As the frost started to set in during the fall of 2022, the fishing started to slow down. Low flows in most of my normal haunts had me searching the tailwaters for a few more catches.
Deep in a canyon, a steep trail takes you across a small waterfall and down to the river. I’ve fished here a few times in the past with no luck, not even a glimpse of a fish. But with the steady flows and not many other options I decided to give it another shot.
My plan was to nymph for a while using a rod a friend had loaned me. In my mind, maybe the reason I hadn’t had luck in the past was due to trying to fish the surface and get a strike up top. I’m not particularly good at tight-line nymphing, so this session was also going to serve as a learning experience. Along with the nymphing rod, I also brought my 20’ keiryu rod so that I could fish with the tenkara rod on the way upstream, and the keiryu rod on my way back.
After reaching the riverbank, I tied the line onto the lillian of the Shinobi and started working my way up, drifting bead-head patterns though the pools. Time seemed to drag on, and there were no bites up to the point where I decided to turn around and start heading back downstream to where I had come off the trail. I packed the rod down and decided to scramble my way across the rocks back to one deep run that I thought looked like a good spot to cast the keiryu rod for a while.
I rigged up my line and a single fly on a tag. The first few drifts were more so done to figure out much weight I needed and about how far apart I should set my markers. Just as I got it dialed in, I snagged on some rocks along the bottom and lost my split shots and the small section of tippet I had at the point. With cold fingers, I clumsily tied on another section of tippet and added the same combination of split shots I had on the previous. I moved a bit downstream for the next few drifts.
With the markers hovering just above the surface, and my eyes intently locked onto the brightly colored yarn, I drifted the line through the pool. Halfway through I felt a bump and the markers started to wiggle. I pulled the rod tip up and was immediately met with thrashing on the other end of the line.
I moved downstream along the grooved rock to a point where I would be able to net the fish. After a moment of playing the fish, I finally got it close enough to scoop it up in the net. A good sized rainbow, and along with it a good learning experience. This was the first time using a more traditional-style keiryu line setup. It was all starting to make sense. This is what I had been missing in my previous outings with a keiryu rod.
Excited from my first catch, I figured I had enough time to make a few more drifts through the pool to see if there were any more fish looking for some food. A few casts and drifts in, the line just seemed to stop moving and the angle of the markers started to tilt. “It wasn’t a rock, I would have felt it tick,” I thought to myself. I wrenched the rod to the side and felt a slight bounce in the rod tip. There seemed to be a slight pause before the line started darting through the water. I dug my heels in a bit as I fought to gain control of the fish. One thing I’ve noticed with these long rods is that sometimes they can work as a lever against you, making it difficult to control the fight a bit. A moment of struggling led to a slowing in the pace of the fish. I moved back downstream to where I netted the first, and slowly started to bring the fish in. Closer and closer, through the water as I managed the length of the rod. I finally reached out and brought the fish to the net.
This was the biggest fish I think I’ve ever caught. I had to sit there for a moment admiring the glistening silver scales, the vibrant pink band, and the dark spotting along its tinted-green back. I lowered my catch back into the water and watched it slowly swim away.
What a way to wrap up a season of fishing… The sun nestling behind the ridge, the crisp air settling into the canyon, and a wave of the tail fin of my new personal best.
