Dear Wild Steelhead

Dear Wild Steelhead,

I search for you in these waters, wondering about your journey. Perhaps you're resting in some deep pool, your silver sides catching fragments of filtered light, recovering from an ocean crossing you had no choice but to endure. Or maybe you've already passed beyond reach, another ghost in rivers growing emptier each season.

I think of you at unexpected moments, watching rain on windows, crossing bridges, staring into my morning coffee.

Our meeting was fleeting yet profound. When you took my fly, there was that singular moment of connection, a deceptive feeling that I'd somehow earned this encounter. But your response, that explosive run, that gravity-defying leap, that raw power quickly dispelled such notions. You fought not as though the river belonged to you, but as though you belonged to the river—inseparable from its currents, voices, and ancient pulse.

When I finally cradled you in the shallows, your gills working rhythmically against my palm, I saw something timeless in your obsidian eye. Not merely a fish, but a living artifact of this continent's wild heart, predating our dams, pollution, and well-intentioned but devastating interventions.

You didn't linger. One mighty thrust, and you disappeared into the flows, leaving me holding nothing but the river flow.

What right do I have to pursue something so wild, so increasingly rare? What arrogance allows us to believe these encounters are somehow owed to us?

I tell myself it's wonder and respect that bring me back to these cold waters, that keep me reading river currents and tying delicate imitations of things you might eat. But in honest moments, I recognize that I'm seeking something you possess that I've lost, a primal connection, an uncompromising wildness, a life directed by ancient instincts rather than endless choices.

If you made it back to the sea and navigated our gauntlet of obstacles, I hope you found clean gravel to continue your story. I hope your offspring found shelter in cool, shaded waters. I hope the river still remembers how to welcome you home.

You are the question that haunts these watersheds.