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Written by Bob Ellsberg
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Saturday, 31 October 2009 16:00 |
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Hanging on the wall of my outdoors room are several of my grandfather’s old fishing rods. Most are thick bamboo, fiberglass or even steel construction. In comparison, my rods, mostly made by my favorite brand, G. Loomis, are thin shafts of synthetic graphite, with much less diameter and bulk.
The rods represent two different eras and two different philosophies of fishing. My grandfather kept just about everything he caught. He was a depression-era meat fisherman. The family needed food; you went out and tried to catch some. As a result his gear was heavy enough to land anything he hooked. When I fished with him, we fished with gear designed to do just that. Before we left home we made sure that the tackle box was filled with hooks, leaders and other tackle big enough to land anything that swam in the water we fished. True, the typical fish we landed got horsed in with hardly a bend in the rod, but if that big one ever hit, we were ready.
Much more popular today is the philosophy that you should use tackle that gives you the most enjoyment in playing the fish you catch. With tighter limits and the need to release a lot of the fish you catch, most fishermen prefer to use rods that are light and give you a lot of bend and flex, and terminal tackle that gives you the best chance of fooling the fish into striking. Sure, you lose a few, but hooking and playing the fish are the top priority.
There are days, however, when the philosophies collide. This September, I was joining some buddies on an old cement bridge. We were fishing the tidewater of a local stream, trying to catch the little jack salmon, mostly one to three pounds, that were headed upstream on spawning runs. The bright little fish are ready biters but can be a little tricky to hook.
Nice Start
I was casting with a really sweet G. Loomis bobber rod. These are terrific long rods with big terminal eyes, designed to allow the bobber fisherman to get long accurate casts and to set a hook quickly even with a lot of slack line. They are a little tricky to handle with a number of folks around you, but I was fishing in a small group and swinging the rod around wasn’t a problem.
With the clear water of low tide, I had put on a rig that included light four-pound test line and a couple of very sharp #5 hooks. Jacks are good bait stealers, and these little hooks are great at holding the shrimp bait and hooking the finicky fish.
I was feeling pretty good about my day. Fishing was none too fast, but I had lifted a couple of nice silver jacks up onto the bridge span. My bobber had floated under the bridge and I swung the rod to lift the bobber out to the open water. But as I pulled one way, something else pulled back, way harder!
Five feet above the river, all of us got wet with the splash! I had hooked a huge king salmon. He was mouthing the shrimp, not even making the bobber twitch. Normally he would have dropped the bait, and I would never have known what excitement had departed. His bad luck was that I lifted the bobber to cast and the little hooks had bitten into his lower jaw. My line screamed as the fish bolted downstream. The big rod bent deeply, easily handling the power of the retreating monster. Back he came, charging the bridge, and once again fled seaward.
Battling the Big One
One of my buddies ran to his truck to get a big crab ring that we used to get bigger fish from the water to the bridge span. It was a nice thought, but we were a long ways from bringing this one home.
After I had managed to handle three of his big runs, I was getting a little cocky. This fish would have to tire soon and rod and reel were doing their job well. Unfortunately this fish didn’t feel like giving up. The next time he charged the bridge he decided to test the water on the far side of the river. As he ran parallel to the structure, the line flew out of the reel. “You better stop him now!” kibitzed one of the bridge fishers. “There are lots of snags over there!”
Now I was screwed. My rod had plenty of power to stop his charge, my line was plenty strong, but that tiny leader only offered four pounds of power. I ran over to the far side in an effort to relieve the stress and to give me some control, but to no avail. The big slab lunker ran for a submerged stump and snapped off my leader to pull himself free. I felt like throwing up as l stared at the tiny piece of wispy leader that remained, the only evidence of the great fish, now swimming free on his way to the spawning grounds.
A few minutes later I packed up my little fish and headed out. My fishing buddies patted me on the back and let me slink away. As I loaded my stuff into the pickup, I could picture Grandpa shaking his head. “You needed to use a stronger leader, Bobby. We could have eaten on that fish for a week.”
Bob Ellsberg’s column, Fishin’, appears monthly in RV Life and at rvlife.com.
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Twice in one day a late run King picked up my yellow Fenton Fly (Worden's) at the end of a drift. You can't hang onto a 30+ pound freight train for long using a $40 WalMart combo outfit and 6-8 pound line. I thought to myself, "That's one heck of a Sockeye!" The first time she was on for 30 seconds, rocketing upstream then back down where in a panic I overtightened the cheap drag. The second time I was ready, and had a notion where the drag limit was. This fish did the same thing once again, assaulting the "fly" 60 yards downstream, then upon feeling the prick of the hook and my set, she barreled upstream midriver and past me while I frantically put nylon back on the reel. 30 yards upstream from me she turned, and again shot back for the sea, some 15 miles away.
Well, I wasn't about to follow her that far in the silty glacial turmoil of the rocky Kenai, so I gingerly started to apply pressure, trying to keep my fingers away from the slicing line. The reel actually began to get hot, a first time experience for me. To my amazement she slowed just as I started to fret over the appearance of the line backing. She stalled. My sweaty hands paused while my heart beat screamed in my ears. Seconds went by that seemed like minutes. I became aware of a tremor in my midsection.
I'd had back surgery the month before, and wasn't in my best shape, so if she ran down again, I wasn't about to give chase in that current on shaky legs and no bottom visibility. My sore muscles tired of the standoff and I gently coaxed her to do something. She did... once more I was cranking the reel handle in a frenzy to avoid slack as she passed my position. 40 yards up she stopped and turned again, using the current to her advantage. My heart began to race again as I stared at the broad expanse of river ahead of her. Once more I gingerly tweaked the drag wheel. She slowed, then stopped. Another eternity, and I nudged her again. But this time she shook her head twice and bolted downstream. Watching backing fly off and the spool shrink, and knowing I couldn't follow, I cringed and turned down the drag wheel ever so slightly.
That was just too much for the 6 lb leader on that Fenton Fly, and "Ka Pow"; I swear I've never heard such a loud parting of a fishing line, nor knew it was possible to sound like a discharging shotgun. It echoed behind me upstream. Sheepishly I glanced downstream 150 yards at the nearest other fishermen. Surely they had heard that explosion, and shame overcame me. Being fully distracted at the time, I had no idea whether they'd watched my heroic skirmish. But I was done for that day, and with my tail between my legs but a grin on my face I sauntered back to our van, vowing to bring an 11 weight flyrod the next time I visited Alaska.