When I decided to move my winters to Australia, part of me knew that I was sacrificing my love for one of the most special fisheries in the world. British Columbia’s winter steelhead migration was more than just recreation for me — it was a way of life. For as long as I could remember, I’d planned my work, free time, living arrangements, conservation efforts, even my relationships, around when and where the fish would be. It seemed unfathomable to miss a week of the season, let alone all of it.
I found comfort knowing that I still had summer steelhead available to me for the other six months of the year, but for so long I had defined myself by the persistence and patience it took to pursue their cold-weather counterparts, that fishing for summer-fish almost seemed like cheating; no suffering in snow-drenched gloves, no sink-tip loop-to-looping, no purple lips waiting to be thawed by a steaming dark roast. But I knew it was either sacrifice or divorce, so winter steelhead took a backseat to my vows, with the compromise that I would visit them every second Christmas.