It was still pitch black above the gorge as we parked the car. A light rain began to fall, mixing with the rising mist from the roaring monster below us. Geared up, we began the trek down the massive hill that had to be navigated if we wanted to be on the water before dawn. The rain seemed to pick up in intensity the lower we climbed, adding to the anticipation and experience of the place. They say rivers are alive, with a spirit and a mind of their own. You can truly feel it in this place. The sound grew louder the closer we came to the churning, boiling, ripping force of nature that carves bedrock and bleeds life into landscape around it. Upon reaching the bottom of our descent, we paused briefly to take in what sprawled out in front of us. Still midnight dark outside, the river looked like a rolling avalanche of inky black snow, shimmering back any light shown on it. Rain fell harder. We started hiking upstream, carefully and in single file again. Footing here can be treacherous, and a quick slip can drop you right into twenty feet of water or more in places. A grim outlook for someone in waders and heavy boots.

Having never fished this section of river, we weren’t sure exactly where we wanted to start. We navigated the massive broken rocks and wooded bank toward what appeared to be a current break ahead causing a slack seam in the flow. As we approached, the sound of violent thrashing along that dark line confirmed our suspicion. They were here, waiting on dawn as eagerly as we were.

As first light settled into the river valley, the violent splashes broke the already turbulent surface of the water more frequently. The four of us spread out across the current seam and pieced together our rods. Fishing the big river requires an upscale in just about every way from our typical float fishing rigging back home, and we were ready to test it. Bait had been prepared days in advance, and was eagerly applied to razor sharp hooks as daylight caught our side of the gorge. It was time.

First casts were made, and depth adjustments followed quickly after. We watched fish after fish explode out of the water across the entirety of the massive width of river in front of us. Having never targeted kings here, this was a new pursuit for us all. Excitement and anticipation kept the four of us in almost total silence to start.

Second casts were made, then boom. Float drop. “There we go” echoed from downstream as Joe drove the big hook home. The 12 foot casting rod pounded tip down toward the water as an angry adversary tore off across the pool into heavier flow. These are strong fish in any environment, but mixed in with the force of Niagara river current they’re a terror. As the fight continued I made my way toward the commotion to help Joe land his fish. Eventually it tired and began to plane back and forth in front of us. Clambering around the boulders on the edge of the drop off into deeper water, we were able to corral the first salmon of the trip to the bank. Success. High fives and photos were taken, then the thick hen of over 22 pounds was quickly and humanely harvested. Her eggs would fuel a dozen or more fall and winter steelhead fishing trips across all of steelhead alley, and we were thankful for the opportunity and the score she provided.

Several minutes later, Chris P hammered back on a fish that quickly shook free as more continued to roll all around us. It was on, but we feared only for a short time as dawn began to reveal the extreme water clarity we were dealing with. We knew we’d have to capitalize on the morning bite.

A few more moments passed without a fish before Koch had his chance. His float abruptly buried into the head of the current seam we were positioned on and he corked his rod hard setting the hook. His fish tore off toward the center of the river, smoking line from the reel as it went. Even on heavy gear, we were at the mercy of the river with these fish. After a final quick run, the fish tired and Chris swung the big casting stick to the left, guiding his fish into the rocks. Another, slightly more silver hen king salmon of about 15 pounds thrashed as we fought to remove the hook and grab a picture.

Excited that the bite was keeping up, I got back to fishing. I was quickly rewarded with a float drop but missed the fish. Drifting big chunks of skein makes hooking fish difficult in heavy flow at times. Shortly after, the fish activity on the surface began to taper off as the sun got higher in the sky. I was able to read the water a bit better now with more light, and moved down stream to fish an area where the slack water of our inside seam tailed out into a narrow chute. Within my first few casts I missed another fish, then finally swung and connected with a very unhappy animal.

The fish behaved at first, but as soon as I thought I had the upper hand, she caught an angle and rocketed down stream through the quick water at the tail of the run and headed toward Lake Ontario. It was everything I could do to keep from falling chasing this fish down river at that speed. At max drag on my casting rig, the 40# braid I was fishing began to cut through the cork at the top of the rod handle with the rod bent beyond its limit. The fish paused briefly inside of another seam as I gained line, then put on a very impressive burst of power even farther down river. The river level had come up around 3 feet while we were fishing, which made following this fish very difficult. Finally, after skirting around the outside edge of a truck-sized boulder in water about 2 inches from the brim of our waders, Koch and I were able to hold our ground as I leaned on the fish as hard as I could. Reluctantly she came rolling through a choppy section of water and Chris was able to get his hands on her to end the war. Both of us were soaked in sweat as we pounded fists and got a quick picture. Another fresher fish, she had given me a run for my money I wasn’t expecting. I would also take my fish, and her eggs have already given back on several early fall steelhead expeditions closer to home.

Air temperatures continued to climb as the sun rose and the rain finally slacked off into nothing. Clear blue sky emerged, and jackets came off as the projected high of around 82 degrees became a reality. Just as quickly as it had started, fish activity dwindled as the salmon retreated to the security of deeper water and heavier flows away from the bank. We would fish several more hours without another fish hooked before beginning the hike back out of the valley to the car. Fishing that day was far from what it can be, but we were thankful and excited to get a few Niagara river kings under our belts. Every fish on this river is earned fishing from the bank, and opportunities given aren’t soon forgotten.

It was published in In-Fisherman once that “It’s not a matter of the river beating you, or you defeating the river. It’s that the river never even knew you were there.” Never have those words been truer to me than when standing on the bank of the mighty Niagara. One can’t help but feel incredibly small and insignificant when standing on the brimming edges of flow like that. For thousands of years this massive flowage draining Lake Erie east into Lake Ontario over Niagara Falls has sheered rock and housed fish of ever changing varieties. The native lake trout still remain, and flood the river to spawn as the water cools into November. They’re joined now by the human introduced populations of chinook and coho salmon, brown trout, and steelhead, providing angling opportunities throughout the season to anyone motivated enough to navigate the icy corridor of broken rock to reach them. Whether fish are plentiful or non-existent, each time we visit this place it’s an adventure. As we gain experience here and continue to learn the ins and outs of fishing this system from the bank, we can’t help but to feel thankful for each day spent here. Perhaps even more thankful, though, that there is a place so close to home that can still make us feel so small.

 

Until next time,

Ironscale out.