Hitting the water

The one regret I had about going to Illinois when I did was I would miss the primary run of salmon at the beginning of October. I also knew since we had company coming the week of my return, there would not be any chance of getting out on the rivers. Yet, I still wanted to give it a shot, and as soon as could get away, I headed out to the Coast Range and to a river I was told was still holding fish in the lower elevations.

Nicer weather days had passed and even though the forecast called for some rain, last Thursday had to be the day. All others were booked. And rain isn't such a bad thing for salmon as a swollen river means they can move easier and more fish will then make the trek. But it was a spitting rain, not enough to make a difference except in my comfort. Still, I dressed appropriately and in that I would be in chest waders anyway, the rain wouldn't really be a factor.

The spot I picked to fish is well known on this river, yet I thought a weekday might be a good day to have some elbow room. There were five others with the same idea, two in a boat and three on the opposite shore. I stood a bit downriver from them, which might have put me at a disadvantage without a prime spot, yet I also avoided the tangle of lines they were experiencing. No thanks.

All of the other guys were using salmon eggs for bait and were having some limited luck. I thought to bring eggs but I was not after the same type of fish they were catching, ones starting to color up for mating. No, I was hoping for a bright chrome, fresh, young salmon and therefore went with spinners and spoons.

Cast, cast, cast, cast, nothing. I applied scent religiously. I bumped a fish and it rose. An old male. "Didn't want it anyway." I said to the two men in the boat after I prematurely yelled "Fish on!" More casting, casting, casting. I changed lures again and again.

And then!

The line screamed off of my reel as the fish headed first over to the other bank and then downstream about sixty yards. I could gain no advantage. A conference was held. I first expressed hope the fish was not foul-hooked. The consensus was that it likely was not, and furthermore it would be a fish of my liking. A gentleman on the opposite bank advised me to bring my rod tip closer to the water, a trick that makes the fish come back on the line or at least stop resisting. I thanked him when it worked.

I soon had the fish within twenty feet of me. It was then I became somewhat confused for my lure was sixteen feet from my rod tip. But the confusion did not last much longer for I saw that the fish was coming in tail first, a small hook in that end with a leader running up to my lure. I was disheartened.

The fish had fought well but was clearly exhausted. I grabbed her tail and pulled her up onto the bank. I estimated her to be about thirty pounds.

Foul-hooked fish must be released. I tried to think of a loophole, for it was not I who had technically foul-hooked the fish. Still, when a consensus was offered I knew I had no choice. I also knew I should take the injurious barb from her tail.

Problem was, her tail was up on the bank, away from me and her head was still very much in the water. I needed to get her further up on the shore and somewhat restrained, and the only thing I had to push with was my hand. Yet, there is nothing to grasp on the front end of a fish except for going through the gills or into the mouth. Grabbing her by the gills might do more harm to the fish so I opted for the latter, which worked well until she clamped down.

I can't say it hurt. Stung a bit, perhaps. She didn't hold on but I did notice blood as I removed the hook from her tail. And as I pushed her from shore I noticed a fair bit more blood, which might have been just enough of a distraction for me to trip over the log behind me and end in the drink myself.

As I righted myself I felt the water run down the inside of my waders. "Kinda insult to injury, eh?" said one fellow in the boat.

"Yeah, fuck me. And yesterday was my birthday. You'd think..." I cut myself short, not only because I knew no sympathy would be forthcoming, but because I should not expect any and instead soldier on.

I wrung out my fleece and tossed it onto the grass bank. My overjacket, being merely water-resistant, was also useless. I now was in shirtsleeves. I found a band-aid for the deepest incision. I had dry underwear, pants and socks in the car but I wanted to fish more. Besides the rain had stopped.

And then it started again.

I took my cue.

Nice view though.