Shelter Cove - 8/11/22

What a year it's been at the Cove.  After last year's insanely thick and long-lasting anchovy occupation right in the harbor, where at times nearly everyone who tried walked off with fat sacks of big, blubbery king salmon fillets, this season the bait has been scarce, and the big kings that follow and forage on those bait fish have also been hard to find.  I started the year strong with 5 Chinook landed in May plus one for a guest, and then only one bagged in June.  In July I hooked one on the third, and then there was a two week break in the season - then things were going to blow wide open.  Based on recent history, I was very confident of it.  The past several weeks have proven me way wrong.

As I started lining out dates and filling this summer's schedule of guided trips at Shelter Cove, I was intent on not setting myself up for a marathon of long days with not enough rest to keep me at my best.  I'd put days off between trips as well as watching out for committing to too many days per month, and all of this would add up to having my best energy and focus available when late July and early August came along - these typically being the best times for both the presence of salmon and the calmest winds and seas.  By mid-Spring I had my schedule looking good, with plenty of returning clients looking to find big salmon as well as a host of new-to-the-Cove guests, many of whom also had their hearts set on landing an ocean chromer.  Why on Earth I thought that the ocean, the fish or my body would follow some kind of plan is beyond me!

Dan called me up last week looking to book a day with me, and somehow I'd left a little window in my book that corresponded perfectly to what he was hoping for.  How had I not booked up the 11th of August?  It was surrounded by other blank dates, so it should've been filled in - maybe I'd just figured I'd need a respite after the flurry of salmon madness that would surely unfold the last week of July and the first week of August.  Whatever led to it, I was stoked to be signing him up. 

Dan was coming from Reno, and I could feel his enthusiasm over the phone.  He's geared up with a super awesome platform - the Old Town Topwater Autopilot, and he also wanted to bring his downrigger plus a box full of salmon gear.  I advised that the salmon bite's been slow, and I encouraged him to skip the downrigger for our day, and I'd show him some simpler ways to target the different species available.  Salmon wasn't out of the question, by any means, but lately I've had to focus in on what's more likely to be caught.

When I read in our email correspondence that Dan's boat is the "Autopilot", I figured maybe it was equipped with a motor - no worries, I've taken out lots of folks with motors.  I'm not a huge fan of motors on kayaks, but I have no problem paddling all day next to them.  My main concern would be if I sense that someone is using a motor to do more than their body can handle, as this would pose a potential safety hazard and a liability that I'm not willing to accept.  I was also able to view Dan's Youtube channel showing him fishing up at Pyramid Lake, so I could easily surmise that this young man had the energy and abilities that are needed in order to be safe and ready on the open ocean, motor or not.

Our day arrived, and as I pulled down onto the launch I saw a single truck in the dark, right in the middle of the ramp.  I pulled past it to my regular spot along the breakwater, got out and asked in the direction of that lone rig, "Dan?"  It was him, and even though I'd arranged for us to meet at 6AM, he'd beat me to the ramp!  I'm not used to someone being 30 minutes early, but I definitely don't mind that level of eagerness.  We quickly got acquainted and set to work assembling our gear for the day.

By about 630 we were launched and headed out onto a beautiful ocean.  I took Dan through the usual training modules:  how to enter and exit the harbor, where NOT to go, reading the current, orienting using landmarks, redundant radios and navigation tools, and, of course, how we'd target the different species.  Dan was soaking it up and having a ball - he made sure I knew it throughout our session, and that had me really enjoying our time too. 

Feeding off of each other's positive energy, we were treated to a great bite.  Dan got a nice lingcod for his first ocean catch from the yak, and the rockfish were their usual voracious selves.  Of course I had us on the finest tray bait, and the chance for a salmon was there, but all the more common species were doing their thing, and even if some salmon were present, it seemed that it would be very hard to find one with all of those other biters taking out our every offering.  Remember:  it's a very good problem to have!

We made our way to the Whistle Buoy where I show people some of the nuances of locating different species, and there is also always a focus on taking in the views from out there.  I briefly give some facts and history about the King Range, as it towers above the Lost Coast - its first ridge rising to over 4000', making that the highest first ridge off the sea in the continental US.  And I talk about how, back in the day when there were lots of salmon, the powerboat fleet would typically troll outside the Whistle where they wouldn't catch their gear on the reef, and the thick schools of rockfish wouldn't steal all of their best bait.

I'd just pinned another quality anchovy on Dan's hooks after landing our umpteenth rockfish, and we were right next to each other when Dan's like, "OMG!  Something just took my bait before I even deployed it!"  "It's a blac...  NO!  It's a salmon!!"  What a hoot!  This has happened before, and it's almost always a coho - they're active and bold, smaller salmon that will sometimes put on quite a show.  We're not after coho, but where they show up, there could be a Chinook.  I quickly switched out our terminal gear to something more flashy, baited up the new leaders with more tray bait, and we trolled the area hoping to hook the right kind of salmon.  With the fishfinder screen showing basically nothing but marks near the surface, we trolled shallow.  It only took a minute before I had a hit, and as I retrieved my line another (or the same) coho followed the damaged anchovy right to my kayak, striking at it again very near me.  I told Dan what had happened, re-baited, and within another minute I had a coho right by my yak where I used my pliers to lift the single barbless hook from the corner of its mouth, freeing it to swim away.

We trolled a bit more, but there was still no giant bait ball or large "slashes" on the screen that would indicate a school of kings, so we moved on toward the inside, happy to have run into a salmon after over a month of no interaction with my main target.  Dan was stoked too - even though this was the wrong species, he knew that some potential was there for us to find a Chinook this day. 

We got back to the point, and our status remained the same:  rockfish, rockfish, rockfish, and Dan had also landed his limit of lingcod at this point.  The day was a success, and we were off to try to find a halibut along the beach for our last couple of hours on the water.  We wouldn't make it very far though.

Boom!  Dan's on a hot one.  As I cleared my gear and paddled toward my guy, I saw his rod pumping and his line was moving laterally away from him.  I told him this was another salmon, and it wasn't acting like a coho.  Dan acknowledged this as he held onto his rod and announced that this fish was fighting much differently than the others we'd been connecting with all morning.  I could see in Dan's arms and shoulders as well as his eyes that this fish wasn't giving him a chance to "play" it.  Instead, the presumed large king on the end of Dan's line was dominating the moment.  Salmon can do this - especially big salmon.  Dan's fish was shaking its head and body so much in an effort to get away from the hooks, that my guy could neither retrieve line nor get more purchase on a hookset.  Scenes like this leave fishermen feeling helpless and ineffective, as there's literally nothing that can be done to assure some kind of security in the moment.

Dan held the rod high, the fish continued to whip its body back and forth, and then it was over.  Dan reeled in his gear, minus his hooks. 

Losing a fish - especially a salmon, and especially when even getting bit has been a major challenge for over a month - is always disappointing.  Breaking one off multiplies that disappointment.  I'm a leader-checker.  I train people on it.  Whenever a fish bites or one is landed, or when the gear gets snagged or even touches something, the leader is checked.  That 25 pound Maxima must stretch in my hands, and if it breaks I tie on a new one.  This leader had been checked, and when I pulled on Dan's drag a few minutes later it was OK too - maybe a little tight, but a hooked fish could've easily stayed hooked and ran with the line.  This fish nullified any of the strategies and reasoning that I use in conducting myself as a proficient fisherman and guide.  This king salmon dominated the moment.

Dan was thrilled, and I was pretty stoked too.  This shit happens in fishing - you're ready, you do the right thing, you react well, your gear is sufficient, and a fish comes along that kicks your fucking ass.  It's one of the things that we love about the sport, even though it can leave us crying ourselves to sleep for months.

I tied on a new leader, reloaded with bait, and we hoped to find that fish again - or any salmon, of course, but all there were were those voracious rockfish.  The ones that we are so glad to have when nothing else is biting!

We eventually moved on to look for that nearshore halibut, and even though we caught several more rockies and lingcod, we didn't get in on the limited halibut party either.  No worries at all though - this was Dan's first foray into ocean fishing on his killer platform.  He'd take home about 25 pounds of the freshest fish on the planet, and he'd learned a ton about not just the fishing but the whole enchilada - safety, forecasts, the Cove, the species, and the draw that is having your ass handed to you by fish that earn the respect and capture the imaginations of so many manly men like us!

So, I've been trying to not wear myself out, and this tough salmon bite is making that even harder.  I want the trips to bear out so much success and joy, and that's happening - I'm very pleased with the season.  I paddled around all day - 8 hours this session - leading and following a 30-something on a kayak hotrod with a motor, and he wasn't too proud to admit that his fishing muscles were pretty beat after all that we caught for the day!

When I work myself this hard it can get a little weird.  I sit down to write about it, and a combination of passion, fatigue, angst and joy can lead me to amazing places...  Or sometimes I ramble on and maybe miss the mark regarding the messages I hope to send and the responses that I might've elicited with a different approach.  Whatever happens here though, I am deliberately engaging in a way that makes me feel good about my contributions to my community and the world at large.  Maybe this is what Thoreau was talking about.

Dan's family joined he and I at the Tailgate Fillet Station to end the day.  It was the usual scene where cold beer never tasted so good and joy was in the air all around us.  This culmination that occurs after every trip is also one of my designs and one of the ways that I deliberately shape our day.  My policy is that I will not accept payment until the trip is done and the fillets are on ice in the coolers of my guests.  By this time it's often the case that I've spent about 10 to 12 straight hours - or more - engaged with my people or person.  My aim is to show someone one of the most rewarding days of their life, and the tell comes right at the end.  A really nice tip is something that fills me with pride and joy, but having someone offer a heartfelt thank you and a clear and open statement of their satisfaction - that's the real reward.

A salmon showed up, and it got the best of us.  It was one of the greatest days of the summer so far.

...

Thanks again for all the great reports and pictures Eric!