface glare to spot fish in holes or on spawning redds. Whenever possible, walk the banks to locate fish. Once fish are found, the trick is to get close enough to cast a fly with accuracy. Start downstream from the fish and move up one slow step at a time. Watch, and if they begin darting back and forth it means they are spooked. Stop, and if necessary, stand motionless for 10 minutes until they relax before moving closer. Move too fast and all fish will leave.

Flies: No. 4 or 6 unweighted or weighted flies are used. Two fly types exist. They are attractor or imitator patterns. Attractor flies are tied in bright colors like orange or yellow while imitator flies look like dark Hexagenia limbata mayfly nymphs. Some of my Great Lakes Steelhead Flies limited edition hardcover books are still available, in an edition of 900 numbered and signed copies and in mint condition, are still available from me at:

Scoop's Fishing & Hunting Books
PO Box 192
Grawn, MI 49637

Personal or business checks will be accepted, and a book will be sent once the check clears. The cost for a Mint copy is $60, postpaid

This book is the first ever published about Great Lakes steelhead fly patterns. The book, published in 1979, is long out of print, and difficult to locate.

Casting: Pick out one fish. The best choice when fish are on spawning redds is to fish only for male steelhead. Why? If the angler hooks a female, and it is landed or lost, the attraction for males is gone. Fish only for bucks, and quick repetitious casting to the same spot is needed to tease spring fish into striking. Don' expect hard strikes: spring steelheads pick up the fly and drop it.

Often, all the angler sees (in clear water) is a head movement as the fish picks up the fly and drops it. A fly line twitch indicates a strike, and some anglers use a brightly colored strike indicator to alert them to a take. Very few spring steelhead strikes on flies will be felt.

Catch and release: I've eaten some spring steelies and find them strong. One exception is with a two- to four-pound male. They can be tasty, but most of my fish are released gently without taking them from the water. These tips from a longtime fishing guide can help dispel rumors of the steelhead mystique. They will hit but an angler must fish hard, keep the fly near bottom, and recognize the strike when it comes.

It's a well known fact. Ask any beginning steelhead fisherman, and they will tell you just how hard these lake-run rainbow trout are to catch. Many spend years before accidentally hooking one.

Books have been written about them. I've written three on the topic myself, including a limited edition, and even though when pushed hard, I will admit they can be hard to catch when they are not in the river just yet.

Melting snow, will raise the water level a tiny bit, but we need more warm weather to melt more snow, warm the water slightly and raise the water level.

If the weather stays on the warm side, we could see some steelhead enter the river by this weekend. But don't go out the door with your insulated waders and rod just yet.

Don't get too excited but watch for several days of warm weather.

My three books --

•Steelheading For Everybody
•Steelhead In North America
•Great Lakes Steelhead Flies

-- and the mystique that surrounds these game fish trouble some anglers. The mystery of this lake-run rainbow trout is usually part of the smoke-and-mirrors show that advanced anglers talk about. Contact me at this email address to get information about my steelhead books: Scoop's Books

The stories are meant to discourage fishermen, and in many cases, the falsehoods and lies work. It's nothing more than one angler shining on another to discourage them before they even begin fishing. It's nothing but a lie to keep anglers away.

These freaky falsehoods are basically tactics to drive neophyte anglers away from a favorite fishing area, but if an angler does not know the river, they can't catch fish with any degree of regularity. Locate some fish, as guide Mark Rinckey of Honor and I do with a great deal of regularity, and some anglers may think this highly-touted game fish are easy to catch.

Some days they are easy. Other days they are not. Go figure.

Any screwy suspicions spoken about steelhead fishing is nothing but reverse propaganda in the minds of good fishermen. This sport is easier than it needs to be, and it's certainly easier than others would have you believe.

Catching steelhead can be downright simple … at times. It can be extremely difficult at times. Savvy fishermen soon learn to take the good with the bad.

Be there, at the right time, fish the water properly and steelhead are not much more difficult to catch than bluegills or yellow perch are in the spring. One principle applies to all game fish species: Anglers must find the fish, and cast well, before they can taste the sweetness of angling success.

Fly-fishing for steelheads is my favorite way to catch them.

There are many ways to catch steelhead and this holds true with most game fish species. All methods produce during certain periods, but they may work best at other times of year. For me, stalking visible steelhead on shallow rivers and casting flies to them is as good as it gets, and I made a living for 10 years guiding fly fishermen to good catches using some of the following methods.

•One thing to remember is that experience on the water is necessary. I've taken beginning anglers, and under my tutelage, had them catching steelhead the first day. They thought the fish were easy to catch.

•The problem with fly fishing is that people are in a big rush. They want fish now, and bail off the river bank, go splashing into the clear river and spook fish off spawning beds. They then wonder why they can't catch anything.

•Forget about wading up or down the river, and spend more time on the river bank looking for fish. Walk slowly, stop often and study the water through polarized sunglasses. It's a method much like still-hunting deer, and if they try to rush the process, they fish spook. The deer run away and the steelhead swim into the log jams.

•Slow down – way down -- and take your time. My toughest problem when guiding steelhead fishermen was curbing their enthusiastic impatience. This old method worked back in the 1960s and it still works now providing people follow some easily understood rules.

Don't get into the river until a fish is found. Avoid splashing around.

•Stay out of the water unless casting to visible fish. Don't become another stupid fisherman that wades downstream and spooks every steelhead around. Barring a quick warm-up, snowmelt and run-off, anglers have at least four to six weeks before steelhead numbers begin moving upstream. Use this time period to study these tactics, memorize them and use them this spring.

•Instead of wading downstream, walk the bank, stop, start and look for fish. Use any available cover and a successful stalk may take 15-30 minutes to move close enough for a short and accurate cast.

•Wear a billed cap, pull it low over Polarized sunglasses, and pause frequently to study the water. A fresh-run mint-silver female is most difficult to spot in the water, and sometimes all that can be seen is a shadow. Males are darker colored, and their gaudy gill covers and cheeks are easily seen. Don't look for the whole fish; often all you'll see is a tail, a white mouth or a shadow apparently moving across the bottom.

•Watch the fish and study them. If they are going on and off the bed, it means they are spooky. Relax, take your time, and wait until the hen starts rolling up on her side and the male fertilizes the eggs with a jet of white milt. Remember, if nothing else: never fish for the female; try only for male fish.

Fish only for male (buck) steelhead.

•Why, you ask? It's easy to figure out. There are usually more males than females, If you spook a female, it will dash away and hide. If there is no hen present, there is no reason for males to hang around.

•Which fly to use? The old philosophy is always a good bet. Use bright attractor patterns on bright days, and dark patterns on overcast days. Use a tippet or leader testing six pounds, and perfect your accuracy somewhere other than on the river. Plop a fly down on top of a fish and it will spook. Carry several bright and dark patterns in sizes No. 4, 6 and 8, and experiment with them.

•Ease slowly into the water and move softly without splashing the water or crunching gravel underfoot. If the fish start moving back and forth, stop, remain still, and wait for them to resume spawning. Take your time, and ease gently into casting position. It can take a long time, and I've spent hours trying to catch a gaudy buck steelhead. This method requires constant attention to detail, great patience and accurate casts. Don't try to hurry things.

•Study the water current and depth. The fly must be cast far enough upstream to be scratching gravel when it comes to the male. If the female hits the fly. do nothing. Hook and fight the female, and all the males will disappear. Hook a male, and it's not uncommon to catch two or three fish without unduly spooking the hen or harming the resource.

•The fly must ease past his nose. Set up a rhythmic casting pace; cast upstream past the male, strip in line as the fly drifts downstream, and once it passes the male, lift the fly out and cast again. Cast, strip line, ease the fly past his nose, lift it out and cast again. Use a hook hone to sharpen hook points. They soon get dull when bouncing over gravel.

•The male will often move out of the way of a fly. Repetitive casting angers the fish, and they will often hit. Watch the fish's head, and when it moves two or three inches when the fly is near, it has the fly and is moving it out of the bed. Set the hook. If you wait for a hard strike, you'll never hook a spawning spring steelhead.

Don't wade up and down the rivers and spook fish.

Common courtesy has its place on a spring steelhead stream. If you spot an angler up ahead casting to bedded fish, walk wide around the area away from the bank. Don't wade up or down the river past him and spook his fish. If you are fishing to bedded fish, and see an angler coming, holler and politely ask them to make a wide detour around you and the fish. People with common sense will do so. Stupid people with no manners will not!

Those who never had any brains or too little fetching up will ignore your request. A steelhead isn't worth getting into a fight over, but I've seen days when I wish I'd taken those Charles Atlas courses offered when I was a kid.

This is just one of many steelhead techniques but it happens to be my favorite, and in the future, we'll share other methods that produce. But one thing to remember is to learn something new every day.

It's hard to do, but trust me. Unspooked steelhead are much easier to catch than those that have been dodging snag hooks, clumsy wading, and people who care nothing about the rights of other people. Too many folks want a steelhead at any cost, and as quickly as possible, but they have no clue about how to go about catching them.

Patience, fly presentation and good timing are three keys to spring steelhead fishing success.