The Big Dark

I left the Pacific Northwest almost two decades ago. It hadn’t exactly failed me, but the version of home that formed me no longer existed. Life there felt heavy, darkened by sadness and loss, and crowded with seemingly insurmountable challenges. The bittersweet paradox of leaving your home to discover yourself is that you’re leaving the very place that informed your sense of belonging. Only, the closer you are to it, the more ensnared you become in the weight of what it represents. The search for growth demands distance. So, like the fish, I left that place. I left the familiar rhythms of my upbringing, and the traditions that shaped me, to become who I was at my core. But, like the steelhead themselves, I find myself returning year after year, compelled to reflect on what’s changed, what’s been lost, and the quiet promise of what home might still reveal. It’s no glamorous tradition, though. It’s often cold, wet, and altogether rough around the edges.

My friend Chris, a reformed corporate carpet-walker and the kind of guy who’d keep quiet about how many cigarettes a man can smoke while swinging for steel, was my partner for this year’s pilgrimage. We flew out of Denver one early winter morning, leaving dry air and bright skies in our wake. By the time we landed in Portland, the rain was waiting to greet us—a steady drizzle that would accompany us for most of the rest of the trip. Driving west, the Willamette Valley unfolded in front of us in soft, wet hues of pastel green. Expansive swaths of farmland faded into low, forested mountains, and the dark embrace of the Wilson River Highway hove into view. Buffeted by the blues stylings of Taj Mahal and Keb’ Mo’, our eyes scanned the forest as we traversed the eastern slope of the Oregon Coast Range. The air is thick with mist here, and moss clings to every surface—tree trunks, guardrails, even the road itself—while rain drips from the towering trees like a metronome. Soon, views of the emerald waters of the Wilson River began to flash through the thicket of cascara, Pacific ninebark, and Douglas hawthorn that choked the roadside. The road twisted, turned, and hopped back and forth across the river before depositing us in the coastal lowlands of Tillamook County where the rain felt heavier and the gray settled deeper.

Perched on a hill overlooking the bay, Kate and Justin Crump’s home stood silhouetted against the gray horizon—a beacon of sorts, part steelhead sanctuary, part refuge for tormented anglers. The house hums with purpose, built to cater to the relentless pursuit of these fish that refuse to give up their secrets willingly. Inside, every detail speaks to the persistence of a steelhead guide: gear hung neatly to dry, lines and leaders spooled, packs and landing nets organized—all in service of an ever-present state of readiness that the rivers, and these fish, demand.

We were greeted first by Kada and Nukka, two boundlessly faithful labradors who have spent more time on the water than most of us ever will. They greet you with the same optimistic enthusiasm every lab seems born with, tails wagging as if this trip will go exactly as you’ve dreamed. And yet, behind their bright eyes, you can’t help but feel like they know you’re on the outside of a cruel joke: welcome to the Oregon coast. Inside, Kate, Justin, Sofia, and Gabe moved with quiet efficiency, anticipating challenges before they arrived. Like a well-oiled machine, organizing rods and reels, checking rainfall totals and flows, tapping into their network of friends and fellow anglers for the latest updates on where fish were moving and when. In the kitchen, Jason orchestrated a feast that made the house feel more like a Michelin-starred hideaway than a steelhead camp. Fresh albacore tuna, dungeness crab, and oysters, paired with local produce, much of it from their own garden, came together in dishes that felt like a love letter to the Pacific Northwest. It almost makes you forget how challenging steelheading can be. Almost.

In a pursuit where success is rare and the rivers always hold the high card, Kate and Justin’s operation leaves nothing to chance—except the fish. For all its luxury, though, this isn’t just a fishing lodge. It’s home—a place designed to weather the uncertainty of this environment. A place built to remind you that no matter how far you, or these fish, roam, you can always find a way back. In the morning, we’d begin three days with Kate and Justin’s crew—three chances to immerse ourselves in these rivers, haplessly attempt to experience one of nature’s greatest spectacles, and answer the call to come home.

Sometimes just being here is enough. Day one found us hitting the water with Gabe, a guide who radiates the boundless energy and enthusiasm of someone who exists in exactly the place they’re supposed to. The weather that day was far, far too nice. This wouldn’t be a day for catching fish; it would be a day for settling back into the rhythm of the river.

There’s an unshakable suspicion in steelheading that the weather must match the rough, chaotic life of the fish. The pursuit of chrome, therefore, is best attempted under gray skies, with rain soaking your gear and with an attitude as brooding and unsettled as the rainforest that surrounds you. That suspicion isn’t entirely unfounded, either. Rain swells the rivers, depositing freshwater into the salt, and fish may take this as their signal to push upstream—capitalizing on flows that make passage easier. Or it could be something else entirely. Just ask the countless anglers who’ve traded careers, marriages, and entire lives for the chance to stand here long enough to understand why fish move when they do.

Justin Crump is a man who is as much a part of the Pacific Northwest as the rivers themselves. From the commercial fisheries of Bristol Bay to becoming a guide and lodge owner in Alaska and Oregon, his entire life revolves around water, and the fish that call it home. You’ll never hear Justin command your attention, or require you to fish a certain way, but his quiet, Jedi-like presence compels you to just shut the hell up and try to absorb some small fraction of the wealth of knowledge that can only come from a lifetime spent on the water.

Day two was wholly unlike day one. Overnight, rain had soaked the coast, turning the rivers to growling torrents that churned with energy. The air was thick with a penetrating dampness that clung icily to our bones. Stepping into the river that morning, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of connection to these fish. It was a powerful emotion that wasn’t so much about understanding them, as it was about fulfilling a shared and inexorable promise to return to the places that matter most. The smells of cow dung, pine, mushrooms, ferns, decaying earth, and a persistent dampness that can only come from year-round rainfall hung in the air as we departed the boat launch. Ocean mist penetrated the forest, snaking and swirling across the water and into the trees, causing them to drip with moisture onto the forest floor and back into the river.

And then, there were fish. Their shimmering scales and near-perfect form belied the intense difficulty of their migration, often thousands of miles long and fraught with peril. They confirmed what the initiated steelhead angler knows: once you’ve got steelhead in your veins, you’re never getting them out. Steelhead don’t just grab your fly—they grab your soul. The moment they attempt to rip the rod, line, and reel out of your hands marks a turning point in your life. After feeling the alarming power of these gleaming bars of silver, fresh out of the ocean take a fly, it’s hard to go back to anything else. Justin ushered us into those moments multiple times that day, a monk guiding us up the temple steps. On days like these, gear often makes the difference between comfort and complete misery, and we were glad to be armed with rain gear, packs, and landing nets that allowed us to savor the fleeting moments that defined our endeavor.

On our final day fishing, we met with Sofia, a consummate professional in every sense of the word, and a local guide who exudes the confidence and thoughtfulness of someone born for this life. If fishing were like college football, Kate Crump would be the five-time national championship-winning coach, and Sofia would be the up-and-coming offensive coordinator destined for greatness. Simply put, she’s nails—a guide as comfortable instructing seasoned anglers as she is coping with two moon-eyed adult children like us. Not us, but like us.

Some days, the fish have lockjaw or don’t show up at all. But on rare occasions, the stars align. That morning, with my shoulders aching from hoisting my spey rod over and over, I took a few lazy casts at the boat ramp, working out line and shaking off the stiffness. On my second cast, I peeled off a little more line, calling for my muscles to wake up, and dropped my waterlogged fly with a dull thud into a soft seam behind a boulder on the far bank. Seconds after the fly hit the water, my line twitched—my curled index finger registering the timid peck of a curious fish swatting at the fly beneath the surface. Then, the full weight of the fish surged through my arms and shoulders as the line snapped tight against the rod like a guitar string stretched to its limit. Like a Tesla coil cracking and sparking, a shimmering chrome body broke the surface, leaping and pirouetting in the pocket water below. Finally, landing the fish in the tailout below the boat ramp, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had just rolled up and smoked my entire stash of karma.

The rest of the day unfolded with a familiar mix of determined focus, periodically punctured by bouts of loopy rumination:

Cast, swing, step.

“How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?”

Cast, swing, step.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. My mom showed me once, but it felt a little bit like learning cursive. Sure, it looks nice, but at some point early on in life, I decided that hardly anyone cares what your grocery list or your linen closet looks like.”

Cast, swing, step.

The sun dipped low behind the dark gray lid that capped the forest. Chris worked a run adjacent to a towering concrete bridge, built to carry precious lumber from the coast to inland mills and distribution centers. Sofia and I were engaged in a heated conversation, reviewing my spey casting technique.

“Maybe, just MAYBE it’s a timing issue,” I conceded.

“Yes and…” she sighed.

“Well, see, I’m putting together the pieces, rubbing my belly and patting my head, you know? I know what I’m doing here,” I insisted with the confidence of a moth diving headfirst into a lightbulb.

“You couldn’t get your timing right if I duct-taped a metronome to your head,” she shot back. “And, the way you power into your forward cast is borderline inexcusable.”

The habitats where these fish thrive are harsh and haunting. I often say to anyone who will listen that these heavy-metal fish live in heavy-metal places—characterized by depth, density, and distorted by darkness. The Big Dark: forged, not grown, where towering coastal rainforests loom in the mist. It comes as no surprise that Sasquatches, Thunderbirds, and lake monsters call this land home. At times, steelhead seem just as elusive as their cryptid counterparts, reminding us that these forests and rivers hold more secrets than we could ever know or hope to experience.

I am endlessly impressed by the places fly fishing takes me. It’s so easy to fixate on the bucket-list fish, the perfect cast to intercept it, and the fly that will trick it into exposing itself. But, the true prize is in the pursuit. It’s in the journey that leads us to communities and environments like this. Places that leave an indelible mark on the soul. Tillamook is, at its heart, a community that revolves around water. Before European settlers arrived in 1851, the Tillamook people, part of the Salish tribes, thrived here, catching salmon and growing crops to sustain their community year-round. That deep connection to the land and water persists today, in the hard work and camaraderie of a town that has held onto something many other places have lost.

Steelheading is a lifelong quest for me. Not really to chase fish, though I cherish the opportunity. It’s about returning to the place that shaped me and gave me the foundation to leave. It’s to try again and again to connect with the water, the history, and my friends and family who call it home. Fishing with the Crumps is like fishing with family. Spending time with them gives you a small peek into what it might be like to fully commit your life to sharing one of the world’s most precious natural resources with wide-eyed travelers. Their operation on the Oregon coast embodies the highest quality of angling and hospitality anyone could hope for. Though, like most things that call me home, it isn’t simply an extravagant distraction from the day-to-day busyness that my life has become. Rather, it is a place that offers simplicity and perspective. It grounds me in the parts of myself that feel most authentic.

On the final night of our trip, before the early morning drive back to the airport, the house was buzzing with post-trip enthusiasm. Whether they were concerned we’d take our energy out on the well-appointed open bar in the living room or simply needed a change of pace themselves, Kate and Justin took us down the road to Tillamook Bowling Lanes—a hole-in-the-wall type of joint that felt as unassuming and welcoming as the town itself.