Trouble on the River

When a bobber goes down, a couple of things could be happening. First, a fish, crawfish, or something live could be pulling it down. Second, you could have too heavy a bait or sinker underneath, and the weight and current combined could be pulling it down. Finally, you could be snagging your hook or bait on the bottom or in some underwater snag or brush.

I’d been fishing for a couple of hours and nothing much had happened with my bobber. Folks had come and gone, even though the water looked great, receding after a big October rain. There should have been lots of fish, but none were rolling and none were biting. But suddenly my bobber was dipping when it crossed a certain spot in the river.

Figuring the water may have lowered and I was just getting a bump on the bottom, I just ignored it for a while. But then each time it came up, I found fewer eggs on my cluster. I didn’t want to jerk it for nothing and lose more eggs or plant it hard into a snag, but I was getting a little curious. I gave a halfhearted pull and something pulled back!

Sudden Strike
It wasn’t much of a bite, but something held it for just a moment. I got more aggressive and on my third attempt, I hit something solid, and it hit back, hard! A bright silver chinook, big as a tank, swirled in front of me and took off!

Suddenly my rod and reel seemed way underpowered! This was a big fish and, with a lot of current from recent rains, getting it in would be no easy task. First it took off upriver, then back down, sending me scampering up and down the bank. I put on all the pressure I dared, but it barely moved and just rode the current. Wind whistled through my line, emphasizing the stress on both ends.

Finally, after over half an hour, I managed to get it close to shore. I had no net and there weren’t a lot of flat places to try to horse it ashore, but I was committed to getting it in. I finally got to where I could see my bobber and then finally, the big fish came into view, just a few maddening feet away. Then it started rolling wildly. My heart sank as I felt the line go slack. The big salmon had pulled loose from the hook and slid free.

More Action
I hate losing fish something terrible. I’m just an awful sport about it; I flail, scream and curse my bad luck. It takes too much time to hook a nice fish for me to go quietly when I lose the battle. I cast out again, fearing that was my only chance of the day. Not to worry, today I’d get lots of chances. Down went the bobber. I set the hook hard, and the fish took off across the stream. I set it hard again, and again, trying to drive the barbless hook well into the king salmon’s jaw.

Eight times that happened and eight times, after a substantial fight, the fish threw off my hook. These were wonderful fish, huge bright salmon, great for barbeque dinner, great for my smoker. As a meat fisherman, I was dying! My screams scared off the mergansers and gulls that were feasting on eggs downstream. Soon my supply of roe was running out. I cast my last cluster out into the waters and watched the bobber plop under. Setting the hook, I felt a good solid fish but saw no color to speak of.

Twenty minutes later I finally saw the fish as it rose near me. This was not a prized bright chinook, but a big, nasty chum salmon, full of stripes and teeth and nasty attitude. Him I could land. As I raised my rod to guide him to shore, I heard a horrible snap. My beloved float rod—for my money one of the best Loomis models—had broken right where the pieces connect. I’d have to drop by the factory later and see if the heavy powerline I was using was too much for its spine, but for now my fishing day was over.

As if in spite, the big chum salmon lay on the bank and waited to be released, nibbling a little skin off my fingers as I tried to wiggle my hook lose. Those big teeth held onto my sharp hook with no problem. The rock hard jaws of the upriver chinook were able to slip the hook seemingly any time they tired of the fight.

I packed up my gear, put my empty bait canister on my belt, and gathered up the pieces of my rod. My arm and shoulder were shot from several hours of fighting fish, and my legs beat from futilely chasing up and down the muddy shore after them. As I walked up the path, a young angler strolled by, heading for the water. “How was fishing today?” he asked. I really didn’t know how to answer him!

Bob Ellsberg’s column, Fishin’, appears monthly in RV Life and rvlife.com.