Turn, Turn, Turn

To everything, there is a season.

Seeing the peaks of the Olympic Mountains powdered in fresh snowfall on my drive into work this week means that the end of the mountain stream season is upon us. I found my stream fishing trips this season to be fewer and farther between than in past years. That’s not for a lack of getting out and after it – Jill and I spent every weekend that we could between May and mid September up in the mountains. We were able to put more nights on our tent than in any year prior. It just turned out that those trips didn’t always coincide with fishing opportunities too. And that’s alright. For what the season lacked in quantity, it more than made up for in its quality.

To never stop exploring remains the mantra, and I made it a point to seek out new waterways and parts of the region that I hadn’t previously spent time with a fly rod in hand. The 2025 stream fishing season was bookended by two memorable trips; Oregon in May and North Cascades in September.

In the shadow of Mt. Hood, not too far away from the Oregon side of the Columbia River Gorge, there sits an arched cabin. I discovered it serendipitously one evening last winter while scrolling through AirBnbs in preparation of my parents’ Memorial Day weekend visit. The novelty of the cabin’s shape lured me in. Learning that a trout stream flowed within casting distance of the back deck removed all doubt. I booked it instantly.

We arrived on a sunny Friday afternoon after making stops at a couple of waterfalls along the Gorge and in the nearby town for the weekend’s provisions. The cabin was even better than the listing had portrayed it, one of those places that makes you want to wander and explore every corner of it immediately upon arrival. The whole property radiated a familiar coziness. An abundance of natural light poured into the living room and a series of rectangular windows framed the stream just beyond.

The small stream was bursting at its banks in peak snow melt. In the interest of packing light, I had only brought along my wet wading set up – hiking pants, thin neoprene socks, and lightweight boots. The conditions called for something much warmer and robust. But for the short pockets of time that I spent fishing, it worked just fine. The pint sized yet mighty outdoor barrel sauna to the side of the back deck was able to cure even the frostiest of toes.

There was scant info by way of my pre-trip research on this particle river. Given its locality, I was confident that it held some native rainbow trout, possibly even some coastal cutthroat. When rivers run high and fast with snow melt in the spring, it’s a margins game; finding those back eddies where the current slows just enough to provide relief and protection from the gushing torrent. I hopped along moss covered rocks and dabbled a dry dropper rig into the slower water. Yet for all of the likely looking holes just behind the cabin, I found no signs of trout.

Upstream pools have an uncanny ability to look progressively better than the one you’re at, and before I knew it I had climbed, waded, and bushwhacked my way upstream and out of sight of the cabin. But there it was, a jumbo sized pool of water moving at just the right pace to float a dry through – like a slow frontage road running parallel to a bustling highway. Up past my knees to position myself at the prime location of the pool’s tail, I knew that I could only withstand a few minutes of casting before my extremities started tapping out.

The first cast hit the top of the pool and a trout launched itself airborne at the dry, missing it. Still traveling too fast for it to connect. Reload. I cast and threw a mend in to slow down the drift. The trout struck again with the same vigor and this time I could feel its weight. With rod held high above my head maintaining tension, I danced into the shallower water. Aided by the trout working his way into the faster main stem, a serious bend formed in my 4wt. I was able to coax him back into the slower channel and slide the net under the energized native rainbow.

Slipping on boulders on my way back downstream, I rushed back to tell my family the story and to regain feeling in my toes inside of the sauna. That night after local brews and slices of Mom’s homemade morel mushroom pizza, we cracked open the windows and fell asleep to the purring white noise of the stream flowing just outside of it.

I left some stones to be turned over in the North Cascades after my solo trip there in July. I wanted to return with Jill to hike, camp, and fly fish. And with any luck, to help her bring her first Westslope cutthroat trout to hand.

The North Cascades, and more specifically the Methow Valley, has a completely different feel to it than the rest of western Washington. For starters, it’s much drier. In many ways it feels more like Utah than the Washington that I’ve come to know and love. I came to realize on this trip that I’ve been searching for a little slice of Utah ever since my summer there in 2017. Small streams running through brushy canyons. Water flowing over sandstone bottoms. Long winding trails that lead to solitude and colorful trout. The grandeur of wide open skies. A desert feeling of sorts. Places that I think about often but haven’t stepped foot back into since that summer. I found that slice up in the Methow Valley.

On a sunny day in early September, we followed one of those aforementioned trails to a small freestone stream. A quick casting refresher and a couple of pools to dial in the hook set was all that Jill needed to get going. At a particularly delightful pool, a series of downed trees created a deep cove where numerous Westslopes lied in wait to ambush insects from below. I stood back and watched them attack her dry fly with nearly each drift, playing net man as she navigated them away from the log jam with the delicate glass rod.

The simple acrylic planter box continued to prove itself as a worthwhile addition to my small stream kit. It allows for safe fish-in-hand photos for both the fish and for those averse to handling the slimy creatures. Jill was a big fan.

Back at the trailhead, we pitched our camp chairs and feasted on a lunch of sliced meat, local goat cheese, and a sea salt baguette that we picked up fresh and hot from the nearby bakery that morning. We soaked in Jill’s success and relived the details of a successful mission. We intend to return next summer knowing that we’ve still only scratched the surface on the depth of beauty and adventure that the valley contains.

So now, I turn my angling attention back towards the local saltwater beaches of the Puget Sound and their sea run cutthroat trout. A fishery that never goes out of season, one that I’m grateful to have at arms reach. And one that I continue to win hard fought insights from with each trip. There are still a fair number of fishless trips, for sure. But this fall has already been shaping up to be my best yet on this fishery. If not for the challenge, the reward could never feel so satisfying.