Combat Fishing

Combat Fishing

A number of years ago, Wynn and I took the canoe up on one of those lakes behind Mesa Lakes Resort, Jumbo I think. We usually went to more remote and less crowded places, but on this day there must have been time considerations or something that compelled us to give Jumbo a try. We didn’t know that the lake had just been stocked with all sizes of rainbow trout including some big brood hens. (The hatcheries put these big females out into some selected put-and-take fisheries when they reach the end of their useful lives as egg producers, with rainbows it is usually about 4-5 years.) We also didn’t know that word of the stocking had just hit the streets. The place was an absolute comedy fest.

There were all manner of vehicles pulled right up to the side of the lake. Some were those short bed pick-ups with the giant tires and KC lights on top of the chrome roll bar. They would be pulled up with two wheels in the water and some shaven head, tattooed, and shirtless dude in baggy camo pants would be fishing right out of the seat. There were jalopies and sports cars. There were old station wagons with the cracked plastic dash and the hula girl on there. The thing would be full of beer and soda cans among the musty sleeping bags with some dirty laundry tossed in the corner.

There was competing music blaring out of the rigs with the biggest stereo systems. We had a blend of Mariachi, CW, Heavy Metal and Pop. There were teenage girls who screamed like banshees when they hooked a fish, and old people in assorted patio furniture who looked like they might crack if they smiled. The rig of choice was big lead weights, snelled hooks, and Power Bait, smelly dough in bright colors like chartreuse or hot pink. People in john boats trolled up and down the lake dragging ford fenders and cowbells so they could really dredge the bottom. The lake isn’t big enough for this kind of fishing so the boats were maneuvering in a confused tangle of crossed lines and snagged hooks.

We were kind of drifting around in amused awe, but steadily catching more fish than anyone else on the lake. We knew that those fish that just fell out of the hatchery truck tasted like mud, so we put them back anyway. (The pellets they feed them are made at the rendering plant.) Releasing the fish drew disgusted glances and muffled comments from people who saw us do it. Our awe changed to fear when we discovered we were under attack.

A white service van with ladders on top came screeching up to the side of the lake in a cloud of dust and a cacophony of rattles and bangs from whatever was in the van. The door flew open and huge man—325 pounds easy—jumped out. There was some shuffling around the back door while he rigged up. It took about 25 seconds then KERPLOP!!! There was a giant splash right by the canoe. This guy had taken his two-handed surf casting rod and launched about a half-pound of lead weight, Power Bait, and night crawlers right at the boat. He missed by 18 inches at the most. He waited for the gob to hit bottom, reeled the slack out of his line, lit a cigar, and sat in the seat of the van. It would take a blue fin tuna to exert enough pull on that line to bend the rod. We glanced at each other and paddled like racers for the shore. We loaded up and shagged in about the same amount of time it took the guy to set up the artillery. This was my first encounter in the fishing wars.

The salmon have returned to Puget Sound and started running up the rivers to spawn. The first to arrive are the Pinks or humpies. They are called humpies because they are the ones that develop the distended humps on their backs when they enter fresh water. They are on a two-year cycle and only show up in odd-numbered years. There have been attempts to plant stocks that will come in the other years, but they just haven’t worked. The short lifespan keeps their size to a maximum of 4-5 lbs.

Some months ago, I read a report in the paper that estimated this year’s return of various species to various watersheds. The prediction was that there would be a near record return of humpies to some of the rivers at the north end of the sound, but the return up the Puyallup River (less than ½ mile from our house) would be 770,000 fish. This is somewhat less than the return up the Puyallup two years ago, but an impressive number by today’s standards none the less. (I have no idea how they make these predictions unless all salmon must check in at a station in the Strait of Juan De Fuca where the Pacific Ocean enters the Puget Sound.) It is a good thing that each female salmon yields hundreds of eggs, because I don’t see how more than 3 or 4 will make it past the gauntlet near the mouth of the Puyallup.

Cars and trucks are parked in a solid line along roads paralleling both sides of the river. A glance up or down the stream from one of the bridges reveals shoulder-to-shoulder fisherpersons for as far as you can see in both directions. These are all equipped with big spinning rod and reel combinations. They catch huge numbers of fish since the limit on humpies is 4 per day. Guys get wives and girlfriends involved so that they can bag more fish per family unit. Last week I stopped by at a local discount sporting goods store and saw people carrying out spinning outfits and waders by the cart-full. You will see no fly fishers here. To them these are derisively dubbed “gear fishermen”, or worse, “meat fishermen” and it is suspected that they are more snagging fish than enticing the fish to take lure or bait.

There is a parking area near our house where the Puyallup police have put up a sign warning people not to leave stuff in sight in their cars because of the likelihood of a “smash and grab”. One day as I passed, there were policemen cuffing couple of young ruffians “assuming the position” over the hoods of their cars. These were the shirtless, tattooed, baggy-camo-pants sort we had encountered that day on Jumbo. I don’t know if they were breaking into cars or if they had shot someone over disputed position in the gauntlet line. There was a salmon flopping around on the asphalt near a guardrail that people have to climb over enroute to and fro’ the river. It obviously slipped out of a trash bag or off a makeshift stringer.

Before the fish enter the river at its mouth in Commencement Bay, they swim near the shore in the sound itself past an old lighthouse on Brown’s Point. There is more honor in catching the fish here because you can’t snag them and because they are livelier and tastier when they are “bright”. Bright refers to the fact that the fish have yet to turn dark like they do shortly after entering fresh water. Brown’s Point is the beginning of the gauntlet, but a place where you will actually see a few fly fishers. I fished here a couple of weeks ago on a week day when I was able to find enough room to cast. I landed a couple of smallish Pinks and turned them loose, much to the dismay of the audience of gear fishermen. The last fish I hooked was easily 5 lbs. and, according to a local who witnessed the battle, “about as big as they get.” Landing this strong bright fish on a 5 weight rod and a reel with no drag was a challenge. (The drag was frozen up from the corrosive effects of saltwater.) She made several runs and caused people on either side to courteously get their lines out of the water so that I could fight the fish. Still, I had to hold the fish steady while a guy took his treble hooked lure off the end of my rod. My instinct on landing the fish was to release it, but I could tell that I would have been tarred and feathered by the people who had to stop fishing while I landed the thing. I had read that the Pinks aren’t much good to eat because their flesh is less firm and not as red in color as some of the species that spend more time eating shrimp and plankton in the ocean. The article said that if you do keep one, you should bleed it immediately (cut the gills), and get it on ice a.s.a.p. I bled the fish and bolted for the nearest convenience store to get it on a bag of ice. We grilled it that evening, and it was pretty good—not as rich as a Chinook or Coho but a lot like a good wild trout.

The Brown’s Point experience deserves some attention. On my first trip there this season, I got a good exposure to fishing in combat conditions. Since the fish swim close to shore, but sometimes just out of casting range, the gauntlet consists of shoulder to shoulder fishers wading and casting out. At the same time there are fishers floating in boats and casting in. I often had lures landing within a few feet of me from both directions—from the boats in front and from the kids behind who couldn’t wade out far enough to get right in the fray. There was one older gentleman who didn’t have waders, so he was casting from the shore. As I approached my spot in the line, I made it a point to walk behind and well clear of this nice fellow, and left him plenty of room to cast between me and the next guy in the line. We got along just fine so long as I was able to ignore the occasional errant cast that landed just off my port side. Before long, a dazed looking old hippie guy with a gray pony tail came wading along and unconsciously took up position right in front of the poor fellow on the shore. The old boy just shook his head with a dejected look, and headed home.

While this was going on, a confrontation took place between a wading fisherman and a guy in a boat. They were both casting to the same spot and sometimes got their lines crossed. The wading guy made a comment about the boat guy’s lineage and about the fact that he had the whole ____ing sound to fish in but had to be right there casting at us. It was one of those battles with little chance of escalating to violence because wading guy had the sympathy of the crowd, and boat guy had mobility on his side. Apparently neither was armed. There was a bemused seal out there watching all of this. He would dive every now and then, and come up 50 or so yards down the beach to watch another group of yahoos sling treble hooks at one another.

Combat fishing got so out of hand on a stretch of the Skykomish River that officials had to close it due to the disgusting behavior of the fishers. Aside from the rude behavior already discussed, apparently people were so afraid of loosing their spot in the gauntlet that they would just go the shore, drop trou, and shit right on the bank. The Pink run is about over now and will give way to the silvers (Coho). I expect the circus to continue with one species after the other well into December with the Chums. I have found places to fish where there is little if any competition, and the experience is much more enjoyable. I landed a bright 22 inch Coho the other night with only Kristin and two young men watching. They said they had been fishing that area for four years and had never caught a fish like that. They damned sure had not seen one caught on a fly rod. If I hadn’t fixed that pesky drag, I would never have landed that fish, and for those of you who think I might be one of those purist catch-and release snobs, we ate that bugger too. It is unlikely that I will kill another fish this year. I think the fishing gods might punish a fish murderer who knows better. I might get sent to a Hell where all fishing is in the combat mode.