A Year to Remember: Frontier Steelhead Experience 2026
Posted by Steve Schmidt on Oct 20th 2026
You would think after four decades of visiting Steelhead Paradise, which is the title of John Fennelly’s wonderful book, that at this stage I could approach my annual hosted trip with Epic Waters Angling with a tempered level of trepidation and steady resolve. Since first coming to this province as a steelhead guide in1986, my collective experiences should lead to a consistent and understanding demeanor. The problem is steelhead can get in your head regardless of how long you have had the chance to fish for them.
From historically low fish counts to several hundred year floods, a pandemic, and everything in between should give me a handle on this game and not let distractions and superstitions interfere. Knowing how many elements need to come together in order to have a reasonable chance at steelheading, an approach that worked for a while that I tried to adhere to was, “you get what you get when you get there”. Over the past few years I have struggled to adhere to this appropriate acknowledgement. That might have something to do with Father Time gaining on me and an understanding that life for me is waning. Each opportunity has become more meaningful, each steeelhead encounter evoking a longing that lingers more than it used to. As much as I try to smother these thoughts, they are becoming harder to suppress. And that can create challenges if you are hoping to connect with one of these fish. That I know.
This year's trek north, as is the case with most fall annual excursions to BC began to take shape in July when the Tyee Test Net daily steelhead count started to accumlate. Over the past five years these numbers have become concerning, in particular after the 2021 season ended with the lowest return in Skeena history leading to an eventual closure of the fishery that October. Although steelhead returns in general have shown a steady decline overall since I first visited this province, this dramatic drop was unprecedented. Since 2021 numbers have steadily increased, but not to a consistent and reassuring level. This season's return surprisingly, by the end of July, had already surpassed that dramatic year’s count for the entire season. By the time I departed for my trip this past September, the return rivaled some of the best on record.
Knowing that there would be a good number of fish in the system, I and those who would join my hosted steelhead excursion turned our attention to the weather. This is all part of the process, especially the weather knowing that it can wreck havoc with the fishing conditions. Having endured several epic blowouts over the years, their impacts often painfully linger, yet these events are all part of the game. Two weeks removed from our departure the forecast became more relevant and concerning. There wasn’t a day during my stay that rain and at times a good dose of it wasn’t forecast. Potenntially there is enough moisture in the system that it could have us chasing clean or even fishable water all week. It would just figure. It goes back to all those elements that have to align for things to be right in Steelhead Paradise. If you chase these fish, this stuff can get in your head and it does. Steelheading can be a tough game, but that’s what makes it so incredibly rewarding on one hand, yet so emotionally consuming on the other.
Upon arriving in Smithers there was a reassuring relief to see the rivers flowing clear and low. The Bulkley Valley, unlike years past, was still quite lush, fall’s foliage far from illuminating the Bulkley River corridor in its seasonal spectacle of vibrant color. Gazing at Hudson Bay Mountain, its diminished glacier and towering peak were still absent of any fresh snow. Like much of North America, it had been unseasonably warm here as well and it showed. It had also been quite dry since spring freshets filled these waters with their life sustaining flows. Overall and for now, these were all conditions that were favorable to the way I fish; with floating lines and dry or grease line flies. Hopefully I will be able to take advantage of this year's significant return, that is if Mother Nature doesn’t dictate otherwise.
After a fine raucous meal at the Road House, a delicious local Smithers eatery and a comfortable night at the Storknest Inn, Steelhead Central, my crew and I would finally head to the lodge the next morning, our long awaited return trip then beginning in ernest. For most of us the excitement will lead to a night of tossing and turning. Knowing there isn’t much sleep associated with this trip, the mornings cup of coffee and pick up couldn’t come soon enough.
I had arrived a week early, which I’ve done now for a while to camp and hopefully find a fish or two before my group arrived. By the time I pulled into the Frontier Steelhead Experience lodge to settle into my tent I had gone eight fishless days. Given there were fish around and a lot of them, and water conditions were pretty ideal, as the rains began to descend that goose egg of fishless days started to burden me. I did have three very brief encounters before arriving, but they all came unbuttoned within seconds of taking the fly. It’s always somewhat of a conundrum as to how these fish can hammer a fly with such force and come unglued so easily soon after doing so. For a moment you hang your head, ponder, then move on.
There is a rhythm you hope to settle into when steelheading and it can be a struggle if you can't find your way, especially early on. It affects your casting, how you read water, and the confidence in your approach. On one hand I should have been grateful that I found three fish since there have been years here when I found none. I know from experience, both personally and as a witness that you can curse yourself if you let this get into your head. So, on my first rainy and wet half day at the lodge when we encountered two dead batteries on separate sleds and added another fishless day to my growing list, some dark clouds of doubt started to roll in. For our guide Hubert, he too had gone fishless on these half day outings at the lodge. Like me, it was wearing on him also. These fish will do that to you.
I awoke in darkness the next morning before my 5:15am alarm went off to a damp valley fog, day nine now in the rearview mirror. I was hopeful that day ten would get the stink off. It was a special and much anticipated day after all. I was headed to the airport for a heli day on the Skeena with John Rose and Brad Hare; two companions who have been a part of this hosted adventure for decades. In the past four years the three of us have added a heli day to our itinerary. Lars and Angelo’s, two other longstanding amigos, flew to the Copper the day before and given their success, we headed out before dawn optimistically.
Upon arriving at the heli port, somewhat jittery from more espresso shots than I needed, the morning fog kept us grounded for an agonizing while. As optimistic as I tried to be, after the day before’s fiascos and nine fishless days, my superficial mood started to dampen. As we approached the third hour of waiting, Derek, owner of Epic Waters Angling and our guide for the day, came into the lobby and told us to prepare for lift off. Even though the long wait cut into our day, he said we wouldn’t be disappointed in the outcome of our adventure. For a brief moment, my funk began to dissipate.
Once airborne, the fog forced us to pick our way through the Bulkley River corridor until we reached the Mother River, the Skeena. Although the fog obscured much of the landscape, what we could see of the various ranges was stunning, a thin veil of fresh snow draped softly on their jagged peaks. As we came to the Babine a small break in the fog gave us a view of this legendary steelhead river. For a brief moment the sun illuminated a meandering bend as if it were beckoning us to fish there. The Sustut was next, yet another iconic Skeena steelhead tributary. As we approached our destination, scars from the area's intense logging and any traces of human intrusion were behind us. As Scott, our pilot, gently put the ship down on the boulder strewn beach we patiently waited for the rotors to stop before we could safely get out. I could barely stay seated or focused at this point. I was in “Go” mode and that can be a dangerous mode for me when patience and stealth are required. The day before I lost a reel cover when Go Mode clicked in. That just added to the dregs of another fishless day. As the rotors came to a stand still and we exited the helicopter, morning's first rays of sun broke through the lingering fog bank lending a warm reprieve to the crisp air. I took a deep breath, scanned the raw world I stood before, and took a quiet moment to take it all in.
While Derek got Brad and John in their respective run, he sent me upstream and out into the middle of the Skeena to fish a shimmering gravel bar that just exuded steelhead. The run read like a good book. Harry Lamire’s mode of operandi crept into my head, “Slow Down”. The timing for that reminder couldn't have come at a more opportune time. As I slowly worked out lengths of line I could see below me that Brad was already into a fish. Soon after, I too got grabbed right where a fish should have been. As I fought the heavy fish, Derek scrambled up to net it. Unlike my previous three other encounters, this steelhead stayed buttoned up. A hint of pink traced her silver side. Her belly as white as fresh snow. At 32” she was a sizable hen, but her 17” (16.6” to be precise) girth made her all that much more impressionable. Should I not catch another fish, my day was complete. I had hoped for just one fish on this day to get the stink off and relieve me of my funk, but I had a feeling I would find a few more.
After that first productive run, we had all found another fish or two down river before arriving at the last piece of water for the day. Derek directed me to fish a long glassy tailout. By late afternoon it had grown still, warm, and quite pleasant. I switched to a dry fly and Derek agreed with my choice. The water's shimmering currents exuded a fishy feel that garners one's attention. As I cast I took in the late afternoon's soft reflective light, the memorable day, and the anticipation that my waking fly provoked. For as far as I could reach with my fly it fished. In the obsidian black current where my line softly tracked a slight disturbance appeared behind the fly. Before I could ponder its implication a buck crushed the small October Caddis, then proceeded to remove what remained of the spey line on my old Perfect. The backing was next, rapidly disappearing into the unknown. The buck stayed down and responded with each attempt to gain line, but Derek finally put the fish in the net. After we watched it swim away, I took off my hat and bowed, mumbled a very gracious thank you, and scanned the incredible scenery one last time before we would leave. It was truly a magical day of steelheading. It's a rare day that steelheading isn’t, just that some moments and days stand out more than others.
I was late to arrive at the lodge social hour that night. Seated in my tent, I had poured a dash of rum wanting a humble moment to recount a raw and jagged country that I saw, that shimmering river that cut through it, and the steelhead it shared with Derek, John, Brad, and me before socializing. It was a day to be grateful for.
As I entered the room, my crew was boisterously reliving their collective experiences. I joined in listening to the tales of the day's noteworthy events. The collective volume from their conversations was infectious, consuming, and rising as one story gave way to another. The number of steelhead that had sucked the backing from our reels was noteworthy. There was more than one hook that had found its mark only to come back fishless, straight or askew. There were fish that had risen to the dry fly only to never be encountered again. And, of course the big one got away. It was a week's worth of tales exchanged only after a day and a half. We had five days remaining and if these first encounters were an indication of what lay ahead, we were in for quite a week.
After the Bulkley, Skeena and Copper Rivers graciously tuned us up we moved to the remote Morice River Lodge where we would finish out our week. At this juncture in the trip time seems to accelerate. The forecasted rains that led to some early anxiety did put a fair push of water into the Bulkley filling it below the Telkwa with color, yet the Morice would be affected little by this. Hopefully the steelhead deck would get a nice shuffling bringing a fresh batch of chrome into the system. As Joel at the end of a very wet day on the Bulkley while struggling to find a fish in Boulder Canyon expressed in regards to the weather as the skies parted, “we dodged a bullet”. It’s what the system needed and our rotation to the Morice played perfectly into our hand.
More than once the Morice has saved our bacon. For a change this year's stay would be but icing on the cake. We had already caught our share of steelhead compared to years past, but as Jeffrey Martin wrote, “ funny thing about a little is you always want more”. As we headed to the Morice, there is truth in these words that not only applies to this game, but life as well.
The Morice is a very different river in character than most of the other steelhead rivers in this part of the world, but that doesn’t mean it’s less productive. Actually quite the contrary, especially if you like fishing a floating line. While you fish, you won’t be alone. There are signs of bears everywhere. Mostly grizzlies. You quickly get in the habit of fishing here with your head on a swivel. You will see other anglers, but it’s challenging water to read and the remote location makes it far less traveled than most of BC’s iconic rivers. Its fish run smaller, another factor leading to the lack of other two leggeds. At night on occasion you may hear a wolf howl. There are eagles perched on the corridors towering cottonwoods, sentinels to the river. Moose and deer also inhabit this remote place. If you’re fortunate a coyote will casually sit on the bank and watch you fish. Life here compared to the main lodge takes place at a more casual pace. If you need to find your rhythm, it's not a bad place to do so.
Unlike most years, the Morice fish were much larger than any we had encountered in previous visits. This held true for us all. I caught my largest fish of the trip here, which isn’t typical. Another cromre bright hen. She took me far into the backing on three blistering runs before I brought her in. Another impressionable fish I won’t soon forget. Historically this river produces fish in the 24-28” range. In this year’s class, it was rare that a Morice steelhead was under 30”. And like many of the steelhead we caught this year, these Morice fish also had some very broad shoulders on them.
At the end of our last day there was a quiet sadness as we drove back to the Lodge knowing tomorrow we’d be headed home and our stay was coming to a regrettable end. Even when fishing is a struggle, you're not ready to leave when the time comes. By week's end our steelheading would be one to remember, yet at some level they all are. Given how I mentally entered the my final days here with Epic Waters, the fishing we experienced with Derek and his staff soon vaporized what imposing negative thoughts or doubt I may have brought with me. I should know that if you just let it happen and fish good water well, that’s all you can do at the end of the day. Note to self once again…..
Derek, Andrea, and their accommodating crew at Epic collectively took good care of us ensuring we got the most of our brief visit. What they can control they do as good a job as anyone. To that point, as prolific as the steelheading was, our typical days still began with breakfast on the road at 6:30am in the dark: guide sandwiches to go with a much needed cup of Joe to ensure we were appropriately tuned up for the morning's first run. I remember Lars, another long standing member of our crew, stating at our last social gathering that this week would be hard to beat. If you judge your weeks by the number of fish you catch, that is true, however there are so many aspects of this hosted trip that are impressionable, that what you catch only adds to all the other shared experiences you will remember.
As my funk eroded I had to remind myself of “You get what you get when you get there” with a self reflecting chuckle. And I did. Like always, I just needed to let a river come to me. It just took me a while for that to happen and I was grateful that it did. These fish are special creatures and to come into contact with one can change you not only for the day, but forever. Collin told me that back in 86, and I didn’t always view my compulsion towards these fish that way, but have now for a while.
I’m grateful to Derek and Andrea, our hosts at Frontier Steelhead Experience for carrying on what Collin and Carrie started. For their friendship and efforts to make us always feel welcome, comfortable, and on the best water. It is truly an epic gathering place and experience. That’s why like the steelhead my companions and I pursue, we continue to migrate northward and have done so since 1989. It took a pandemic to keep us from coming once. Old age and a pandemic would be all that would keep us from returning in the future. This most recent trip definitely will fuel that urge, but at some level they all do.
Interested in checking out the Frontier Steelhead Experience yourself? British Columbia premier steelhead lodges are notoriously difficult to find availability in during prime season. This doesn't mean it's impossible, but it does mean you want to be prepared! Drop us a line and let us know you would like to get on the list. In the meantime, check out more about the lodge and operation HERE!
