Swinging for Firsts: A November Steelhead Story

Late November had already settled into its cold mood—grey mornings, frosted rafts, the sort of chill that sits in your sleeves and reminds you winter is closer than it looks. But on this day, the forecast teased us with a rare warm spell, the kind that makes even the most stubborn winter steelhead feel just a little more alive.

My guest was driving all the way from Ottawa for one thing: his first steelhead. And not just any steelhead—he wanted it on the swing. Big ask. Bold ask. But I respected it.

When he pulled into the lot well before sunrise, we shook hands like old friends. Turned out we already knew half the same people—guides, anglers, the usual suspects—so the stories started flowing before the raft even touched water.

I slid the raft into the river pre-daylight, the world still blue and quiet. After shuttling trucks to the take-out, we finally pushed off, letting the current pull us into the soft light of morning.

Dialing It In

Our first stop wasn’t about catching fish. It was about building the system—understanding how this river likes to be fished.

We talked when to mend upstream and when to mend down, how to manage speed with tension instead of muscle. We went over sink tips, how changing one letter on a package can completely change what part of the river you’re actually fishing.

With the water running cold, we focused on the softer seams, the deep transitions, the darker parts of each run where cold steelhead are likely to stall. An hour later, his cast had turned into something dangerous—a tight, fast, perfectly shaped laser beam cutting across the river. He’d put in the work. He was ready.

He also knew the truth: choosing to catch your first steelhead on the swing meant choosing the hard road. Nothing was guaranteed—not even close.

Run by Run

The first run came and went without a sign. No surprise. We hopped back into the raft and slipped down to one of my favourite swing runs on the river, greeted by high clay banks and a pair of eagles perched like guardians watching the show. It felt fishy. It felt like anything could happen.

But nothing did.

We swapped sink tips. Switched flies. Changed angles. The river stayed quiet.

Downstream we went to a run famous for producing swing fish, the kind everyone knows but still whispers about. First pass: nothing. Second pass: new fly, new hope. We were mid-conversation about life’s problems—trying to solve them all before the end of the run—when I saw it happen.

His neck snapped sideways.

His rod tip buried left.

The reel screamed.

And a big winter steelhead rolled on the surface like a chrome submarine.

Panic. Pure, unfiltered chaos.

The fish tore downstream, then shot right back at us. We lost contact, regained it, lost it again. Suddenly we were in ankle-deep water, scrambling, yelling, laughing, praying. I sprinted for the net. When I turned around, his rod was straight.

The steelhead—of course—had one last trick in its system. A final surge, a sharp head shake, and the tippet exploded. Gone.

Right on cue, an old friend of mine wandered up the river, smirking.

“Sounds like someone just lost one,” he said.

He wasn’t wrong.

We caught up while my guest kept swinging through the tailout, determined, disciplined, dialed in…but no more grabs.

A Fly and a Second Chance

My buddy had now worked down into the bottom of the run when I heard him shout. His rod bucked hard. I called up to my guest—

“You good if I run down and net this?”

“Hell yes!” he yelled.

I tore downstream, splashed into position, and scooped a beautiful steelhead into the net. When I asked to see the fly, I laughed—it was tiny, plain, and so unassuming I would've never guessed it for a killer. He handed me one, grinning.

Back upstream, my guest raised an eyebrow as I tied the tiny, drab thing onto his leader.

“The same colour as the water? Really?”

Sometimes that’s exactly the point.

We reset expectations to low…but hopes stayed high. They always do.

Late-November light fades fast, and the day was running from us. We skipped through a gnarly stretch where we’d already donated a fly, and stopped at a final run.

One last chance. One last swing.

As we approached the tailout, three separate fish rolled—silver flashes against the darkening water. A pulse of life. A promise.

He launched a perfect cast.

Upstream mend.

The fly slowed, settled, started its swing—absolutely textbook.

Mid-swing he stopped talking.

The reel started dumping line.

And it was on again.

Only this time, bigger.

A wild silver hen erupted from the river, all power and chrome and fury. My guest stayed calm—too calm really, which means he was probably in shock—while I shouted commands and reminded him repeatedly to stop death-gripping the reel handle.

She ran us downstream toward a logjam that could end everything. I splashed ahead and tried to block her, stomping the riverbed like some kind of crazed river troll. She slid around me anyway.

I was in deep—almost over my waders—when I finally caught up to her. She flashed broadside, a sign she was tiring.

“Lift! LIFT! HEAD UP!” I yelled.

She didn’t come up.

I made the call. A bad call. A risky call. But a necessary one.

I stabbed the net deep, sweeping blind.

And somehow—there she was. In the bag.

Chrome, perfect, glowing.

I yelled loud enough to wake the eagles upstream. He yelled louder. We smacked each other on the back, laughed like idiots, admired her, photographed her, and finally watched her kick away—strong, determined, on her way to wherever steelhead go.

I sat back in the river and just…laughed.

We did it.

And somehow—there she was. In the bag.

The Perfect Ending

We climbed onto the bank, sat in the late-day quiet, and let the moment settle in. The light was gone, the warmth was fading, and the river had gone still. Ending the day like that felt right. It felt earned.

A first steelhead on the swing isn’t just a catch—it’s a journey.

And on that warm November day, after cold weeks, long drives, big stories, lost fish, tiny flies, and one blind net scoop…I watched a new steelheader get his first.

A moment he won’t forget.

And honestly?

Neither will I.

Matt Martin