Editor's Note: To help ring in the spring steelhead season, we opened up one of the most controversial conversations within the steelhead community: Wild vs. Great Lakes fish. And when we say "wild," we mean ocean-run fish. So, we asked two of our writers—a Great Lakes steelheader and a Pacific Northwest steelheader—to make their case for their respective strain of fish.
The Case for Great Lakes Steelhead
Short of how they taste, I love everything about stocked trout. They were coded into my DNA by the age of five. That’s laughable to so many fishermen in this country, and I get it, but my affection is a product of geography. Unless you grew up in a place where stocked trout were your only option, you couldn’t understand. Every spring, the no-nothing streams of Central New Jersey that would be practically bone dry by July teemed with life, both along the banks and underwater. It was like a yearly, fleeting dose of Montana, and on the eve of opening day, I could barely sleep. Twenty-some years later, during my first night ever in Pulaski, New York, I could barely sleep, too. The anticipation of sunrise and getting after all those stocked steelhead—a species I’d only read about until that point—had me tossing and turning in the shabby Super 8 Motel.
Are Great Lakes steelhead better than wild West Coast steelhead? No. In fact, hell no. Catching a fish that beat incredible odds in the ocean, swam hundreds if not thousands of miles to return to a river, and, after all that, happened to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to get pinned on your hook is a powerful thing. The probability, if you stop and think about it, is mindboggling. The problem is that you can’t judge a fishery by comparing only the fish. Step back and look at the bigger picture, and the importance and cultural significance of Great Lakes steelhead suddenly come into focus.
It's no secret that the steelhead (and salmon) that run rivers across the Upper Midwest and Northeast are economic assets. They were strategically planted to sell fishing licenses, tackle, coffee, bacon and eggs, booze, and motel stays in small towns that, in some cases, might dry up and blow away without them. But by making steelhead accessible to so many people that may have never gotten the chance to travel west—or perhaps could never afford to—a unique culture was created. And while the fish may have been implanted, the passion for chasing them is as natural as any West Coaster’s. I’d argue that there are more similarities than differences in the two scenes.
Great Lakes steelhead are not dumber. They are not weaker. There are simply more of them. That’s the root of the animosity. Though I’ve never caught a wild steelhead, I did try on the Deschutes River. Nobody in my group touched one. But, if we had gotten in front of a fish, it would have hit the same lure, fly, bead, or gob of eggs that any Great Lakes steelhead would take. So, when I hear someone say, “those New York steelhead don’t count,” I know that stems from bitterness that our odds are so much better. Having to earn a fish always makes it more special, but they don’t always come easy in the East. The most steelhead I ever connected with in a single day on New York’s Salmon River was 22. Years later, on the Manistee in Michigan, I landed 14. Despite what the wild steelhead crowd believes, those numbers are exceptions, not the rule.
We can’t claim the perils faced by wild steel, but there are ups and downs. From food source die-offs in the lakes, to disease, to harsh conditions over winter, any number of factors can create years of bad fishing. I’ve chopped bank ice and stood in 30-degree water and 12-degree air to bump one fish all day or scratch entirely. I’ve gotten destroyed by 20-pound fish that would not stop. But more important than successes or failures, I’ve met so many wonderful people along the Great Lakes shores. Guides who were pioneers in the early years, some of the first to ever run drift boats on these rivers. I’ve drank beers with fly tiers, shop owners, and veteran anglers who fought to turn the game from the blood sport of yesteryear into a largely catch-and-release fishery. There are legends in the Great Lakes scene just as there are out West, people whose identities are tied to the fish. And it would take a lot of guts to look one of them in the eye after opting into chapped lips, cracked hands, numb legs, and about 4,000 rig breakoffs year after year and say his or her fish don’t count. Because if the fish don’t count, then the drive and passion thousands of anglers have for them, the camaraderies and memories formed around them, must not count either.
I love stocked trout and steelhead, but I love wild ones more. What people who scoff at hatchery fish miss is that they often give those of us who target them a greater appreciation for the wild ones. Nobody on the Salmon River, or Manistee, or Elk Creek is going to tell you wild steelhead are stupid or not worth the effort. They just simply don’t live in their backyards. Likewise, I have several good friends who are dyed-in-the-wool steelhead addicts from the West who have come East at least once. It wasn’t so they could go home and tell their buddies how lame it was. They did it because they love steelhead—all steelhead. It’s the same reason I’ve traveled across the country to catch the same striped bass that live in my home waters. You pick up a new trick, you make a new friend, you see something familiar through a different lens. But if you can’t look past the fish and find the connection with the fishermen who are consumed with them, well, that’s just wild.
The Case for Wild Steelhead
I wasn’t born a wild steelhead purist like many fellow Pacific Northwest anglers like to think they are. As a kid growing up in Oregon, I never understood the point of subjecting yourself to hours, if not days, of effort without getting a bite. It seemed ridiculous to stand out in the cold to not catch fish. Then, when I was in my late 30s, I hooked my first wild steelhead, and it changed everything.
I still don’t consider myself a wild steelhead purist. I fish for stocked trout in my new home waters of Virginia. I've also fished for Great Lakes steelhead in Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania—and guess what? I like it. That said, there is still no comparison between a Great Lakes steelhead and a wild Pacific steelhead. How could there be? One is grown in a hatchery and released in huge numbers to provide recreation for anglers. The other has survived on its own for eons, enduring predators, dams, warming rivers, and hatchery programs during its river-to-sea-to-river lifecycle—one of nature's most incredible journeys.
While we are on the topic of hatchery vs. wild fish, we should also get this out of the way: Great Lakes steelhead are not true steelhead. By definition, a steelhead spends time in saltwater, not big freshwater lakes. As one of my fish nerd friends likes to say, “those Great Lakes fish are just adfluvial non-native rainbow trout.” Does that mean I’m one of those “no salt, no steel” snobs? No. Great Lakes fish behave like their salty relatives, look like them, and fight like them. If you fish for any non-natives or target fish that get their start in a hatchery—as I sometimes do—you can’t be too much of a purist. So, I have no problem calling those migrating Great Lakes rainbows steelhead.
Modern wild steelhead runs in the Pacific Northwest tend to be modest at best. But that’s a part of the draw. Catching one of these elusive fish takes time, skill, knowledge, and a bit of luck. Take my most recent steelhead trips for example. During my last three family visits to Oregon, I fished for over 30 hours without hooking a single steelhead. While I want more fish and healthier runs like any other steelheader, the difficulty makes success that much sweeter. It's like killing a trophy whitetail with a bow or landing a permit on a fly rod—a rare accomplishment.
The first time I hooked a wild steelhead I was fishing with my brother, Greg, who dragged me to the North Umpqua River in the dark to make sure we got the run to ourselves. As daylight broke, I was mesmerized by the river’s powerful and rugged beauty. Then, on my fourth cast, the indicator above my stonefly nymph plunged. To my surprise, the steelhead didn’t do much at first. But once it realized it was hooked, all hell broke loose. The bright silver buck went berserk, blasting across the pool in a series of acrobatic jumps as I held on for dear life. Then in the blink of an eye, the hook pulled out, and it was over. But I had finally come tight with a wild steelhead.
The next morning I came back and landed my first ocean-run fish, a dime-bright native hen that weighed around 5 pounds. I remember shaking with adrenaline as I held the fish up for a quick photo before releasing it. I’ve caught plenty of bigger fish before and after, but none have ever made me shake like my first wild steelhead.
It doesn’t really matter how you target wild steelhead, either. Sometimes I wade. Sometimes I float. I’ll fish flies under indicators or swing them with two-handed rods. Other days it’s beads under bobbers with spinning gear or pulling plugs from a raft. Fairly hooking a wild steelhead is a big deal no matter how you do it. But it's more about places they live and the excitement of crossing paths with a fish that somehow survived a journey against what seem like insurmountable odds.
That unlikely possibility of hooking an ocean-run steelhead is what keeps so many people away from the rivers. Out West I don’t have to deal with shoulder-to-shoulder combat fishing like many anglers do in the East. I might not even see another angler all day. Of course, there’s also a good chance I won’t catch a fish. But trying to beat the odds for just one wild steelhead in rivers that connect to oceans is a tradeoff I’m willing to make. And it’s that same unlikely possibility the next cast might finally elicit a grab from a big Pacific chromer—a fish that has also beaten the odds—that keeps me coming back.
