I've got a couple stories from the Pacific Northwest;
I had a fishing buddy.
Rob could pull a fish out of a mud puddle if it had a rock in it.
He had an uncanny touch of what was happening at the end of his line, and stream savvy beyond my scope.
We fished most of the north coastal streams of Oregon together, going after sea run cuts, steelies, and salmon.
We'd spend the eve tying hooks, sorting lures and gear, and getting our wives to pack us a lunch.
Off we'd go, swapping lies on the way, stopping at Staleys on hwy 26 to load up on bait, refill our mugs with hot coffee, grab some jerky, and head to whatever stream looked good that day.
One fine morn we decided on Beaver creek.
The stream was pristine. A freshet, days before, made it a great prospect.
As our custom, we walked the creek, picking a starting point in the town of Beaver.
Wading about a half mile downstream, we came upon the mamma johamma of fishing holes.
The eddy, the depth, the tail out was the stuff of fishermen's dreams.
Rob decided to work it from the top, tossing his line close in, each cast drifting a bit further than the previous.
Watching him was a study in precision. His worn vest bearing testimony to experience, held just a few choice lures, as he seldom snagged.
I chose to directly work the hole in the hopes of getting a much needed head start in putting keepers on my stringer.
We each pulled in a couple fat cuts, and the day was looking productive when I spotted a rather large German shepherd loping down the hill towards me.
Following him was a middle aged guy with no legs 'running' down the hill on his knuckles and leather torso pad.
Rather unnerving, and distracting to my little adventure.
Stopping at the bank, Shorty, resting on his knuckles, watched for a while, then started throwing rocks in the hole.
Then Rin Tin Tin chased the rocks.
'How ya doin'?"
"Fine."
More rocks.
"Nice day isn't it."
"Yup."
More rocks.
"Let's see, this is public land, but your personal fishing hole, right?"
"Oh, you can fish here, I don't own it."
More rocks.
Cujo is now in a frenzy. Teeth bared, making those precious GGGRRRR noises that endears parents of small children.
"So, mind throwing rocks over there?" pointing to my buddy.
"No, I like it here, where I catch fish."
I reeled in, and commenced upstream towards Rob.
It turns into a game for Shorty's dog, as he plunges toward me, intent on maybe getting his master a couple new legs, mine.
Ever try to run or hurry when waist deep in a stream?
I yelled to Rob, "I THINK WE SHOULD FISH A BIT FARTHER DOWNSTREAM, DON'T THINK WE'RE GOING TO BE PRODUCTIVE HERE."
Shorty grunted something (apparently in canineese) and satan dog immediately retreated.
In town I found out no leg dog man was a local hero, had a big write up about him in the Reader's Digest.....and he was the mayor.
Rob and I talk about that place from time to time, and refer to it as the hole that got away.
Getting Lucky
After several trips to the coastal system Salmon River, Rob and I pretty much new all the good holes.
The best bein’ right below the weir, of which was right below the hatchery.
Plenty of anglers ran lines thru there. The well beaten paths from the make shift parking area bore witness.
It was very accommodating. A gentle sloped wooded path traveled right to the beach.
On the right about 30 yards upstream, the deadline stretched across the water. Within 20-30 yards up from that was the weir.
Easy pickin’s if one could legally fish there, as the returning salmon piled up, resting before negotiating the little overflowing dam.
But just below that was this beach, and there was plenty of opportunity to hook into these weary returning nomads, as they rested in any slow water available.
The river created this stretch of unhurried water from the restraints of a cut bank on the other side, curving into a rapid at the tail out.
Oak, bull alders and willows graced the opposing bank, lending their shade to the spent fish.
It was the first week of summer.
Arriving in the early dawn hour, we were the first there. So, as we were taught from conscientious anglers before us, Rob and I policed the area of cans, their plastic six pack holders, fishing line, fast food wrappers, Styrofoam, and the plastic bags that the slack jawed troglodytes brought them in, loading up our ‘pack it in, pack it out’ sack.
We studied the water. Late springers were everywhere. Their torpedo shapes moving up and coasting back, holding.
However, they were not taking.
Everything in every color we presented was ignored.
An hour had passed. Anglers were starting to line the gravel beach.
We were ready to head downstream, but I had my eye on a hawg that moved little, and hung directly under a dead fall oak, of which the river had undermined its roots the winter before. The old oak had made a natural platform about six to eight feet long, ending about two feet above where the old bruiser hung.
Spring Chinook range 15 to about 40 lbs, 30 lbs being the common nice sized fish in comparison to their larger fall cousins.
This one looked to be at least 30 pounds.
I forded the river thru the rapids, and grabbing the limbs, made my way down the log.
He was still holding.
I looped a fresh bait of eggs on my hook, and back reeled my presentation down and about three feet in front of his nose.
As the bait drifted toward him, he moved to the side to let it pass.
This happened several times.
I got on my knees and studied my elusive friend.
He had the look and size of a five salter, and had been thru a battle or two. Having only one eye, and what looked like a seal bite near his adipose, I dubbed him ‘Lucky’.
He was a bit dark, not the black, or the ‘so rotten they’re white’ look about him, but I bet he wasn’t going back out.
I steered my bait to about a foot in front of his eyeless side.
No movement.
I brought my line back upstream and artificially drifted the now washed out roe to the front of his nose, but on the eyeless side again.
The spent eggs were an undulating cushion of veined textured goo, and I let it envelope his face.
No movement
No movement
Then
BAM!!
I had driven him a few clicks past irritation, and he was done with it all.
He turned his head and snapped at the bait in one split second move!
Watching this front row action was the thrill of my fishing lifetime!
He thrashed the water, anglers on the beach side started reeling in.
The fight was on!
He ran, making a huge wake, and then down.
It was all I could do to hang onto my rod.
SUH-NAP!
The fight was over as soon as it started.
I had forgotten to back off on the drag!
My usual custom of tightening the drag, getting a good hook set, and then backing the drag off was totally forgotten!
Apparently I’d let my mind focus so hard on getting Lucky to bite, as they are tunnel focused on one thing, going upstream……getting home, no time to dine at this juncture, that I’d disregarded what I’d learned about salmon, and that’s basically you only get one chance, especially with late spring Chinook.
Lesser fish will let you recover a mental lapse.
Once a salmon is hooked in a stream, its fight to the end, and they know all the tricks.
We traveled home without fish that day, but armed with the new knowledge that sometimes, when they are not biting, it not only takes great patience, the ability to adapt at presentation, the right gear, and the mental aptitude to remember the basics at the most critical time, in order to get ‘Lucky’.
The Guard Rail Hole
Early one fall, Rob and I discovered the guard rail hole on the Salmon river between Otis and the hatchery upstream.
There was a gauntlet of anglers, elbow to elbow.
We watched.
You could see these brutes coming upstream, the wake from their dorsals making a vee in the water.
Sometimes 3, 4 abreast.
About every 10-15 minutes someone hooked a fish.
Lines were retrieved.
Anglers waited.
Only one in six were successful in landing one.
There was a constant jabber from most until a fish was hooked.
Then everyone busied themselves, checking baits, hooks, lines.
It takes about 20 minutes to tire these hawgs out, and you need all the hole and more to give yourself a chance.
Some have the guts to let their line slack, culminating in pulling at the corner of the fish's mouth from downstream, prompting the fish to fight it by swimming upstream. It gives the angler more of a fighting chance, if the hook set is sure.
After an hour of watching, which isn't a bad tactic, no matter the pressure, a couple younger guys reeled in, packed up, and left. Rob and I looked at each other. We were both game. The young fellas had been in a less than desirable spot, on the upstream end of the hole. The older, retired gents had their spots way before dawn. Even if they hadn't, the spots would've been protected by their compadres.
We both hooked and lost fish.
Fall Chinook usually run 30 to 60 lbs. They'll straighten out the stoutest of stream rods, and it's a thrill to feel so much muscle at the end of your line.
You can burn a hole in your thumb trying to keep your line from stripping to the backing.
The oldsters became more and more disgusted every time we hooked up, knowing it was in vain.
"Just give it a hard jerk, and enjoy your fish lips for dinner."
"Why don't you break the goddamn thing off, it's been twenty minutes?"
Rob broke off.
I immediately hooked another. An ol' geezer started barking at me, tossing his rod to the bank. Only I had a plan. Rob and I talked about the chances of wading the shallowest part of the hole and gaining a fighting position. The specter was the good chance of falling in, and my last conscience thought before drowning would be seeing and hearing old men scoffing as I drifted through the hole.
Turns out, the route I picked was apparently not the shallowest.
On tiptoes, leaning upstream, treading in places, keeping the line taut (not that there was an option) I got to the other, navigable, side.
This fish was a brute.
Rod straight.
Tugs coming hard.
Line heading downstream.
I'm scrambling now.
Falling over rocks.
Now sitting in two feet of water, my sandwich making its way out of my vest, floated merrily, merrily down the stream.... an old guy with catcher's mitts for hands, lifted me up by my armpits.
Something was not right. I never had fought a fish of this heft before, so I wasn't sure.
The fish was tiring.
I was tiring.
'Defibrillator paddles would be good about now', I thought.
The fish was spent, fighting now in spasmodic, vain attempts at freedom.
I nursed it up to the bank.
Steam coming from its heaving gills.
Steam coming from my heaving gills.
I did it!
I landed a fifty pound hawg!!
It was beautiful.
In my triumphant elation I hadn't noticed that the hook was lodged in the gill.
Foul hooked!?
The beast had sucked the hook through its mouth and out the gill, hooking on the intake!!
An old gent handed me his pliers.
Hathaway, the ODF&W warden, Don Knots of Otis, was on the other bank, arms folded, waiting for me to make a wrong move.
I carefully unset the hook, turned my trophy toward freedom, gently rocked him back and forth, and he was gone............
On the way home, Rob jabbered away at how he would have kept it..........it's a good thing we weren't hunting..............fishing ‘accidents’ are harder to explain.
He believed me and wanted to enter it into the biggest fish contest near by. We went and entered it. It was 18", 2 1/2 lbs. He was beaming with pride over me. It looked close to this...
