SACRAMENTO, CALIF. — The paradox of the American River is glaringly apparent the minute it comes into view. Urban Southern California anglers like myself who have never had the opportunity to fish here will at first be confused: How can a river that bisects a busy suburb of the state’s capitol not only be a prolific fishery but offer quiet serenity as well?
Once on the river, however, the tranquility is palpable and the bucolic view transforms crazed urbanites into a state of pure bliss. Very soon, it becomes abundantly clear to me why Northern Californians want to keep this fishery to themselves.
Catching spring-run steelhead was the only reason I sat in a car for 7 1/2 hours recently en route to the river, a feat for which my back is still paying the price. However, the experience was so incredible that I’d do it again — and again. Even though spring steelhead season is winding down (mid April is truly the bitter end), there is still plenty of fishing to do as the summer months near — the river is equally as renowned for its striped bass and salmon fishing. As such, the American River is a year-round fishing destination.
Trusting my well being and success to J.D. Richey of J.D. Richey Sportfishing, I boarded the “Cadillac of driftboats”, as Richey refers to his 20-foot Willie boat.
“I have, without a doubt, the largest and most luxurious driftboat in the entire state,” says the well-known and popular guide. “Most driftboats are only 16 feet long. Mine seats four anglers and is clean, safe, extremely stable and is equipped with creature comforts like padded chairs and beverage holders.”
Along with me, this gorgeous, 80-degree midweek day is Richey’s friend and fellow baseball team member, Rob Shibatani of Sacramento, an environmental consultant, and Richey’s Australian sheepdog, “Rudy.” A native of Toronto who used to fish for pike and musky, Shibatani jokingly blames Richey with getting him addicted to steelheading about a year ago. In fact, he says, during steelhead season, he fishes at least once a week — sometimes more.
“The reason he’s hooked (on steelhead fishing),” Richey quickly interjects, “is because he caught a really nice one the first time out.”
Shibatani doesn’t waste any time getting hooked on his first cast of the day and I am both excited about seeing a beautiful steelie and envious that these Northern California fishermen literally have this river in their backyards.
Cigar clenched between his teeth, Shibatani, who is actually shocked he got hooked so quickly, says, “I thought I was snagged on the bottom.”
He then reels in the steelhead with encouragement from Richey. The steelie’s gorgeous iridescent colors are visible as it gets closer to the boat, even before Richey nets it.
“It was a sort of a mushy hit,” Shibatani says, smiling. “That’s why I thought it was a snag.”
His first fish of the day, missing its adipose fin, is a 4-pound hatchery steelhead— a beauty. We are all elated and heartened to catch many more this day until Richey tells us the odds involved in steelheading.
“Steelhead fishing is called fishing of a thousand casts,” he says chuckling. “Rob, you now have only 999 more casts to make until you get bit again.”
We had both been side-drifting threaded nightcrawlers topped with neon-pink BFDs (bait floatation devices, a term coined by Richey), and weighted with 1/2-ounce “sploosh balls,” as Richey likes to call the Plunk-N-Dunks on 8-pound leader.
“It glides along the bottom, drifting naturally,” Richey says. “Just enough weight to drift but not anchor on the bottom.”
With that in mind, the trick to feeling a steelhead bite is to differentiate between the sploosh ball bouncing off the bottom — and feeling a constant tug — and a real pull on the line. As an expert angler and full-time guide for the past eight years, Richey carefully watches our lines for the real bites and tells us that as soon as he gives the word, whatever that word may be, to set the hook.
Richey adeptly paddles the driftboat down the river to spots he knows hold steelhead. At times, though, he gets out of the boat to push it back and out of the way of rocks or weeds, making his job even more physical that I had imagined. When he senses a good spot, he throws the anchor overboard and tells us to get ready to cast — whoever is at the bow casts first with the second angler casting immediately afterward. This symmetry of motion is very important in side-drifting when two or more anglers are involved.
“That was textbook casts,” Richey says excitedly after a couple of hours on the water and no more hookups. “That was perfect. Both lines are parallel. Beautiful. That’s the shot I want in the book.” (Richey is referring to his 2005 book, “Side-drifting for Steelhead,” co-authored with Fred Cantaoi.)
With every cast, if no one gets bit within a couple of minutes, Richey tells us to reel the lines back in as he searches for another spot.
“The fish don’t hang out all over the river,” he says, “only in certain spots. I’m looking for the right current, the right speed, the right depth and the right bottom composition.”
Next, we try Rossmoor Bar, a deeper channel near the river’s bank, which is typically a prolific spot for steelies. On this day, however, it produces no bites.
Richey abruptly decides to change equipment to backtrolling plugs —Hot Shots and Wiggle Warts — which imitate salmon fry “that are now just emerging form the gravel,” from eggs laid in November. In backtrolling, he slowly rows the boat at half the speed of the current while our lines are statically held in rod holders.
“How will we know when we get bit?” I ask naively.
“There’s no mistaking a bite, both the line and the rod tip will wiggle,” Richey explains. “Then the rod tip will just slant over and look like someone dropped a piano on it.”
The key to hooking and landing a steelhead using a plug, says Richey, is to “not set the hook immediately, which you naturally want to do, but to count to three, and then set the hook, but don’t set it too hard, just lift up.
“Let the steelhead chomp on (the plug) and turn it so that it hooks into the side of its mouth.”
Shibatani, who has backtrolled plugs before, senses a bite and forgets to count to three, grabbing the rod out of the holder and yanking on the line, losing the steelie to impatience. My rod doesn’t seem to attract anything, so Richey switches back to side-drifting with spinning rods and nightcrawlers.
“I almost like drifting better,” Shibatani says after his getting bit again and losing another. “I know it’s more work for you, though, rowing.”
Richey just smiles and says, “Sometimes, you’ve got to get off you arse.”
Finally, after being on the water for nearly 3 1/2 hours, I get bit. I am so afraid of losing it, but I reel it in steadily as I watch the steelie jump out of the water intermittently. It’s a wild steelhead —it has an adipose fin — and although small, I am still happy.
“It’s a good sign to see wild fish like that because it’s good for the ecosystem,” Richey says. “We rarely see them here.” One out of every 20 steelhead are wild, Richey says. “Wild steelhead like to spawn in small tributaries (of the American). When they put the dam in (up river), they blocked (the tributaries) all off.”
We were approaching the “Power Lines,” several miles from where we had launched, an area known as the “anarchy zone,” where “anything goes,” according to Shibatani. Which meant we could fire up the motor.
Once again, Shibatani hooked another steelie with the nightcrawler setup, but lost it. “That was a nice, big one,” he says. “I want to find that screamer again.”
Reverting one last time to plugs, Richey tests them along the side of the boat to make sure they’re “swimming true”, instead of popping out of the water.
“It’s a love/hate relationship with me and the Hot Shots,” Richey says as he makes some adjustments to them. “In the current, they can get easily thrown out of alignment because they’re so light.
“You can look at the bottom and see why —it’s so snaggy. A little bit of weedy bottom will throw them out of whack.”
With no more bites and the air temperature reaching into the mid-80s — unseasonably high for March — we head toward a launch where I had parked my car.
“We lost two and caught two,” Richey says, “and had a couple of other bites here and there.”
Not a great day but not too bad, either considering all the conditions. Richey has invited me back to try my hand at striped bass this summer and salmon this fall. I plan to take him up on both.
For information on a guided driftboat trip with J.D. Richey, visit his Web site at www.thesportfisher.com.
