First Light, Three Rods, and Falling Snow

From the time my boys were still in diapers, I took them fishing—not just fishing, but fly fishing. Their first setup was a Batman spin rod fitted with a fly reel and fly line, and a fly they tied themselves, minus the hook. They’d stand beside me, rod in hand, convinced they were fishing. When I hooked a fish, I’d pass them the rod and let them reel it in.

Even then, I pictured a future day—one where we’d fish as equals. Not a dad entertaining his kids, but three anglers sharing water, time, and silence. For years, we did just that. We fished rivers across Maine and chased species in Florida. Then life intervened. Schedules filled, priorities shifted, and seasons slipped by. More than a decade passed without the three of us taking a trip together—until this winter.

January doesn’t offer many places where you can reliably find fish, let alone big ones. The Salmon River in New York is an exception. Known for its fall king salmon runs, it’s also home to winter steelhead—sea-run rainbows that push past 30 inches. My wife and I fish there in the fall, but last year my son Tait mentioned wanting to try winter fishing. I started planning. He convinced his brother Jax to come along. The plan was simple: drive through the night and fish on arrival.

As the miles clicked by, Jax tied flies in the back seat. At one point he looked up and asked, “What are the rules to the contest?”

“So we’re competing?” I asked.

“We always do,” he said.

Whoever caught the most fish would win.

We arrived just after sunrise, grabbed licenses, and went straight to the river. Snow blanketed everything. The temperature hovered around 25 degrees, and the flow was 1,000 cfs—high, but manageable. Winter steelhead favor soft water, so we headed upriver to a bend where the current slowed and fish could rest.

We fished until noon, then ducked into a bar to warm up. While eating lunch, I overheard a conversation about the weather.

“Did I hear you right—48 inches of snow?” I asked.

“Maybe more,” the guy said. “Could be six feet.”

I’d avoided lake-effect snow for over twenty years. Day one, and it had found us.

That afternoon we fished a deep pool where fast water spilled into a slow, dark run—perfect holding water. By day’s end, Jax landed a solid male steelhead and a smaller rainbow. I brought one to hand. Tait went fishless. Exhausted from the overnight drive and with snow beginning to pile up, we called it early.

The Airbnb had electric heat, so we stocked up on food and water just in case. I’d only brought Crocs. The snow came down so hard I had to shovel a path to the 4Runner every time I went outside.

By morning, snow was stacked to the bumper and plastered across the roof of the truck. I shoveled, started the engine, and let it run while the boys slept. I assumed fishing might be off.

It wasn’t.

A guy staying nearby was already in his waders, brushing snow off his truck. He told me he’d been shoveling since 2 a.m. so they could get out. That was all the motivation we needed.

We started where we’d ended the day before. Jax landed another fish before lunch. Later, we finally slid into the prime run we’d been eyeing since day one. I landed three fish. Jax added another. At the end of day two, the score was tied—Jax 4, me 4, Tait still searching.

On the final morning, we arrived early. Fishing didn’t start until first light—7:15 a.m.—so we got there at 5 and waited in the dark. Another foot of snow had fallen overnight, piling onto the four feet already on the ground, and it was still coming down.

I rigged a tarp, fired up a small stove, cooked breakfast, and poured coffee. We traded stories from old trips and talked about fishing together in the spring. For a moment, time felt suspended.

At first light, we waded into position. Winter mornings can be special—fish slide shallow and settle into soft seams. On my first cast, I hooked up and slid a steelhead into the net. Before long, I was up three fish on Jax and well ahead of Tait. I figured the contest was settled.

Cold and dealing with leaking waders, I walked back to the truck to warm up. When I returned, the tide had turned. Jax had landed one. Then another. He caught up quickly and didn’t stop, finishing two fish ahead of me. Tait caught fire as well, landing six fish on the final day and nearly matching my three-day total.

The final tally: Jax 9, me 7, Tait 6.

That last day ranks among my top ten fishing days of all time. The fishing was exceptional, but the real reward was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my sons as snow fell steadily around us—no rushing, no distractions, no roles to fill. Just three anglers sharing water at first light.

Those are the days you don’t forget. The ones that remind you why you ever picked up a fly rod in the first place.