A couple of years ago during a particularly cold December stretch, my urge to get on the river overruled my wife's concerns that conditions were neither suitable nor safe for fishing. Naturally, no one wanted to go along, and I had to browbeat my wife (actually I probably begged)into shuttling me. The water-temperature gauge dangling over the side of the drift boat registered 33 degrees; the thermometer mounted on the bow said 5. After a comparatively short float -- five hours was about all I could take -- I pulled the boat to shore at the takeout, breaking ice as I stomped through the shallows near the bank.

While I struggled with numb fingers to put eggs in a ziplock bag after haphazardly cleaning the one fish that wasn't too lethargic to go after a rag and shrimp, an old-timer from town drove up. He parked his rig but didn't shut it off, shot me an incredulous glance then grabbed a pair binoculars and began glassing the hillside for deer. A few moments later, as I scurried past him to where my truck and trailer were parked, he rolled down his window maybe two inches and growled, “You’ve got to be one tough sonofa*****, or just goddamn stupid.”

When it comes to steelheading, I often wonder which is really the case.