The line was mended once to allow the fly to sink. It twitched and I set the hook. Suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as cold.
We did a lively dance downstream. The trick was to stop it before it got into the fast chute of current near the boat launch. The fish, a bright buck, its cheeks and gill covers like orange pineapple ice cream, was a fat 10-pounder. Fortunately, it tired rapidly and was quickly released. 
"Get him?," Kerby asked as he followed another fish downstream.
"Yeah, a 10-pound male. Unhooked him and let him go. You?"
"Turned him loose. It's too cold to keep fish. The only way to get warm is to follow them and wade back up. Doesn't warm the toes, though."
My next turn was like before. A cast with an orange fly, a sideways line switch, a hook-set and another jog behind a strong mint-silver steelhead.
We landed fish on a nonstop basis until 11 a.m. We quit, went to Money's for hot coffee and chow. Kerby was in a pensive mood.
"How many fish did you land this morning?" he asked. "I hooked 26 and lost four so I landed 22 steelhead to 12 pounds. You?"
My score was just a tad better with just two lost fish. My biggest, a broad shouldered buck with a kype like an arthritic little finger stuck on the end of its lower jaw, was 31 inches long and weighed 14 pounds.
"Hooked 27 fish and landed 25," I said. "One that got away weighed 15 pounds. I stayed close, but it still took me into the brush and broke off."
We traded stories and decided to try the Betsie River. We fished a mile of river below the old Homestead Dam and saw only two fish. We worked them hard but they soon disappeared into a deep log-filled hole.
We headed for the Platte River, looked at each other, and he said: "You know, we'll never have another day like this. We've landed 47 fish so far. Think our friends are home and may want to come out and play?"
Did I? The car, like a horse going home, took us back to our hotspot. We didn't see anyone earlier and no cars or anglers were around now.
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 sleet quit but the temperature dropped. Kerby tripped while chasing our 91st steelie, got soaked and once he landed it, he quit. The No. 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, 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.
New fly or old for No. 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 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. 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't good..."
He was walking back to his car and didn't hear the rest of my sentence because it was lost on the keening wind "...it was absolutely wonderful. It was the best steelheading day of my life."
STEELHEAD SIDEBAR
The Day the Steelhead Went WILD!!
by Dave Richey
Page 1
