Daylight was fading fast when I strolled over to the Umatilla River. My 5-weight fly rod was strung up with a favorite pattern: a No. 10 Stimulator. My expectations were low. Four years prior, a massive flood wreaked havoc on the once-grand pool at the end of the lane. A family of river otters later moved in to further dent the trout population.

It’s not all about catching fish, I told myself. Concentrate on laying your line out slow and smooth. Control length of cast to ensure there is no slapping the water. Let your fly float softly through the air, kiss the water’s surface, and settle like a drunken October caddisfly.

No action was found in swirl holes, pocket pools, or current margins. Making precise casts to where current ran fast against a rugged basalt shelf kept me on task until the unbridled attention deficit part of my brain set in. Lacking a successful hookset to validate the experience, casting can become pointless.

I stumbled along a shoreline strewn with latent flood debris. A shallow run yielded a brief “look-see” from a small trout that did not show a second time. Farther upstream, a logjam pool fed by fast water greeted. In the tailout of the deep, shaded pool, where water shallowed and accelerated, a group of juvenile spring-run chinook salmon jumped out of the water like popcorn popping. These future denizens of the deep had gained size over the summer to reach 4 inches in length. Their frenetic activity produced a change in my intent. In a wink of their rise, I no longer thought about technique and focused on catching a fish.

Ignore the frivolity of small salmon and work the edges of this fine pool for trout, I told myself. Sure enough, where whitewater disappeared along the inside edge of the pool, I hooked and landed a pan-size trout. A few casts later, where current glided under a log that lay cross-wise to the flow, another trout rose to take my fly. This one measured 10 inches as estimated by the span of my hand.

I could have easily headed back to the cabin and reveled in the warmth of a woodstove, but I’d only fished the easy part of the pool. Taking a chance on losing my fly, I let turbulent current pull it under a submerged log. A large fish struck and raced to every nook and corner of the pool, twisting and turning until it tired and was led to shallow water. A blush of pink showcased her gill plates. BB-size spots set off gleaming silvery flanks. I removed the hook from gasping jaws and watched the reigning queen of the pool glide effortlessly back to the shelter of her home.

With stream trout season in the rearview mirror, I moved on to steelhead in the Hanford Reach of the Columbia River. It’s easy to lose your bearings in a swift-flowing body of water that is a quarter-mile wide and 50 feet deep in places. Thankfully, steelhead are nearshore creatures.

They take breaks from their arduous journey to upper Columbia River tributary streams to gather near rocky points in the Reach, where protection is afforded by turbulence and submerged boulders.

A cruel southwest wind blew upstream this November afternoon. Trying to cast a gaudy, mop-headed Maribou fly resulted in slack line looping in all directions. Switching to a smaller pattern and deploying shorter casts allowed me to effectively work the water with my 13-foot-long Spey rod.

Spey casting is not an innate talent. Learned repetition is key to mastering the dynamic series of strokes. Being blessed with good hand-eye coordination is helpful. Watching YouTube videos only gets you so far. The challenge of a first-timer learning to dance the “Macarena” comes to mind. “It works better when I’m not trying,” a fellow flycaster once said. This same pal prides himself on technique, and rightfully so. His form with a Spey rod is stellar while my pedestrian casts might distract a casual observer.

My studded wading boots scraped on damp river rock. Rafts of coots gathered offshore. I studied the shoreline for familiar features while brush willow and reed canary grass bowed with each gust of wind. When it comes to reading the water, art is in the eye of the beholder. The science part relates to understanding specific habitat features that attract steelhead. Unfortunately, a wind-ruffled surface of the river obscured evidence of where steelhead might lurk.

Casting became second nature by the time I worked halfway down a run sprinkled with washtub-size boulders. I no longer concentrated on the twirl of my rod tip or where my anchor point ended up. Reverie took over until my rod tip twitched ever so slightly when my offering passed upstream of where flow crested over a shallow point. The river ran clean of weeds so the subtle action felt had to be the tentative nip of a steelhead.

Inhaling moist river air deep into my lungs, I regrouped and made a perfect cast to the same location as before. The little purple fly swung across the current, sunk from sight, and tap danced above smooth river cobble. Then — the moment I had been hoping and waiting for. My rod tip dipped low on tight line. A comeback grab! This time I let the steelhead take it. The drag on my reel sang when the fish blitzed to deep water. A headshake. Water boiled at the surface. My adrenaline spiked. Then — as if it was all a dream — tight line went slack. I reeled up frantically, but the steelhead was off.

The outcome reminded of an anonymous post on an internet site: “There’s no such thing as a perfect cast. There are only casts that catch a fish and casts that do not.”

Not so morose from losing a steelhead to hang myself from the nearest tree, I reeled up and hiked back to the warmth of my truck. Solace was found in the knowing I had delivered a fly to the right place at the right time. My casting had found purpose.

Solace was found in the knowing I had delivered a fly to the right place at the right time. My casting had found purpose.