Alaska Road Trip Part 4: Smithers, Witset & Steelhead Country in Northern British Columbia
Leaving the Rain Behind and Heading to Smithers, BC
The morning we left felt like a quiet reset.
We had spent time watching rain hit the river surface, fish rising in short bursts, and cold air settling into the valley. It was one of those mornings where everything feels a little muted soft light, wet ground, and that mix of sadness and anticipation that always comes right before a transition.
Even with the chill in the air, it was a good sendoff. The water was crystal clear in places, almost glass-like, and the fish were still biting near the surface despite the rain. It felt like the river was giving us one last show before we moved on.
From there, we pointed north toward Smithers, British Columbia.
The drive took about four hours, winding through wide valleys and gradually shifting mountain terrain. By the time we arrived, the weather had changed just enough to feel like a new chapter was beginning.
We checked into the Mountain View Motel and finally slowed down.
After days of moving and camping, the simplicity of a warm room felt grounding. We made a salmon bake with rice, caught a bit of American football on TV, and let ourselves fully decompress for the first time in a while. Kyle worked on editing while I caught up on laundry and re-centered everything we had been carrying in the truck.
A Slow Morning in Smithers and Small Town Moments
Smithers surprised me in the best way.
The next morning, the town was bright, calm, and framed perfectly by mountains in every direction. Everything felt clean and open, like the landscape had room to breathe.
I wandered through town slowly, eventually stopping at No Frills for supplies and then grabbing an iced pumpkin spice latte from Bugwood Coffee and answered the prompt of the day: What’s one thing that made you smile?
I wrote one word.
Mountains.
There’s something about mountain towns in early fall the air is just a little sharper, the colors a little warmer, and even the simplest errands feel like part of the experience.
Before leaving town, we restocked for the next leg of the trip berries, apples, peanut butter, foil, maple syrup, water, and bear spray. At this point in the journey, we had a system of essentials that just stayed consistent no matter where we were.
Then we packed up again and moved toward the next stop.
Arriving at Witset Campground on the Bulkley River
Witset Campground immediately felt different from everywhere else we had stayed.
It sat right along the Bulkley River, surrounded by canyon walls and shifting fall colors that were just beginning to turn gold. The water below was an unreal shade of turquoise almost too bright to feel natural.
We set up camp slowly, taking our time with the details.
Firewood stacked neatly.
Solar string lights hung between rungs of the tent.
Coolers and gear organized after days of travel.
And for the first time in a while, we had space to call base camp.
The dogs immediately made friends with neighbors, and the campground had a quiet sense of community that made it easy to relax.
As evening approached, the temperature dropped quickly. The air carried an early fall bite that signals summer is fully over in the north.
That night, we set up the wood stove for the first time on the trip. Sitting in our warm tent while surrounded by cold mountain air felt so good.
Scouting the Bulkley River and Learning the Fishery
The next morning, we walked down to the river to scout fishing access for the coming days.
We were also learning the reality of fishing regulations in this area. As non-resident anglers, access wasn’t always straightforward, and certain sections of river were managed under different systems, including First Nations stewardship and the crown.
One of the most well-known fishing spots in the area was a place called Idiot Rock.
Down near the water, we watched members of the First Nations dip-net salmon using traditional methods. It was a reminder that this river wasn’t just a recreational fishing destination it was part of a much longer cultural and ecological story.
We didn’t fish that day.
We just observed, learned, and took it all in.
Steelhead Fishing on the Bulkley River
When we finally got out to fish, everything came down to movement and persistence.
We started at Idiot Rock with high hopes, but the fish weren’t concentrated there. So we moved pulling off at different access points, climbing down banks, and reading the water as best we could.
Some sections looked perfect but held nothing.
Others looked empty and suddenly produced life.
That’s how we eventually found fish.
Steelhead were in the system, but the run was noticeably smaller than expected that year. Still, even a few encounters made the effort worth it.
Fishing here wasn’t easy or consistent, but it felt honest. You worked for everything.
By the end of the day, we were tired, cold, and completely soaked but content in a way only fishing days can create.
When the Rain Changed Everything
The weather shifted fast.
What had been clear, fishable water turned into something entirely different after heavy rain moved through the region.
Rivers that were calm and turquoise just days before became swollen, muddy, and powerful. Roads followed the same pattern water levels rising, visibility dropping, and everything feeling temporarily unrecognizable.
We drove toward Terrace hoping conditions might stabilize, but instead we found the opposite.
Water was overflowing banks.
Logs were moving fast through the river.
Waterfalls were pouring off cliffs in ways we hadn’t seen earlier in the trip.
It was beautiful, but completely unfishable.
So we adjusted plans again.
On the way back, we stopped for Tim Hortons, watched a rainbow stretch across the valley, and accepted the weather day.
That night we returned to camp, soaked but settled, and spent the evening back in the hot tent while rain moved through the mountains again.
The Glacier Gulch Hike That Didn’t Go as Planned
One of the hikes we had been excited about was Glacier Gulch.
We started early, geared up, and followed what we thought was the main route toward a steep waterfall trail. At first, everything felt normal marked paths, steady incline, and growing anticipation.
Then the trail changed.
We found ourselves climbing steep, wet rock faces beside rushing water, using ropes, scrambling over slick surfaces, and navigating terrain that felt far beyond a casual hike.
At one point, we were crawling across steep rock near fast-moving water, fully aware that things didn’t feel right anymore.
We paused and made the call to turn back.
It wasn’t easy, especially when you’re already deep into something physical, but it was the right decision.
On the way down, we realized something important we weren’t on the correct trail.
We laughed about it later, but it stuck with us.
Next time, we’d check the map first.
Still, we walked away proud that we knew when to stop.
Evenings at Camp in Witset
Back at camp, the rhythm of the trip settled in.
We cooked over the fire like cowboys, smoked ribs and canned beans. One evening, a campground worker even shared cold smoked salmon with us.
The dogs curled up nearby.
The river moved quietly in the background.
And the mountains slowly faded into night.
Those evenings didn’t feel like highlights in the traditional sense but they’re the moments I remember most clearly.
One More Push Through Steelhead Country
As we prepared for the next move, Kyle’s thumb had started to swell and become more painful, which added a layer of concern to an already changing plan.
We stopped at a pharmacy, gathered supplies, and kept an eye on it while continuing forward.
Despite everything, the goal stayed the same.
Drive until we found fish.
Even if that meant adjusting everything else around it.
Final Thoughts on Smithers and Witset
This stretch of the trip wasn’t defined by perfect fishing days or flawless weather. Instead, it was shaped by everything in between.
Rainstorms that reshaped rivers overnight.
Quiet mornings in small towns.
Unexpected conversations with strangers.
Hikes that didn’t go as planned.
And camp nights that felt better than anything we could have planned ahead of time.
Like anywhere, Northern British Columbia has a way of forcing flexibility. It doesn’t really care about your itinerary but it gives you something better if you’re willing to adapt.
And as we packed up once again, we were already thinking about what the next stretch of road would bring.
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