We rolled up the boat launch well before dawn, the air biting and the river humming with restless energy. Dozens of guys milled around, each with their set ups primed and ready.
We were all out chasing the same thing: steelhead pouring in from Lake Michigan to spawn.
For many, March in Michigan is all about catching steelhead. It’s something I’d heard about but never actually done. I was itching to get started.
Three of us piled into a cold, iced-over boat below the dam, the river’s endgame for these fish, and shoved off into the misty predawn light.
Our playbook was relatively simple: Toss a float rig—five feet of line, a float, two hooks with bright beads two inches up—and watch it drift downstream before retrieving and repeating.
I went with pink and chartreuse beads.
Steelhead don’t smash your setup like bass, but they know how to put up a fight. You watch that float drift, waiting for a dip, then set the hook hard.
We shared the water with half a dozen boats and a shore packed with anglers. Some huddled around a fire to keep warm. It smelled like burning sticks and snack wrappers, laced with cigarette and weed smoke.
Everything was white and icy. Frost built up on my spool as we worked our spot.
After every retrieve, I’d dunk it in the river and blow out the ice so the line could run free.
The bite wasn’t red-hot, but the fish were still active. All morning, we watched a steady stream of anglers around us pulling in steelhead.
One well-known dude screamed like a banshee every time he got a hit. It was jarring but also kept the excitement level high.
My buddy said hundreds of steelhead swam below us, freshly in from the lake. Earlier in the week, they’d been on fire; now, it was a little slower.
My fingers numbed as I let line out, tweaking the drift downstream, but my eyes stayed locked on that float. Halfway through, another member of our crew showed up, so we zipped back to grab him.
When we returned to our spot, we parked a touch further downstream than before. It was close enough to another guy’s zone for him to yell, “You really gonna park there?”
These guys aren’t screwing around and jealously protect their spots. We moved 10 yards closer to where we were before, they chilled, and we got back to it.
My first fish was sort of a fluke. I dragged in a sucker fish with a bright red stripe down its side, maybe 17 inches, that I picked up off the bottom.
As we fished, my buddies who’d done this dance before tossed me pointers: “Dip the tip when they jump, keep it up otherwise.”
Then one of them hooked into a dandy buck (you call males “bucks” and females “hens”). I grabbed the net as he wrestled it in toward the boat. The boat buzzed as it hit the deck. What a blast!
My turn came next. After a few more drifts, my float twitched, dipped slow, and I set the hook hard. My line peeled and the rod bent. She was smaller but a beauty.
I kept the tip high, dropped it when she jumped, and hauled her in quick. Up came a silvery hen. She gleamed in the cold morning light—my first steelhead.
Man it felt good.
We traded catches from there, six fish total, including my sucker and that hen. The boat rocked between long silences, staring at drifting floats, and bursts of the typical fishing talk—jokes, trash talk, whatever would keep us warm.
The day wound down as the cold softened and the sun cracked through just enough to thaw our hands. We all had to split (work was calling), but the river stayed alive, guys still pulling fish as we hauled out.
This was my first time chasing these silvery trout, but it wouldn’t be my last.
I’m hooked.
James Zandstra is an experienced outdoorsman with a passion for the Mitten State. Follow his work on X @TheFairChase1.
