Fishing For The King! In Search of the Illusive King!

 By hook or by crook it was bound to be and due to enumerable factors, this fishing venture into the remote Northwest regions of the Canadian coastline slowly took form in the early summer of this past year. Honorable mentions to a few of those pending factors (some might say excuses) was the knowledge that in our life times we would most likely see the extinction of most species of fish or at least witness their untouchable management in being classified "Endangered Species" by the world governments. In more familiar terms, due to over fishing by foreign nations, pollution and greed, extreme demands are being placed upon the various north American fisheries (especially the great Chinook Salmon, King or Spring) and slowly they are diminishing in numbers, size and in many areas they have vanished and no longer exist!

Thus, our desire was to catch a glimpse of the fading shadow of a once mighty wonder and bring back the memory of such a marvel as a Great King Salmon. Another factor you might say, was that it was a hundred and twelve in Los Angeles and my fishing buddy Martin wanted like heck to get to some cool weather, at any costs! I also weighed this trip out with much deliberation and after about twenty seconds, knew that at all costs, for the sake of the future generations I had to experience one of natures last great calls.

Therewith, we traveled and early Monday morning we collected our wits and departed from Vancouver aboard a 21 passenger float plain. The engines roared over head as we cut our path through murky waters and slowly lifted into a grayish morning sky. The plane banked north over the Inside Passage and with a tiny bite of anxiety we were now committed and bound for a fishing region about four hundred miles up the rugged and scenic coast of Canada. Our 180 mile an hour flight took us over hundreds of desolate and broken land masses, mountainous islands suspended in deep dark ocean and along barren rocky shores where huge bears could be seen romping in the shore lined thickets. After two and a half hours of weaving over one of the worlds least populated regions the throb of engines slowed and the over-winged plain dropped through misty clouds, circled around jagged bays and descended above forested islands then roared downward and splashed abruptly into a most lovely and peaceful bay.

We taxied up to the dock where we and 17 other hopeful fishermen were greeted to “John's Fishing Lodge” by a welcoming group of guides and staff who greeted us aboard an older refurbished ferry, converted into a most inviting lodge. We were promptly showed to our most adequate and comfortable quarters and soon we were given a brief orientation about the facilities and its many services.

This mother ship was anchored deep in a secluded bay, watered by a mountain lake and supplied by the float planes which landed twice a week. We were soon assigned our own personal 17 foot aluminum boat (#16) powered by a 45 Horse, four cycle Honda engine, equipped expertly with fishing gear and the basic up to date electronic goodies. Within one hour from landing, we were suited up in survival suits and headed for deep waters along a rugged and desolate coast. The long awaited adventure had begun!

Within an hour or so we had looked over the maps and had acquainted ourselves with the tackle and gear and judged all equipment to be most satisfactory. Like starving warriors we sped around the points, across the bays and explored the various fishing areas looking where we might begin our adventure. The channels ran deep while shoals and reefs jutted out from rocky shore lines once cut by ancient glaciers. Deep protected bays lay peacefully hidden between rugged mountains while beckoning sunken reefs foamed white with fury and called with dangerous curiosity. The waters were fairly calm and pleasant in the right weather conditions which we were somehow denied, and could get rather rough as we would find out in the next few days. Due west was Japan and the open ocean, which allowed storms and weather conditions to freely enter in from the west and change the environment within moments and guides were always on the waters to help and make sure unaware fishermen were not caught up in some unexpected blow or tide.

In nature there is no mercy, and this law is especially true for the ocean which rushes, surges, swirls and crashes into the enumerable rocks, islands and reefs running for a thousand miles along this inhospitable coast line. The tide changes are somewhat extreme in these areas, running from fifteen to twenty five feet at times and it was wise to beware of these alterations in water depths. Tides played an important part in fishing the King and they had to be observed for both safety and success! Survival suits were required on board at all times and we soon found it more than necessary to wear them continuously. They were not only designed to be safety float jackets but all weather suits which protected one from wind, rain, splashing bow waves and the basic hazards of fishing in various weather conditions. If one was looking for style or the means to impress someone with these yellow and orange "Zute Suits" better have gone to Paris! For nearly two days running we would find ourselves fishing in thirty to fifty mile an hour winds, choppy to heavy seas and rain which flowed side ways like a river in the sky. It was necessary to wear sun glasses, not because of any bright object in the sky known as the sun but to keep the blasting rain from washing out your eye balls! In these same conditions in California the entire coast line would have been shut down and small craft warnings would have prevented even the larger vessels from venturing forth. Even wearing weather suits from head to foot, (we were also provided with rubber boots) we often found ourselves soaked, as the water forced its way down our necks or under the chin. Yes, at times it was very miserable, but oh boy were we having fun!

Our mornings began at 5:30 when some despised human came down the hallway singing some "Get up and rise” song banging on doors announcing it was time to get up and start having fun. Under other circumstances, that guy would have been brutalized and cast over board! But since this trip had cost everyone a small fortune, every minute counted and by 6:00 am, the morning angel had awaken every weary soul including us and we were in our boats smiling with anticipation, headed out through rainy and cold weather looking for those illusive SPRINGS! Even under the worst of conditions our twisting rolling hooks were rewarded with the flash and tear of silver and the yanking of some passing salmon, either irritated at the twisting herring or the delight of an easy meal dangling in front of its snout. Oh yes, we caught fish! They were not all what we had hoped for and previously told of, but there was fish in them waters! How many, I do not know, but they were there and the only trick was to search them out and make sure your bait was found within easy reach of their mouths. Silvers (Coho) seemed to be the most common, then Pinks or humpies, and a few Chum and least of all, the Kings or Chinook Salmon, these were the ones we sought but found the least.

I caught one thirteen pounders the first day and actually thought of releasing it because I was confident we would catch our fill of them and surely, I did not just want such a little bitsy thing! After all, what might the coming generations think about this so called King? Well, it turned out that that single Spring was the only one I would get. I did hook two others, but due to emotional circumstances at the time, I must admit that I, oh well, lost them! Losing a good fish is just about one of the worst feelings you experience and often that loss can turn fishermen sour and look to blame everything but their own lack of skills and I had to accept my own poor judgments in my attempt for the Big One! The beauty of the surrounding coastal lands lush with green forest, running creeks, and white foaming reefs became the background for the small scattered fishing boats. Now and then a "Saner" or commercial boat which trolled a great number of hooks, searching out mostly the Pinks, would weave its way across the shallows where we also trolled. Some of the scenes were rather spectacular and only if the sun might have come out, my camera could have done better at capturing the colors and contrasts. Oh well, that's nature!

What was nice about fishing under conditions like this, was the excellent service given by the fishing lodge and its guides. This could never make up for the sudden departure of fish but it did take the edge off disappointments. We would be trolling along the edge of some mountain and call in on the radio and within ten minutes a thermos of hot coffee and anything else we wanted would be delivered. There was one time when we were out at the Halibut grounds and my reel went out and in about twenty minutes, another pole and reel was delivered to me. Besides this, each time you came in to the dock, a smiling crew would completely clean your boat, straighten out your poles, untangle various knots and gear and re-supply your tackle box and take your fish to be cleaned and frozen. Oh, yes, this was hard to take!

But there were also consequences that went along with the opportunity of being in such a place and one of these was "Jelly Fish" One must understand that no matter how good you are at fishing, your hands will always be cut by lines, jabbed deep with hooks, and cut by some move of the blade. Then in cold and wet weather your hands turn white and shrivel up like an old widows face. Then we add the thrill of having jelly fish wrap around your line and bait. This has to be removed and the stinging poison not only gets onto your hands, sticks to the line but into each and every cut. Then after you think you have rid yourself of such irritations, you somehow forget and accidentally rub your eye or put a line into your mouth to hold it for a second and OH MY.....there's nothing like that feeling! Your lips go instantly numb, they feel like you have been to the dentist for a jaw removal and if you were lucky enough to get it into your eye, you get to experience what it would be like to be shot in the eye with an Amazonian Blow Gun! Add these common fifty times a day experiences to the cold weather and the frozen cut hands and you soon begin to think of joining the "Animal Rights Groups" who are working to stop such wonderful fishing adventures as this one!

Our policy for the trip was to "fish our brains out," and this we attempted to accomplish! I'm sure that this attitude was adapted more or less by most fishermen to make sure that they got their "Twenty Five Cents a Minute" worth of fishing! I would venture to say we averaged about 16 hours a day of continuous line in water fishing, excluding those times when we were lost, arguing, untangling lines, pulling hooks out of one another or just happily traveling from one spot to another. Another factor about this fishing attitude I guess was due to the limited time, the once in a life time opportunity and the over all costs in getting to this point. Plus, our wives were expecting nothing less than "Jaws" and "Shammoo" sized fish to be brought home! No matter how harsh the weather was, we refused to go in, unless it was due to extreme torments in the bawls. When either of us became tired or mentally exhausted, we would remind one another that we still had some brains left! We would begin to go down the list of reasons why we were here; stupidity, ignorance, suckers, victims and idiots were only some of the adjectives on the list. Let's do it, surely this was most likely the only time in our lives we might ever be able to fish like this, and soon we were renewed back to strength.

So our day went, wet, windy, yucky, sometimes miserable but very sweet when your pole finally shook, then bent down with the sound of line pealing off and the sensation of a furious fish thrashed the surface, trying everything in its power to be rid of the sharp steel hooked biting into its jaw. And you better stand ready when there were those times of hyper excitement out on the water when an extremely strong strike would take ones pole and instantly evaporate solid peace into nuclear confusion and emotions exploded as if a gasoline can had burst into flame. A fish on the line, no matter its size, was the reason we were there and every consideration went to that single catch… WATCH OUT! Our evenings ended at 9:00, that was when it got dark, and all boats had to be in at the dock. Of course there were some minor exceptions, like when Martin had on his big one, caught at 8:30 and refused to cut the line at my jesting request…huh? Somehow a first hook up seemed to always be a monster brute killer, when in truth, it was the guy on the other end of the pole! "everybody get out of my way," hey there was only one other soul aboard, we would remind each other! Many exclamations and claims on how big this one was were made, But soon, it was just another fish, nothing bigger than the one before. Yet, on occasion, there was that STRIKE that ripped the water and thrashed open the depths and out burst that hard sought after prize and everyone better get out of the way!

But there were those times when there was nothing, and I mean nothing, so we had to sharpen our hooks and switch our tactics. "Go deeper!" "Try elsewhere!" "Find the reef!" "Head into the side bays!" "Follow the Saners!" "Try over there!" "Let's go home!" "I'm going to sleep!" Then BOOM, you got one and you got your brains back again! During one of these lows, the weather finally broke and the waves somewhat laid down. To their dismay, we notified the dock we were heading out to the Halibut grounds, but were warned it was better to stay close in, but of course, this was one of our last chances to get a Halibut and so we headed out. Now this is where I give credit to Martin who did know enough about navigation to get us out into the deep waters and actually found the area where we wanted to fish. All went well until, out of nowhere a fog bank descended and suddenly all reference points disappeared. On our boat we did not have a compass (I think they wanted us to get lost) and without reference points to the land, a boat could be in a lot of trouble as we were for those few moments. Immediately, by good judgment and what one might consider to be raw fear, I saw it on Martins face, even though he thought I couldn't recognize terror mixed with panic and dread, so we headed back. He slowly returned against the large rolling swells which indicated from whence we had come and after a short time a distant peak appeared through the fog. This waste of time led us into another channel where we finally found the Springs, so all was not lost!

The storms were most disappointing to us, for the fishing nearly died. They disturbed the bait too much and it was said that the big ones went deep into the holes and waited there. Not everyone stayed out, only the most desperate and they really had to work to find something that wanted to commit suicide on their bait. During these storms, the Springs all but disappeared. Over the radio every tale of their disappearance was told, "They are afraid of lightening," "They hate the underwater wind," "There deep because all the bait has been blown back to Japan in the rough waters." Many of these fairy tales seemed true, for soon after the last storm passed, the waters smoothed out and BOOM, Springs started to show again. To bad it was our last day! Yes, some real nice ones were caught, Martin caught two that evening around eight. In fact we hooked up both at the same time, twice this happened, I lost mine, but Martin snagged a good one and with the help of a guide, he got it in.

We finally mastered the touch and found the spot, but wouldn't you know it, it was the last day accept for a few hours in the morning and when we had returned to our special place, all fish had vanished mysteriously. So goes the fate of hungry hooks and the lousy laws of fishing! Evenings consisted of everyone nursing headaches, broken fingers, cut hands, colds, sore backs, swollen hands, aching muscles, wind burned faces, jelly fish stings and 33 fishermen sitting around telling fishing stories with other liars! I guess I am new to the fishing telling tales, and just heard about nearly everything. The wholesale liars consoled the unfortunate guy who lost the big one and congratulated their fellow lying braggers who caught one of the few big ones!

The average Silvers ran about ten to twelve pounds, a few fifteen pounders were caught and some nice Chums were right in there too. I would guess that there were over twenty good Springs caught, the largest being 47 pounds. A Spring is a most beautiful fish, clean, shiny and most stream lined. it is probably the most beautiful fish in existence and in northern waters certainly the most sought after! A Spring that weighs over thirty pounds is called a "Tyee" and when you catch something like that you are automatically elevated into a higher liars status club and you receive a red hat to prove that you are really an accomplished prevaricator on a greater level! Even though we probably bought the entire hat factory, neither of us as of yet had the opportunity of wearing the "Tyee Hat!" We really didn't want one any way’s...LIE!

Just about 18 minutes before our plane was to disembark, the sun burst over the crest of the mountain like a glorious jewel, the waters lay down blue like queens velvet and the weather turned about eighty degrees. It was more than we could take and for a moment conspired to break off one of the wings on the plane, making it impossible to return for another day but I held Martin back by reminding him we were reasonable humans and he should have come this week instead of last week, so he broke my arm instead! So with heavy hearts, empty wallets and totally brainless, we allowed the propellers to chop the sky into pieces, pulled the floats like speed boats over the now still blue bay and we lifted majestically and soared south, back to reality, all in perfect weather! After saying goodbye to many tired and enthused fishermen we loaded up our boxes of frozen fish and found our way to the boarder. We drank about twenty five cups of coffee for the long drive home and somehow managed to begin to hark back on our adventure in deep waters along the Northwest coast of Canada! For sure another plot was slowly being hatched for next seasons attempt for the King and all its majesty!

 Fishing is more than a line in water, but a full spectrum of emotions are experienced, leaving one with many feelings embedded in the soul, which he must then recall later, usually with a pleasure! There is something spiritual about the sensation of honest fishing, especially when a man searches for secrets in the vast unknown, then with directed intent finally brings his skills into contact with defiant challenge. It is almost a hallowed experience to challenge nature by pitting ones limited skills against the forces and instincts of nature. To find yourself made nothing in the vastness of an ocean, surrounded by the awesomeness of powers far beyond your comprehension, searching out a hidden treasure which carries with it all the abilities, strengths and genius to avoid capture. Then there’s that single moment of contact that electrifies that thin line and sends a shock of joy into every waiting cell! The immediate awareness and powerful thrill of knowing that your sharp hook has ultimately found its way into the most evasive and splendid creature, is heart stopping. Suddenly you come alive and this single event overwhelms every other thought, declaring war and the battle begins between the human mind and the heroic efforts of a wondrous and powerful treasure.....named and respected by ancient men who knew a mighty fish as THE KING!

In smaller fish the thrill is still there but not to the extent of fishing for Kings! A thirty pound King can easily thrash itself free from the best hook and line. It can run far and dive deeper into the sea than you have line. A patient fight is the rule for eventual victory and it might be a one hour exchange of skills and instinct before you know who has won the confrontation! More disappointments come to skilled fishermen than sweet victories, especially in the North waters of Canada! So our adventure came to its end for the illusive Chinook!

May those Springs remain secret in their places, grow to enormity and meaner than ever. May they evade every hook and thrash every net, disappointing every pole seeking their possession...until we return to the exact place at just the right moment in the perfect season! Then and there they are welcome to declare war on my ambitions and may my skills be better honed to have the victory in that season! Wait for me alone, you most magnificent creature, for I'll be back!

By: Michael M. Michaelson ©

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