It was a fine fall early December day in the Alberni Valley. The temperature was mild, it wasn’t raining (too hard) and more importantly, I had no work scheduled for the afternoon. For me, it was too early in the month to have visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. Today I was going steelhead fishing.
 November 16th of each year for me marks the unofficial beginning of the steelhead season when the Stamp Falls Pool reopens to fishing. For some reason which I have yet to figure out, the early winter run steelhead seem not to spend too much time in the lower river, instead they appear to make a bee-line straight to the Stamp Falls Pool area where they hold. After one unsuccessful venture in the lower river a few days previous, I decided this afternoon to put myself in the fish’s shoes (whatever they look like) and head direct to Stamp Falls.
 With corkies, worms of different colours and spin-n-glows of various sizes all rigged up with ten lb. leader, with my Abu Garcia level-wind reel packed with 12 lb. Maxima line, my waders, boots and walking stick located and accounted for, I was out the door and driving down Beaver Creek Road when it occurred to me that in my haste I had forgotten my cell phone and fishing license. So, after an “insert expletive here” and a quick turn around to pick up the forgotten requirements, ten minutes later I was back to where I was ten minutes earlier, this time thinking of how I had just wasted ten precious fishing minutes. I had about another ten minute drive to the parking spot on the road where the trail down to the river begins. I was there in eight minutes.
 Seeing only two other vehicles parked was exciting because I knew there would be room for another fisherman, so with waders and boots on, I donned my backpack, and with fishing rod in one hand and my once-trusty 2 iron that has been relegated to a walking stick in the other hand, I commenced to hike down to the river.
 Upon reaching the river, I was greeted by another local who had just landed a fish – things were already looking hopeful. The other two friendly fishermen who I recognized and remembered from last year as out-of-towners had not caught anything. Like most fishermen who have not caught fish, these two were quick to explain that the reason they had yet to catch anything was because they had just arrived.
 When fishing steelhead, the river level, colour of the water and the flow of water you are fishing are all important. I like to fish water that is moving at about 3 MPH (walking speed). This day, I had two out of these three factors in my favour. The river level was perfect, the piece of water that I eyed up to fish looked particularly promising, the only disappointment was that the water was exceedingly murky with visability being less than a foot. Going on the premise, if a fish can’t see your lure, how can it bite it, I began casting with a very large and bright spin-n-glow. (Fishing this gear under crystal clear water conditions would more often than not scare a fish to hell and back, but I digress).
After a half hour of fishing this rig up and no sign of a steelhead showing up to party, it was time to try something else. Out came the trusted and proven pink worm (which after many years of fishing have found works best rigged backwards). Many more casts later still had produced no fish although the other local (who will remain nameless for now) did manage another hookup – a bright chrome fish about eight pounds which threw the (barbless) hook at his feet - a signal to the rest of us that there were indeed fish where we were fishing and a good reason to keep on casting,… and naturally we did (with a little more focus and urgency). Two steelhead rose where we were casting. The excitement level escalated. All of us continued to pound the water but no more bites. We all changed gear in an attempt to find something that the fish would respond to – still nothing. The young man who had hooked two fish decided he had enough for one day. The three of us who remained continued thrashing the waters, myself, smiling inwardly knowing my chances of hooking a fish just increased immensely now that the local `highliner` had put his gear away. Self-talking myself into believing that it would only be a matter of minutes before the fish came on the bite, I continued flogging the water in front of me. Some may call it hope or patience, others might describe doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results as insanity, whatever you call it I continued casting into waters that sure looked “fishy”. The seconds turned into minutes which turned into many more minutes and still no fish were biting. During the last hour however, the visability of the water had gotten better, not yet ideal, but better.
 Sure enough, within the next half hour, my patience (or was it my insanity) was rewarded and the adrenaline-charged hookup that gets the anglers’ heart rate increasing occurred. Three bullet chrome hatchery does ranging in size from four to nine pounds provided great excitement over the next half hour, one of which I decided would make great table fare and therefore was taken home.
 I have been told that often these waters “turn on” just before dark but due to bad knees (perhaps due to excessive praying that the fishing will be fantastic) I choose to call it a day at a reasonable time and allowed myself ample time for the return trek up the trail before dark. Oh, to be twenty one again and sprint up the hill in a third of the time.
 Catching my breath while getting out of my waders I have time to be thankful for being fortunate enough to live in God’s country and have the best fishing for miles around right in our backyard. Yes, the winter steelhead season has indeed begun - another awesome afternoon in Alberni and looking forward to more.
 When I got home I decided to phone the other fellow from town who had hooked fish earlier and give him an updated fishing report (or was it to gloat and brag). When I proudly told him of my successful afternoon he replied by saying “I knew there would be a bite happening”. “Hmmm” and then silence on my end, (my bubble somewhat deflating), realizing that more than likely it would have been me watching him have such a glorious afternoon had he remained fishing. Oh well, dem’s the breaks.