Chasing the elusive Coho. Winter fishing on the Columbia River

A blue-sky November morning begins at Ringold Springs. Arrival time took into account a midnight gauge height of 24 feet at Priest Rapids Dam and an average water particle travel time of eight hours.

As predicted, dropping flows lap the edge of reed canary grass.

My goal is to swing a fly for steelhead, but Coho are also on my mind. You might call it splitting the difference. I call it keeping my options open.

Lyrics on satellite radio kept the commute interesting, “My gal is red hot, your gal is diddly squat.”

Two anglers who started their day early track me down while I cinch up chest waders.

“Giving up already?” I ask.

“Taking a break, but we landed a Coho,” a burly guy with a beard says. “Got a lighter?”

I reach into the glove box of my truck and hand him one. He retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offers me one.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke cigarettes,” I say.

The bearded guy fires up a cig, takes a deep draw, and hands my lighter back. I toss him a small box of matches and say, “Two things fisherman should carry are matches and a pocket knife.”

The mouth of Hatchery Creek is busy with shadows of large fish. Lacking a place to cross that isn’t waist high deep in strong current, I walk back to where the two anglers sit on the tailgate of their truck and ask, “How did you get upriver?”

They put down their drinks and show me a tunnel path through tall willow where I can cross and begin fishing. Not with a Spey rod, though. Steelhead can wait. After hearing their report, I want to catch a Coho.

Casting Vibrax spinners, Wiggle Warts, and jigs in a shoreline embayment yields nothing. A few winks, splashes, and rolls suggest the presence of Coho, but most fish that show are dark Chinook.

I work down an empty shoreline for an hour or so before returning to where the smaller member of the duo crouches next to a gear bag. “How’d you do?” I ask.

“I’m done for the day,” he says with an easy, disarming smile and points to the river’s edge where two Coho are strung up through their gills. He gets up and drags his catch downstream past a guy who stands ankle-deep in the river, gripping a spinning rod with hands wrapped in blue vinyl gloves.

“Don’t mind my pet fish,” the successful angler says as he passes.

A week later I arrive early, when road puddles hold a lens of fractured ice. Sometimes first on the water gets a fish. Once again, a two-hand fly rod and spinning rod rest in the back seat. What’s different, however, is my goal is less for a bright steelhead or hook-nose Coho, than a distraction from recently laying our beloved Corgi to rest.

Lucy was my girlfriend. She brought joy to the family and asked for little in return except for an occasional treat and to have her furry chest and floppy ears scratched. Multiple operations kept an ingrained herding instinct robust until her faculties failed at age 14.

Like before, I begin the morning with spinning gear. An hour of twitching jigs downstream of Hatchery Creek, followed by an hour of casting spinners where the young angler with an easy smile caught his limit yields nothing.

Returning to my truck for an apple and a handful of Oreos, I put my fly rod together and trudge upstream to a favorite run. With steelhead season soon to close, it may be my last chance to swing a fly. Worst case is I will improve my Spey casting.

Coho salmon also take a fly, so I tie on a Pink Maribou. This flashy pattern catches steelhead and encouraged grabs from Coho on a trip to Thorne Bay, Alaska. Fly fishing for steelhead reminds me of baseball. Both sports provide ample time to daydream, but you must remain alert for whatever action comes your way.

Halfway down a smooth run lined with boulders, I feel a grab. The drag on my reel sings as a strong fish peels out line. Then slack. As if nothing really happened.

Twenty more casts and I call it a day. The sun sinks low over sand dunes that line the Hanford shoreline.

A plaintive honk of incoming Canada geese, mud on my boots, musty odor of decaying leaves. Mission accomplished, though. Fishing never fails to ease my troubled mind.

Although this season’s return of Coho to Ringold is lower than 2021, the harvest window should remain open through mid-December.

Upper Snake River tributaries, including the Clearwater and Grande Ronde Rivers also provide opportunity for late-season Coho.

As for steelhead, the closest game in town is the Walla Walla and Tucannon Rivers. No more splitting the difference for me though.