What Happened When I Returned to a Drought Stricken River

Part # 3 of a 3-Part Series: Go back to Part 1 or Part 2.

Returning to the Water

After months of checking gauges and forecasts, I finally returned to the river. The banks were low and wide, the water clear enough to reveal every stone. Even from a distance, I could tell the flow was still well below normal. The river had been reduced to its essentials: pools, seams, and pockets. It felt exposed, as if it had nothing left to hide. But that was part of the draw. After all this waiting, I needed to see what was left.

I expected solitude, and that is what I found. Over the course of two days, I saw only three other anglers. For this river, that is almost unheard of. I spent most of my time on the last two miles of the river, where it meets a smaller, less celebrated stream. This stretch always holds a little more promise when conditions are lean. Cold springs feed it from below, giving life to the trout that take refuge there. The riverbed is rocky and swift, a place favored by kayakers when the water is high. You would not know from looking at it that the rest of the river is struggling.

Day One: Wind, Weight, and Patience

The first day brought a cold and relentless wind. Low water alone can test an angler’s patience, but the wind adds another layer of difficulty. Casting becomes erratic, drifts lose their shape, and every movement of the sighter feels uncertain. To fight it, I rigged a mono-rig with a heavy twenty-pound butt section. It was more than I wanted, but I needed the extra mass to drive casts through the gusts. This forced me to use heavier flies than I had planned.

Overweighting the System

My point fly carried a 3.2-millimeter bead. On the tag, I tried to use an unweighted nymph, but the wind pushed me back to something heavier, a 2.4 or even a 2.8-millimeter bead at times. It helped me stay connected, but it also worked against the natural drift I needed in the slower seams. I found myself leading the flies more than I like, trying to match the speed of the current without dragging. It was clumsy at first, more effort than ease.

It took a while before I felt anything at the end of my line. The first fish was a fingerling rainbow, small enough to make me laugh. Locals call them brown trout protein. These young stockers work their way up from the smaller river downstream, and the ones that survive long enough become residents. The next fish was one of those: a twelve-inch rainbow, bright and healthy. I took it as a good sign. Then came a wild brown, painted in the deep colors of fall. Each one felt earned, small reminders that even a slow day still offers something. By early afternoon, the light had already started to fade. The short days of late fall leave very little room to linger, and I needed time to set up camp. The rain came not long after, a steady cold drizzle that made everything damp. My canopy kept the essentials dry, but getting a fire started took more effort than I had in me. When I finally accepted that dinner was not happening at camp, I drove to a nearby brewpub for a hot meal and a cold IPA. After a day spent fighting the elements, the warmth of that place felt like a welcome gift.

Day Two: Lighter Flies, Softer Drifts

The rain softened through the night, and by morning, the river seemed to breathe again. The wind had stopped, and the air felt warmer; I was ready to adjust my setup. I lightened the leader and downsized my flies. The goal was to let them drift, not dive. In water this clear, weight is the enemy of subtlety. I spent the morning fishing the lower stretch near the mouth, where the springs feed in from the banks. With less wind, I could focus more on the presentation. I let the sighter float instead of holding it tight above the water, giving the flies space to move freely through the narrow column.

Floating the Sighter

Fishing this way feels strange at first. Without the tension of a tight line, you lose the feedback that usually guides each cast. It forces you to trust the drift, to believe that what you cannot feel is still working. The strikes are subtle, just a hesitation, a flicker where the sighter meets the tippet. Often, I missed them. A few fish even hooked themselves when I went to lift for another cast, those accidental trout that remind you how imperfect this pursuit can be. Still, the rhythm of the day began to build. I started to believe in the lighter flies and in the slower approach.

Most of the trout I caught that morning were small wild browns, their colors sharp against the pale river stones. A few rainbows mixed in, holding near the deeper edges. Nothing big. Nothing that would make a story on its own. But each one restored something in me. After the long, dry months, the fish were still here, surviving and adapting to their environment. That was enough.

The Moment You Cannot Plan For

Late in the day, I reached a stretch that looked too good to pass up; a long glide feeding into a deep run lined with broken rock. I stood well below it and cast upstream, floating the sighter as I had all day. My 2.4 millimeter pheasant tail slipped into the seam and disappeared beneath the current. I watched for that tiny pause, the smallest break in the line of color. When it came, I lifted and felt the unmistakable weight of something solid.

The fish surged downstream, flashing gold just below the surface. I held side pressure, trying to steer him out of the fast water. The reel sang, then slowed as he turned toward the shallows. When I finally slid the net beneath him, I realized how large he was—an eighteen-and-a-half-inch brown, thick and wild, his jaw hooked in the early sign of winter. I managed a quick photo before releasing him back into the current.

That moment stayed with me long after I left the river. Most days on the water require some work, but also a willingness to accept whatever happens. We plan, we adjust, and we tell ourselves we are content with whatever the day brings. But every so often, something happens that breaks the pattern, a single fish, a perfect drift, a moment that justifies all the waiting. These are the gifts we cannot predict, the ones that remind us why we keep returning, no matter the conditions.

Part # 3 of a 3-Part Series: Go back to Part 1 or Part 2.

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Thanks for reading! Spend more time on the water!

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Have a great day!

Jeff Smecker