AP and I doubled up shortly after pulling into our final stretch of camp water.






















The upper end of the Dean canyon.










Goodbye and thanks Dean.





The fish.

Dean river steelhead, let alone the coho and kings that wind up above the canyon, are special breeds. The canyon, essentially a 3km section of waterfalls, rapids, and general gnarly heinousness that defies imagination, is a mandatory screen out factor. The weak need not apply and the gene pool reflects exactly that. The fish were everything we had hoped for and then some. They attacked, they ran, they jumped, and they showed us our backing and spools too many times to count. They were more beautiful than words or pictures can describe. Flawless. It came to our lips and minds quite often with Dean steelhead in our hands. They broke our lines, they bent our hooks, they bruised our knuckles, but they warmed our souls. The Dean steelhead are immaculate. I wouldn’t add a thing to them if I could, nor would I take anything away. In a word, they are perfect.