When you're battling a biting winter wind, standing waist-deep in 33-degree water, while swinging a bright orange spey fly through the Casino Run on Idaho's Clearwater River, more than likely, you won't be able to feel your toes. Or your knees. Or your hands. You'll mention something under your breath about dodging icebergs and probably curse a time or two when your guides ice shut.

Then, sometime around 5 p.m., when the sun dips over the horizon and paints the river a subdued mix of blue and orange, you'll start to question your own sanity. You'll start to wonder why anyone chases steelhead in the winter, and you'll question why the hell you flew to Montana, hitched a ride with a friend, and drove six hours through snowy, winding, Idaho mountain passes to get there. Existential thoughts, the kind you only get in the most harrowing of situations, start coming to mind:

Why am I here? Is frostbite lethal? How long would it take me to die if I fell in? Is suicide the only option to end the pain?

And then it happens.

In the middle of your self-proclaimed "last swing of the day," the tip of your 14-foot rod wiggles and your fly is yanked with a hearty tug. Three, maybe four, feet of line escapes the reel, and for the first time since you stepped out of the car this morning, you feel something. Your heart races, and the first thing you think is: Jesus, I'd better not screw this up.

The line stops, and you wait for a half a second. You lift the rod toward the bank, slowly. Your eyes open wider than they ever have before, and more than likely, you stop breathing altogether.

Then: SROOOOOOOOOOM!

Your reel screams as a 15-pound Clearwater B-run steelhead takes off upstream--shockingly with your fly still in its mouth. It barrel rolls out of the water, and you stand there, frozen, staring at the river in disbelief, or more accurately, in shock, mixed with what doctors like to call a "mild heart attack."

The next five minutes are a blur as your guide instructs you to keep the rod tip low and pressure the fish. You notice the basalt cliffs across the river that look like loaves of gingerbread dusted with powdered sugar. You think about the celebratory beer you'll have at the Shot Glass in Orofino later that evening. You think about every fish you've ever caught, and wonder why they all couldn't be like this one. Then you'll wander toward the bank (which in this case is a 10-foot sheet of ice) and watch with nervous anticipation as the guide attempts to land the fish without a net.

Then, it's as if everything warms up to 70 degrees. Your knees work. Your fingers are tingling with excitement. Hell, even your toes come back to life. You splash your way toward the ice bank, and without much forethought, plunge your hands into the icy water and grab the fish. You feel its strength and power in your hands, you feel a pulse in your toes, and you're ecstatic. You smile like a maniac, pose for a photo, and slip the fish back into the water as quickly as you can. 

And just like that, you forget about the cold, the wind, and the 999 unsuccessful casts you made before that fateful 1,000th. You forget all about your car payment, that wheezing sound you make when you cough, and the first thing you think is:

Okay, maybe just one more cast.

Tags: Steelhead Clearwater Idaho