News

This is a featured article in BigSkyJournal.com written by Greg Thomas and illustrated by Fred Thomas from February 2017. I grew up along the Pacific Northwest’s coastal salmon and steelhead streams where it was easy to spot the rookie anglers: These were people who proudly posed for photos with fish that had begun the inevitable freshwater deterioration process, indicated by their dull gray scales, deep red sides, and soft bodies. Those were fish that experienced anglers allowed to swim past. We targeted fish that arrived on incoming tides and carried bright silver scales and bluish backs instead. These were firm fish and great fighters, and they were the best to eat. When I moved to Idaho in the 1990s, it was difficult for me to get excited about the area’s salmon and steelhead runs. If I’d lifted my nose at “darkish” coastal fish just a few miles from saltwater, what made anyone think I wanted to cast at something that swam 500 miles inland to spawn in the Rockies? Plus, in the mid-1990s, there were very few steelhead returning to Idaho. Most anglers and some biologists professed that these fish would soon be extinct. I’m not a guy who buys into Kurt Cobain’s line that “it’s OK to eat fish ‘cause they don’t have any feelings.” If that were true, I ask, why do they often jump so high when you hook one? I think they feel pain. That doesn’t keep me from casting to them. But I also don’t think it’s right to harass a fish that’s on the edge of the endangered species list that swam 500 miles inland to keep its kind alive. Which made my decision to resist Idaho’s steelhead in the 1990s that much easier to make. One day, however, I pulled off Highway 93 between the towns of Challis and Salmon. I parked next to the river, put down the tailgate, and stared at the water. Right away I saw a large fish’s back slice through the surface, then another. This activity continued for 15 or 20 minutes, and I estimated that 30 steelhead were in this single pool. My natural angler’s reaction was to grab a rod and try for those fish, but I didn’t have a rod stashed in the truck, and wouldn’t have known if the steelhead season was open or not if I did. So I logged that experience to memory and promised to return. I also acknowledged that I’d likely been burned by local anglers who painted the possibility of catching an Idaho steelhead as an impossible task. This is a common angling ploy to keep the competition off the water and your own chances of catching a fish as high as they can possibly be. Encountering this kind of attitude is exacerbated when you’re known as a fishing writer and a swipe of a pen might summon the hoards. In the early 2000s, Idaho’s steelhead runs had recovered a bit and anglers were saying that fishing was “productive” if not really good. These steelhead arrive each fall, some as early as September, but the bulk come later, sometime in November, and they remain in the area into April. Fishing for them can be good from late September all the way into April, although the quality of these fish and their fighting abilities diminish as the season progresses. In 2006, I followed up on my promise to fish the Salmon and cruised from Ennis, Montana, to North Fork, Idaho, in February and met friends at a campground. By this time, I’d switched from single-hand rods to spey rods for steelhead, and the Salmon is a perfect size for using these long rods and casting techniques. In some places you can cast across the river; in the broad sections you don’t stand a chance. But to catch steelhead you have to cover a lot of water and spey rods give you the best chance to do that. At the time, I was going through a divorce and was as touchy as I’ve ever been. With a house and kids on the line, it didn’t take much to set me off. Consequences really had no bearing, as a man going through divorce often feels like self-inflicted pain will somehow alleviate the situation. The most common place to see people in this condition is on the road, running their socks off, as if at 40-some years old they had decided to try out for the Olympics. I talked to one guy who ran every morning right along a stretch of road where his wife and her new boyfriend would pass. Each time, as he tallied sub-six-minute miles, he’d see their rig, shake a fist and yell, “You’re a son of a bitch!” I wasn’t a screamer, but I ran every morning, never slept, never ate, and lost 25 pounds in about 30 days. And that’s when I landed on the Salmon. We camped near the river and rose early to stake out a long run where my friends had caught steelhead previously. Etiquette on a steelhead stream says one angler leads, makes a cast, and then takes a step or two downstream before making another. The other anglers file in behind, under the same conditions. Of course the first angler has the best chance of finding a grabby steelhead, but anglers following behind have an opportunity to catch a steelhead practically off the lead angler’s boots. On this run, I led. And just when I was about to reach the end of the run, right where some slick, shallow water dumped into a rapid, the line came tight. I felt a headshake — which meant I hadn’t hooked a rock — and yelled, “Yeah, got one.” I enjoyed the fight, which included a couple long runs, but there were five-foot-high ice shelves lining the banks and chunks of ice floating by, so this fish didn’t exactly rip up the river. When I got the fish to the bank, however, I had to

This is a featured article in NRS’s Duct Tape Diaries by Emerald LaFortune from November 10, 2016. Salmon, Idaho is a lot of things. Gloriously podunk, an outdoor enthusiast’s hub, and the destination for your next steelhead fishing trip. A local by proxy, Emerald LaFortune gives you the beta needed to enjoy 16 hours fishing for steelhead in Salmon. You’ve already been fishing for seven hours and haven’t had a bite, with the exception of a suckerfish and a lot of cottonwood branches. The weather in central Idaho in November is usually pretty awful, and you might have a leak in the right foot of your waders. Luck might change by tomorrow but until then, there’s no need to hang out in your humid tent as it pours rain. After a long day of pretending “there’s fish in this river!” thaw your frozen fingers enough to operate the turn signal in your rig and head into town. A bustling metropolis of 3,100 people, 3,400 dogs and chickens and too many cows to count, Salmon, Idaho is a sleepy ranch town that draws out-of-towners twice a year: rafting season and when the steelhead run. Nestled near the confluence of the Lemhi River and the Salmon River with the Beaverhead Mountains as a backdrop, Salmon, Idaho doesn’t lack in natural beauty and outdoor opportunities. But if it’s raining and the fish aren’t biting, make the best of your skunked and sulking mini vacation by finding Salmon’s best restaurants, activities and to-dos. First, you can only live on tortilla chips and Miller Lite so long. All I’m going to say about the Pork Peddler is: fried macaroni and cheese wedges. Also, BBQ. Why are you still standing here? Sweet potato fries too! Catch Wednesday night trivia to see if you have more facts up your sleeve than the local fish biologists (you probably don’t) and keep an eye on the specials board for something delicious dreamt up by Sarah and Devin themselves. The Junkyard is Salmon’s other favorite lunch and dinner location, with a more diverse bistro menu including my favorite, the Coconut Thai Chicken Curry bowl. Hungry river guides flock to the Junkyard after trips on the Middle Fork to devour their favorite, the Junkyard Garlic Burger. But if you’re one of those picky eaters, or you just like to have it your way (don’t worry, I won’t send you to Burger King), the Junkyard offers build your own pastas. You read that correctly, start with their classic marinara or alfredo sauce and add all the ‘junk’ you can imagine. From prosciutto to shrimp, asparagus to capers, bleu cheese to gouda, they have it all. (Although, I wouldn’t recommend the Krab with a K, you are in Central—landlocked—Idaho, you know.) After a hot lunch, the River Cinema is a great option for an after fishing warm up or to help you forget you drove all the way to Idaho to sit in the rain and slap a line all over the river catching lunker branches and rocks. Walking down Salmon’s Main Street feels like a stroll through decades past. The River Cinema is no exception. With only two or three movie options, I can’t promise this week’s showing will be a box office hit, but tomorrow could be a bluebird day and tonight’s movie could be the latest Brad Pitt masterpiece. It could happen. If the only movie playing is “Trolls,” or it’s not free popcorn Tuesday, there’s the option to go soak your tired fishing elbow. Somewhere in the general vicinity of Salmon, Idaho, nestled within the mountains, lie some beautiful natural geothermal hot springs. I’m not going to post photos or mile markers, do you want me to get attacked the next time I try to walk down Main Street? With a little work you can find ‘em yourself. Pack out all your trash and don’t be obnoxiously [drunk, creepy, political, clothed, etc.]. If you’ve had enough of hydrology in all its forms, swing over to the Salmon River Fly Box to shoot the breeze about the (dismal) fishing report. I get the impression that Steve, owner of the Salmon River Fly Box is a STEELHEADFISHERMAN. Any steelhead fisherman knows that there are “people who steelhead fish sometimes” and then there are “STEELHEADFISHERMAN.” You know the difference. Throughout the summer Steve stocks a variety of flies for the trout fisherman en route up the Lemhi or over to the Middle Fork of the Salmon. But as soon as September hits, he sets out the steelheading flies and is out swinging almost every morning before work. There’s no better place in town to pick up a few extra supplies and wiggle around the latest fly rod models. I won’t tell you where to head out fishing (see earlier comment about losing friends and getting mobbed) but Steve might, in person. The Fly Box can also be a great place to hob knob with the locals and be invited out to a favorite run or get passed a hand-tied fly. When it’s time to cuddle up and dream of ocean-run trout, the best accommodation in Salmon is to make friends with that local you met at the fly shop and sleep in their guest room. You’ll probably get to drink beer on their nice porch and listen to stories about their day at the “office” rock climbing to find a wildfire charred bighorn sheep collar. If you’re more the hotel type, however, there are a variety of options in Salmon. The Stagecoach Inn is where all the river companies put up their guests (read: closest to a Holiday Inn). While the Bear Country Inn and Sacajawea Inn give more of a funky “I didn’t know appliances like this still existed” vibe. Really, it’s all about the hot shower and if you were a real STEELHEADFISHERMAN you’d be suffering out in the rain so don’t get too picky here. After a good eight hours you’ll be ready to hit the river again, but not until