FISHIN’ ‘ROUND THE WORLD
Northern Pike, Great Slave Lake, Northwest Territories, Canada Fishin' 'Round the World
An improbable collection of fish stories.
By John
Peacock Bass. Rio Itapara, Brazil
FISHIN’ ‘ROUND THE WORLD
CONTENTS
IntroductionFishin’ in British Columbia
Alaska Float Fishin’
A Wild and Crazy Business (and Fishin’) Trip
Bare Lake
Amazon Adventure
Trout Rock Lodge
Trout Rock Lodge Again
Skitchene Lake
A Mystery Lake
Mystery Lake again
And Yet Another Mystery Lake Tale
Yap
Caverhill Lake
Tuna ‘Round the World
Yellowfin
Westport Tuna
More Tuna
Tuna 2008
Hawaii
Ozark Fishin’
More Ozark Fishin’
Caverhill 2009
Finale
INTRODUCTION
I’ve enjoyed fishin’ since I was a little kid, but with the pressures of trying to earn a living, along with raising a family, I didn’t have much time to wet a line. But over the years, I did manage to get in a bit of angling, with an improbable, and ever changing bunch of kindred souls. In fact, I even managed to mix work and fishin’ a few times, with someone else usually footing the bill.
But when I did bid adieu to the working world I at last had the time and resources, along with the inclination, to pursue this fishing business in a big way.
I almost immediately ran into a serious problem, though, which almost derailed the show. It seemed that all my old fishing buddies were either dead, broke, decrepit, or had just plain lost interest. Nobody wanted to join me in this great adventure.
Then I thought of Sam. Although I had never actually fished with him, I had been associated with for him for years, and as we traveled the world together he had bored me with many tales of his fishing exploits.
He was newly retired, had money, a boat, a four wheel drive truck, and lots of other such toys. Seemed like he might be the perfect fishing companion.
We soon got together for a fishing trip, and talk about male bonding, it was instantaneous. Anyhow, in the next ten years or so, we fished together around the world, having a bit of adventure and a lot of improbable experiences in the process. After some of our most interesting excursions, I would jot down my recollections, mostly for the enjoyment of my “armchair“ fishing friends. Some of the stuff, though, did get published, and sometimes even got favorable reviews
But I did have some memorable fishing experiences before hooking up with Sam, as well as some great tuna catching around the world, with and without my good fishin’ buddy. And I thought it would be interesting to chronicle the best of these experiences, as well. Anyway, I gathered some of my more interesting fishin’ anecdotes into a small book, and this, for better or for worse, is the result.
FISHIN' IN BRITISH COLUMBIA
Long long ago when my boys were small, I was into fishing the wilds of British Columbia, with some kindred souls, and their boys, as well. And I thought that here would be as good a place as any to spin a tale about a couple of these experiences.
I’ll start off by letting you know that some of these guys were in the advertising business. They didn’t make a lot of money, but were sure good at trading advertising for almost anything imaginable. They really outdid themselves, though, when they made a deal with a catering company to trade advertising for the food and drink intended for a wedding reception.
So here we are at this godforsaken Canadian fish camp, our table set with white linen tablecloths and candelabra. Along with all the champagne we could drink, and all the canapés and other assorted finger food we could eat.
Of course, we gathered a crowd, and then salesman Fred would get into his act. Seems our guys had also traded for a few cases of potent fish bait, of a kind unknown in Canada. Since we were usually the best fishermen in camp, Fred would go into his spiel, convincing the yokels that our success was all due to this special bait. The jars of bait just flew out, at two dollars per, but so did the free champagne and food. I am sure that if we had to pay for the refreshments, we would have come out well in the red.
Speaking of booze, we had a sure fire method to get the kids to sleep in the evening, so we could get on with swapping serious fishing lies. Just before bedtime we would mix up this concoction, consisting of Kool Aid, with a generous dollop of Rye, which we christened Canadian Pop. A shot of this for each kid, and they were down for the count. The wives eventually became kind of suspicious, however, when tales of this beverage filtered back home.
One time though, on one of these trips, we got about as much adventure as we could handle.
There were three guys and six kids, all packed into my almost new Sport Utility, at about two AM, with George driving. Then out popped a deer, she was blinded by the headlights, and George hit her head on. So here we are, about 150 miles from nowhere, in a totally wrecked truck, not to mention the six kids.
Making a quick survey of the damage, it looked like the deer, the radiator, and miscellaneous car parts were pretty much wrapped around the front of the engine, and, pending major repairs the truck wasn’t going anywhere.
I hitched a ride with a trucker, who dropped me off at the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) station in the next town. The Constable, after I finally woke him up, was not in a particularly good mood, since he had just got to sleep after closing the Pub, but finally agreed to call a wrecker, and hauled me back to the wreck site.
At the site, the cop got things tidied up, they hauled off the truck, and he gave us all a ride back to town. Feeling a bit sorry for us, I guess, he then led us to an abandoned travel trailer where we all bedded down for the night.
Next morning, about 7:00 AM, the cop is back. First thing, since there was a fatality involved (the deer), we had to fill out innumerable forms. This looked like unnecessary bureaucratic foolishness to me, so I took substantial poetic license. Like listing the name of deceased as Jane Doe, with address of 2020 Northwoods Avenue, and so forth. This endeared me to my buddies, but the cop, understandably, was not pleased.
This task accomplished, we turned our attention to the truck, which was even worse off than it had looked in the dark. The only option, it seemed would be to tow the thing the 200 miles to Vancouver, which would have probably cost the Insurance company an arm and a leg, and ruined the trip, in the bargain.
But we had some tools with us, and it seemed that we might be able to tear off the damaged sheet metal, replace the destroyed radiator and the rest of the mechanical bits, and get the thing running again. So, after getting the insurance company’s OK, we phoned the dealer in Vancouver with a list of what we needed, rented a pickup from a local for $150 and Fred took off to pick up the parts. An all day gig.
Meantime we pulled off, or beat out the damaged sheet metal, and stripped off the radiator and the other busted stuff. It was hotter than Hell, but fortunately, there was a swimming pool for the boys, and a Pub with cold beer for us, so we all survived.
When Fred returned in late afternoon, we bolted on the new parts, filled her up with water, lit her off, and believe it or not, she ran, and even tracked pretty good. So everybody piled in, and we were off for the fishing camp.
Now this camp was a bit posh, with the owners a bit snobbish as well, and they were not about to let three greasy and dirty guys, with a beat up truck, and six wild kids, anywhere near their camp. But it was getting dark, and we finally prevailed on them to let us set up in the back forty, away from the proper folk.
Next morning we hit the lake, and guess what, we knocked ‘em dead. When pulling in for a break, we also found that no one else in the camp had caught a fish for three days. Fred took this opportunity to pitch his fish bait, we explained our technique, he sold quite a bit, and people started catching a few fish. So now, despite the wrecked truck, we are genuine heroes. We moved to the best spot in camp, and had a productive and enjoyable stay. So, sometimes, things don’t turn out so bad after all.
ALASKA FLOAT FISHIN'
One of the more improbable jobs in my career was building a power plant in a native Alaskan village.
With the job complete, Bob Swanson, the Anchorage electrical contractor who helped me with that project, wanted to host a genuine Alaskan bush fishing trip to show his appreciation for getting the work.
Bob planned to fly us from Anchorage to a lake near the headwaters of the Sustina River. From whence we would portage to the river, then float it for four days, fishing all the way. And finally fly back to Anchorage from the lower reaches of this stream.
My boys and I flew up from Seattle, with about a truckload of gear. Two rubber rafts with paddles and plywood floorboards. And one outboard as well. Along with packs, sleeping bags, fishing gear, and assorted other kit. And miraculously, the stuff all made it as checked luggage, with no excess baggage or overweight charges. Oh for the good old days.
It was about 9:00 PM and just getting dark when we made wheels up out of Seattle’s Sea Tac airport. Upon arrival at Anchorage at 10:00 PM though, the sun was shining brightly. We were met by Bob with his truck, and headed for his house, where we met our fishing partners to be. A grand total of twelve lost souls. Including a cocktail waitress from Klinkendaggers, who joined us at the last minute.
Of course nothing would do but to welcome the newcomers with a good ol’ Alaska party, so we bunked my boys in a spare room, and had at it. We were interrupted, though, at about two AM, when son Whalen crept in and announced, “Dad, it s getting light, and it wasn't even dark yet.
Welcome to Alaska, kid!
Anyway, after a couple hours sleep, we all made our way to Merrill Field, where we found our airplane and met the pilot.
The airplane we impressed for this venture was a six place Grumman Widgeon, an ex Navy seaplane of WW II vintage. It was a bit long in the tooth, as was the pilot, but had been reengined, and was in reasonably good shape.
The idea was to have a five rubber raft convoy with the lead two rafts powered by outboards. This would give us four rafts, each with three persons aboard, plus a freight raft. This, understandably, involved about a ton of gear. But after eyeballing this monstrous pile, and doing a few weight and balance calculations, we figured that if we overloaded the plane just a bit, we could transport the whole shebang out to the starting lake with just three trips of the Widgeon. This was a pretty important consideration, as Bob was paying for the plane by the hour, and we needed to minimize flying time.
Incidentally, overloading a plane was pretty standard bush flying procedure in those days, particularly with a seaplane. ‘Cause you don’t run out of runway on the water, and if the plane won’t get off, one can just taxi back to the dock and offload a can of beans, or a pair of socks, or whatever. And then have at it again.
So off we went. And we made it in three trips too. But I can remember on the last trip, young son Whalen, sitting in the back seat with stuff piled all around him. Literally up to his ears in freight. The guys on the first two trips portaged the gear from lake to river, while the airplane went back for more. The portage wasn’t bad, so we celebrated with a few beers while inflating and packing the boats, and testing the engines.
Turned out the gal from Klinkendaggers had never fished in her life and hardly knew which end of the pole to hang on to, but she wanted to start right now. So I rigged her a pole with spinning reel and some kind of a spoon, and helped her with a couple of practice casts. And would you believe, on her first cast for real, she hooked about a five pound Jack Salmon. So nothing would do but to build a fire and cook it on the spot. It did make a nice snack though, to go with the beer.
Eventually we got loaded up and cast off. Me with one outboard towing a string of three boats, and Bob, with the other outboard, pulling the freight boat. We found a likely looking sandbar a couple of miles down stream, tied up for the night, and made our first camp.
Oh, and I forgot to mention, the mosquitoes were fierce. They don’t bite me, so I didn’t notice, but everyone else was catching Hell. In the boats on the river they weren’t too bad, particularly if there was a breeze. But as soon as we disembarked, they would eat us alive. Young son Whalen, in particular, got initiated early on, when wandering off into the bush to answer a call of nature. He dropped his pants in a secluded spot, but then got bit about 100 times before he could get them back up. From then on, we would “sanitize” a maybe twelve foot circle with bug spray, before doing our business, and if lucky, would only get bit a couple of times.
Same with the tent interior. It would be sprayed liberally before retiring, and at intervals throughout the night. Some of the guys tried wearing mosquito nets, but these only succeeded in trapping the mosquitoes between net and face, with the additional benefit of making one look like a tenderfoot. (Really bad form in Alaska).
We had timed the trip just right, at the peak of the King Salmon run. Only drawback, according to the arcane Alaska Fish and Game rules, was that the river was closed for Kings. (King Salmon, that is.) One really needed a lawyer to figure out the rules, but the game wardens pretty much held that ignorance of the law was no excuse.
But as you might know, Rainbow Trout follow the Salmon to feast on stray eggs, and Rainbow fishing was open. So we fished for Rainbow, or that’s what we told the wardens. The gear was a little heavy for Rainbows, but really too light for King Salmon, so who was to tell the difference. We were also practicing catch and release for everything, so could we help it if a big King got on our Trout rig.
We lost two Kings for everyone we caught, but there were so many of them, who knew the difference. Some of these guys were running 40 to 70 pounds, and when a 70 pound boy tied into one, it was a sight to watch. A guess I mislaid the pictures, but I had taken some of Whalen alongside a fish he caught that was as big as he was.
Speaking of fish and game wardens, they really had a pretty good system. Flying around in their Super Cub, they would spot a potential violator, and then radio their buddies, on boats in the river, as to the fisherman’s exact location. The cops would then swoop down in their high powered machines and catch the perps red handed.
Anyway, that was the idea. They always seemed to find us, though, with either no fish, or only a couple of trout. Which led one warden to muse that it seemed odd that the best equipped guys on the river that summer (Like how many had a bar maid to serve drinks) were apparently the worst fishermen.
We soon found that the wardens packed it in at about 6:00 PM, so after that we would keep one or two nice fish for dinner. And since it never got really dark, everyone could fish as late as they wished. This became a particular problem with my boys, ‘cause they were loath to quit while still catching fish, and this could go on well into the night.
So it was float, fish, float, fish, float, camp and then repeat this drill the next day, and the next, for the entire four days.
And, just to make things a bit more interesting, there was the odd Kodiak, or Alaska Brown bear. About twice as big as a Grizzly, and four times as mean. We carried an assortment of firearms but the old hands knew that anything short of a twenty millimeter cannon would only make these guys mad. The bears really were mainly interested in fishing though, so the best solution to the bear problem was to leave them to their fishing and find somewhere else to do ours.
A couple of the old timers did swear that the best bet to neutralize these bears was to sneak up on them, shove an old Walrus harpoon up their posterior, give the attached rope a couple of half hitches around the nearest tree, then run like Hell. Fortunately, (or unfortunately) the harpoons had been forgotten at home, or so they said.
Only other real problem was that the rocks in the river were tough on shear pins, and after depleting our supply of spares, we were forced to scrounge rusty nails from abandoned trapper’s shacks. Things got really bad, though when Bob broke our only operable pair of pliers. So from that time on were reduced to cutting the nails to length with an axe, then kind of riveting them through the shaft with two axes, Crude, but effective.
We finally reduced the shear pin wastage somewhat, by posting a lookout in the bow of each powered boat to watch for obstructions, but he never seemed to spot them all. Also had a bit of trouble with the freight raft from time to time, when it would hang up on something and we would have to cut the towrope before everything swamped. Then it was circle back, free the raft from the obstruction, and hitch up again.
Of course, we had the usual air leaks in the boats, but we had pumps and patches, so no real problems.
Finally we got to the appointed meeting place, and believe it or not, the airplane showed up, the right day, and only a couple of hours late. This was before GPS, reliable radios, or satellite phones, so one had to just hope that one was in the correct rendezvous spot, the pilot had remembered, and that the airplane would show up.
So three trips, and several hours later, we were all back in Anchorage, safe and sound, with only a few cuts and scrapes, numerous mosquito bites, and a case or two of sunburn to show for the ordeal.
Anyway, a good time was had by all, with fond memories and a new supply of war stories for everyone. And yes, the young lady did make it back to Klinkendaggers with her honor intact.
A WILD AND CRAZY BUSINESS (AND FISHIN’) TRIP
And sometimes, I actually managed to mix fishin’ with business, and even better, like in the previous story, got somebody else to pay for it. I need to tell you in advance, though, that this yarn is more adventure than fishin’. And it is set in the West Indies, where long long ago, I was building a water treatment plant for the Rockefellers.
Anyway, while installing this plant on St John, in the US Virgin Islands, I had to make a business trip, to visit a resort owner in the British Virgin Islands, about 50 miles away. This guy was also a pretty good fisherman, and the resort had a 28 foot Bertram, rigged for fishing. To top it off, , it was the slow tourist season, but we had heard that the yellowfin, and possibly the Bluefin Tuna were running, so maybe we could get in a bit of fishin’ as well.
The British Virgin Islands (BVI) as the name implies, was and is a British Crown Colony, one of the last vestiges of the old empire. In those days, it was a real backwater, with less than one hundred whites, not counting the resort guests, in the whole place.
The best way to get there, it seemed, was a charter with RockAir, a rinky-dink airline that flew a couple of ancient Britten-Norman Islanders. Now the Islander is an excellent bush plane, but these were a little long in the tooth, as were the pilots, for that matter.
My companion, who incidentally had never been anywhere, and I, started the adventure early in the morning by hopping a commuter flight from St. Thomas to San Juan International, in Puerto Rico. There we made contact with the RockAir pilot who drove us to the airplane. At this point our other two passengers joined us, a young American couple on what appeared to be their honeymoon, who were headed for some remote spot in the BVI.
We threw our baggage in back, climbed in and belted up, and guess what, the machine wouldn’t start. At this development, the pilot, who was a real West Indies character, pulled a rum bottle from under the seat, had a large swig, and passed it around, while he assessed the situation. Then after a short council, we decided that the batteries were flat and we were in need of a starter cart. We finally located such a cart, and after a few more belts of rum, got it hooked up. But you guessed it, the machine still wouldn’t start. At this point, I enquired as to the availability of tools, and finding some in the baggage compartment, convinced the pilot that he and I could probably fix the plane. So, out came the tools, and off came the cowlings. The cause of the trouble soon became apparent. It was corroded battery terminals. So we cleaned them up, put the cowlings back on and got back into our seats. By this time, the rum bottle was empty, but our mechanical endeavors had been successful, and the plane fired up immediately.
After an otherwise uneventful flight, we reached Virgin Gorda, the island that was our destination. The pilot though, through his alcoholic haze could barely make out the runway, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a 3000 foot dirt strip wedged between a cliff and the ocean, with a 30 degree dogleg smack in the middle. This really shouldn’t have been a big deal, because the Islander can normally land in 1500 feet or less, but the pilot had never before seen the strip, and was not in the best of condition. Anyway, since we couldn’t stay airborne forever, we decided to chance it. And aside from a good bounce when we landed, everything turned out OK.
Upon alighting from the plane, we bade our newfound American friends good bye, borrowed a Moke, (A Moke is a kind of Jeep, but made in Australia, of all places.) wheeled over to the resort got our business out of the way in short order, and found we had time for a short fishin' trip, and in no time were on our way
It was one of those great tropic afternoons. Sun high in the sky, a few wispy white clouds, and just a slight chop on the water, from the ever present Trades (Wind, that is). We were finding the Tuna by chasing the birds, and had a bit of success, boating a few yellowfin, but unfortunately no blues. And a couple of Barracuda did find their way onto the hooks as well.
But the sun was sinking, the beer was almost gone, and we needed to do “wheels up” before dark.
On the way to the strip, though, we did find time hit the local watering hole, a quaint thatched roof shack on the beach, with all four sides open to the sea breeze. This place was right out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie. Most of the dozen or so customers looked to be retired British Government functionaries who were playing darts and draughts (checkers), while nursing their pink gins and commiserating about the glory days of Empire. There were also a few beach bums, and other lost souls, the kind of detritus which you would expect to find in such a setting.
Anyway we grabbed a quick drink before we tore ourselves away, and then piled on the Islander for the ride home. All in all, that was some fishing trip. Wouldn’t you say? And the best part, it was all paid for by someone else.
BARE LAKE
My previous buddies had always talked of the fish camp at Bare Lake, in central British Columbia, as a great destination, but as it involved a helicopter ride, we never quite made it. But I had thought it would be a good outing, so I convinced Sam that we should give it a try as our first excursion.
In doing research for the trip, the first thing that we found out was that the BC government, in their wisdom, had decided to make the area surrounding the camp roadless, and off limits to motor vehicles. So the only means of ingress and egress would be a helicopter. (Using horses, or a horse and wagon, never seems to have occurred to the camp operators.)
Incidentally, in my view, helicopters, and horses, for that matter, are means of transportation not suited for civilized persons, and are to be avoided at all costs. But this was an emergency. There was no Beaver (airplane) to be chartered, so if we wanted to go fishing it was the helicopter or nothing.
But when we showed up at the Kamloops airport, at the appointed day and hour, it soon became apparent that the helicopter would not accommodate us, along with our baggage, and all the camp supplies, which were being ferried in.
So, we made the obvious decision and offloaded the propane tanks for the lodge, to make room for the four cases of Corona which we were bringing in, along with our duffel and fishing gear. All in all, we were probably about 200 pounds over the forty pound limit, which we had been told was mandatory. So, after an uneventful 40 minute ride (if any ride in those horrific machines can be called uneventful) we set down at camp, and were welcomed by our hosts, Chuck and Jeannie, and a decidedly unfriendly dog.
Jeannie became a bit unfriendly as well, if not royally pissed, when she learned that her propane tanks, which were intended to fuel the lodge range, had been left behind in favor of our beer.
Sam made a few points with Chuck also, when he correctly suggested that the windows in the lodge, which had been installed by Chuck personally during a recent remodeling, had been put in upside down.
This all may have had something to do with why we were assigned to the oldest and smallest cabin in the place. Furnished with two cots and a rough table and chairs, the cabin also contained a washbasin, a composting toilet, a wood stove, and intermittently operating twelve volt lights. Not to mention a variety of spikes pounded into walls and beams to serve as elementary coat hooks.
In exploring the washhouse, we found that the hot water was produced by ancient flash heaters. These contraptions, which I had not seen since Europe in the ‘50s, had a gas flame which heated water in a coil, rather than a tank. When called upon to operate, they generally spit scalding steam or cold water, and sometimes both at the same time.
By now it was getting close to dinnertime, so we trooped into the lodge to have a beer and meet the rest of the staff. Two pretty girls in their late teens and a 13 year old boy. These kids, like the staffs in most of these Canadian operations, were nieces and nephews from “Down East” who had been enticed to spend a summer vacation in the North Woods, but actually found themselves in involuntary servitude for the season. The problem with such arrangements, of course, is that you soon run out of prospective labor, as word on actual working conditions filters back home.
Fellow guests included three really repulsive characters from Seattle, one of whom claimed to be a Director of a major corporation, and an 85 year old retired judge. The judge seemed to have some influence, as he had the best cabin in the place, and his own boat. He had his future fishing trips planned in detail for the next 10 years, and spun impressive yarns about past excursions. Particularly interesting was his story about a trip to Chile where the fish cost him $3000 apiece. Seems that after catching three fish he became ill and had to be air evacuated out, at a cost approaching $9000.
About this time the dinner bell rang and we filed into the dining room and took our places. Jeannie, at the head of the table looked to be saying grace, but instead she launched into a lengthy speech about rules. Seems she and Chuck were the original tree huggers, and they had some doozeys. Among them being a strict catch and release policy on fishing, an admonition not to use too much wood, and a warning that under no circumstances was one to touch the showerheads.
Then came a subject hardly fit for polite dinner conversation, a lecture, in graphic detail, on how to use the composting toilets. Jeannie explained that you climb up on the contraption and do your business while precariously balancing yourself. You then scoop peat moss over the whole disgusting mess and turn a crank to mix things up. Sam, at this point, asked if he could simplify matters by simply putting the peat moss in his shorts, and I suggested that it might be easier just to go s… in the woods like the bears. While these remarks didn’t sit too well with Jeannie and Chuck, they did draw appreciative chuckles from the other guests, and best of all, effectively turned off the lecture.
Dinner was surprisingly good, considering that since there was no propane, it was cooked on the backup wood stove. We also ate by candlelight, since the normal lamps were fueled by propane as well. After dinner and back on our porch, we had a couple more Coronas, along with a well earned cigar, and then rolled into the sack.
Next morning after breakfast, we tried the main lake. Lots of action, but the fish were a bit smallish. We did note though, that Chuck was continually watching us through binoculars, and whenever we got within hailing distance of the lodge he would call out “Be Careful of My Fish”. Kind of weird behavior, to say the least.
Next morning, tiring of Chuck’s oversight, we decided to try one of the remote lakes. Turned out that the 13 year old doubled as the guide, and he was dispatched to get us there. Well, after traversing over hill and dale in what seemed like a trek across at least two counties, we finally arrived at our destination. This lake, to use the term loosely, seemed more like an oversize mud puddle, and was totally bereft of fish. Wildlife, though, was plentiful. A couple of moose and about a million mosquitoes.
The trip home was even longer and muddier that the one out. And was complicated by the fact that was now raining the proverbial cats and dogs. When we finally slogged into the cabin we were wet, cold, and too pooped to pant, but we did manage to get a roaring fire going. This got us thoroughly dried out, although we almost burned the cabin down in the process.
Oh yes, on both the trip out and back, Sam was busy educating the kid on the nefarious ways of women, and how to handle them, Sam style.
The kid, when he hit camp, immediately headed for his sisters, to try out some of this stuff he had learned from Sam, with predictably disastrous results.
So when we innocently went in for dinner, Sam got an earful, first from the sisters for filling a young kid’s mind with such garbage, and then from the kid, for getting him in trouble with his sisters. So now we had everyone in camp mad at us, except maybe the judge, who seemed bemused by this whole charade.
Things couldn’t get worse, we thought, but guess what, next morning things did. While fishing the far end of the lake a shear pin on the motor inexplicitly sheared, which is what shear pins are supposed to do. The real problem, though, was when Sam attempted to set things right, he dropped the propeller overboard. This necessitated a two-mile row on Sam’s part, into the wind and rain, to get us back to the lodge. Of course, during all of this, Chuck was watching us through his binoculars, but made no effort to come out in the available powerboat and tow us in.
This really upset Sam, so after a short council of war, we decided to cut the trip short and go out with the three imbeciles from Seattle, who were leaving the next day. This would necessitate an extra helicopter charter, but Jeannie seemed to think that it was well worth it.
So, next morning we bid fond adieu to Bare Lake. Some of our gear and the three jerks went out on the first chopper and we departed on the second. But our troubles were not over yet. Alighting from the machine in Kamloops, we found that our gear from the first aircraft was nowhere to be found. Seems that our “friends” had just thrown ALL of the gear, both theirs and ours, into their truck, and headed for Seattle.
This of course required several phone calls to straighten things out, with those idiots actually blaming us for the problem, and us finally having to drive clear into downtown Seattle to retrieve the gear.
But there is still more to the story. Predictably, the place went broke and was put up for sale. Sam and I enquired as to the particulars, and were told that only serious buyers need apply. When we explained that we could buy the place out of petty cash, and still have enough left over for beer and hot dogs, it turned out that Chuck and Jeannie, upon hearing of our interest, had told their estate agent (Canadian for Realtor) not to entertain a sale to us under any circumstances.
So, there went our dream of a second career as fishing camp hosts. We couldn’t figure out though, whether our wives were relieved or only disappointed.
AMAZON ADVENTURE
After the Bare Lake fiasco, I thought we might need some professional help in planning our trips so I employed a fishing travel agent. Although he proved to be a real bust, this first trip he recommended did turn out to be OK. But let me tell you about it.
The Varig flight landed in Manaus at 5:00 AM, after an overnight flight from Miami. So here we are on the Amazon River in the heart of Brazil, with nothing but jungle for hundreds of miles in every direction. This looked to be a great fishing adventure
We, along with eight other sleepy guys, were met by a native and transferred to another airport where two very small airplanes awaited. They had this funny thing going round and round out in front, and were of an age that the Red Baron would have appreciated. It was said that they were manufactured sometime in the distant past by a company called Embraer.
Sam, myself, and six others piled into the lead plane and were off. The last two guys and the luggage boarded the second plane and were stranded. The machine wouldn’t start.
Two and a half hours and 300 miles further into the jungle, and precisely on the equator, we landed at a primitive strip on the Itapara River (A tributary of a tributary of the Amazon.) At least we didn’t hit a cow, as was the fate of one of the previous flights. If you have read ”The Witness” by John Grisham, you would know exactly where we were.
Next to the airstrip was a kind of oversized thatch roofed hut, which turned out to have 5 rooms and a dining area. The hut, and the furniture therein had been built on site, from native materials, with no help but a chain saw and an axe. Needless to say, it was kind of primitive. We did though, have a private bath, of sorts, with an old pull chain toilet. The problem with ours, though, was that when you pulled the chain, you were just as apt to get five gallons of water around your feet, as in the bowl. This defect was finally remedied the day before we left, but we never did get used to hearing eight other guests snoring all night.
So here we are. We have boats and guides, so let’s go fishing. The problem was that the rods and other gear were back in Manaus on the non starter airplane. On the plus side, this gave us a chance to meet our guide, and swill down some of the good, and free, Brazilian beer. Our guide, Pelado, was a really neat Indian kid who didn’t speak a word of English. Brazilians speak Portuguese, as you probably know, so it looked like we might have a problem. But then my rudimentary knowledge of Spanish (which is kind of close to Portuguese) was called into play, and between that and sign language, we established essential communication.
Eventually the errant plane showed up with the luggage, so with two fishermen and one guide per boat, we set out on our great fishing adventure.
Being on the equator, of course, the sun was directly overhead. One self styled expert warned us that the sun would burn us to a crisp, and that mosquitoes and flies would eat us alive, if we showed one square inch of skin. Unfortunately, there is usually one of these “experts” in every camp, and we figured him to be wrong on this point, as he was on most others. So Sam and I happily dressed in tee shirts and shorts, and had not one ounce of trouble with either sun or bugs.
We were basically fishing in a large swamp, hundreds of square miles, with innumerable creeks rivers, bays, lakes and bayous. Sort of like the Mississippi delta. Again if you read Grisham’s book, it was a dead ringer for where the missionary lived. For company, we had jaguars, (the animal, not the car), picas (a kind of rabbit), anacondas, crocodiles, sea snakes, river otters, monkeys, and assorted birds. Also weird creatures, identifiable only by their blood chilling screams and shrieks. Not to mention piranhas, and barracuda type fish, to name a few. One could be lost there for days, and we thought we were once, when the outboard blew a head gasket miles from the lodge, but Pelado nursed it home. I think that he would probably have carried us in on his back, if he thought it was necessary.
Fishing was fantastic. Peacock Bass up to 25 pounds as well as other strange species. Once we figured out the drill, we could easily catch up to a hundred a day. It turned out that although spoons, plugs and flies worked fairly well, casting a live piranha was always a sure thing. The problem, of course was getting the piranha. Although Pelado was pretty efficient at catching them with a hand line and storing them in the bait well, the problem was to keep from getting nipped when putting them on the hook.
On one lake, we did have some competition from a crocodile. He would hang out till we had a fish on, and then swim over, full speed, to take it away from us. After a score of crocodile three, fisherman zero, he finally tired of this game and went away. The barracuda type fish would also sometimes grab your fish, so all you would pull in was a head. One day a river otter also wanted to share, but Pelado jumped in, grabbed him by the tail and pulled him up on the bank.
In appreciation for his good work, Sam kept Pelado in cigars. And in the evening, cigar smoke would waft up through the floorboards, from where the guides were sacked out, in their quarters under the lodge.
But back to fishin’. And one good fish story was the fish we caught twice. You see, there was this big old peacock bass lying in his nest. He was at least 25 pounds, and not interested in anything we had to offer. Finally, when Sam dropped a live piranha in front of his nose, he inhaled it, and took off. The twenty pound test line broke like string and the fish was gone. Pelado managed to grab the end of the line and wrap it around a bottle, but the fish took that away too. Oh well, there are other fish in the sea, but that was a nice one. Anyway, after cruising around a bit, we happened back over the nest, and guess what, there was our fish, lying as if nothing had happened. Pelado, not to be cheated again, jumped into that crocodile, piranha, snake, and God knows what else infested river and started looking for the line. Eventually he found it and carefully tied it onto Sam’s remaining line. This time Sam was very careful, and finally managed to land the monster. After a photo session, we let him go, but he did not, and I repeat, did not, return to the nest again. I guess twice was enough.
Our story would not be complete, without a word about the food. Breakfasts were fairly conventional, but dinner was a real experience. For starters there was all the delicious soup one could eat, then two main courses. One course consisted of fish, and the other was an unknown jungle creature. Inquiries as to exactly what we were eating were useless, as the lodge staff knew even less English than Pelado. One day a couple of the guys went hunting and bagged a croc and a pica, so at least we knew what was on the menu that night. We eventually figured out that the soup, while very tasty, was concocted from yesterdays unknown jungle creature, ground up and mixed with a liberal helping of beans.
Anyway, nobody got permanently lost, Pelado happily puffed on Sam’s cigars, and the trip, all in all, greatly exceeded Sam’s and my expectations. However, one really should have an open mind and some taste for adventure to appreciate such an outing.
And here is an interesting sequel to the Amazon story:
My CA doctor's practice is almost exclusively with very rich people. I guess I must be her charity case who she takes care of 'cause she kind of likes me.
Anyway, I had given her a copy of the Amazon story, along with a pic of me holding the crocodile. You know, like I had caught it. She liked the pic so well she hung it on the wall in her private office.
So one day I am hanging out in the waiting room, and get into a conversation with this rich guy fisherman, who was bragging about fishing all over the world. I told him that I was into fishing a bit, and had recently returned from the Amazon, where I had been fishing for crocodiles. Of course, he didn't believe me, so I ushered him into Doc's private office, and there was me and the croc, big as life.
TROUT ROCK LODGE
For our next big trip, we decided to head in the other direction, to the Canadian arctic.
We were looking for an out of the way fishing spot, with some really big fish. And it seemed that Trout Rock Lodge, on the Great Slave Lake, in Canada's Northwest Territories, might meet our expectations. Not too expensive, and an almost guaranteed chance to land trophy Northern Pike.
Although Sam kept saying that the place was only two blocks south of the North Pole, it is actually at latitude a little north of Mount McKinley, and about 1000 miles east of that landmark.
Consulting a map, Sam and I found a thin red line branching off the Alaska Highway near Dawson Creek, and extending over 1000 miles north to a dot on the map called Yellowknife. The lodge was more miles of trackless wilderness beyond, but Ragnar Wesstrom, the lodge owner, and all round good guy, promised to dispatch a Beaver (airplane, not animal) to ferry us to his place, if we could make it to Yellowknife.
This Yellowknife town is almost 2000 miles from Seattle, and I had already driven 1200 miles from Palm Desert to Seattle, but Sam was adamant about breaking in (or maybe breaking) his brand new Ford F250, with less than 500 miles on the clock, so we decided to drive.
Bad decision. The first thousand miles were not bad, but for the last thousand there was absolutely nothing. Scrub spruce and muskeg, flat as a table top, with nothing to break the monotony but a few Indian villages and literally millions of buffalo. Even the radio stations only played Indian music. Then 90 miles from Yellowknife, the road really went to hell, turning to dirt, with frost heaves one could lose a small car in. We hit one bump so hard that everything in the cab came loose and rattled around like pebbles in a tin can. And I forgot to mention the broken windshield and smashed bug deflector. There were several rivers, with the Mackenzie being at least as large as the Mississippi. No bridges, of course, except ice bridges in the winter. The ferry was interesting, to say the least, as you had to dodge ice chunks the size of Volkswagens on the way across.
We did have a couple of memorable diversions along the way. One night we stayed in a B&B in a very small town in far north Alberta called Fort Vermilion. Sam had picked this place because he liked the name, even though it was 50 miles out of the way. It's main claim to fame was that it had been a Northwest Company fur trading post 170 years ago, but had kind of gone down hill from there.
As for dinner, there was no restaurant anywhere in the town. We kept seeing a sign, however, which said Country Club. I figured that this meant food, but Sam thought that we could probably not get in to such an exclusive place. I figured that a Southern California golfer and Club President could talk his way into anything, so we decided to give it a shot.
The Country Club turned out to be a log cabin, which served as the pro shop for a cute little nine hole golf course. There wasn't any real restaurant, but the proprietress graciously offered to cook up two dinners. After considerable pot banging, two steaming plates appeared, and was the food good. We then shared a few pints with the proprietress and her husband, learning among other things, that the annual dues at this club were about the same as a round of golf at my Country Club in Palm Desert.
But, onward to Yellowknife. When we got there, we were surprised to see a modern city of 17,000, complete with hi rises, and paved streets populated by Corvettes, BMWs, Porches and the like. How they got there, and where they went was a mystery to us, as paved roads ended less than 5 miles from town in any direction. Yellowknife also boasted a Wall Mart, a Super 8 motel and a Costco. But no Starbucks. They even had a golf course, but since it is too far north to grow grass, each golfer is issued a square of Astroturf, which is put under the ball wherever it lands. In looking around town, we found a tackle shop where the clerk only jacked up the price 10% when he heard that we were guests of Ragnar's. We also got to talking with a resident who said that he had been to Vancouver once, but didn't like it because there was no winter.
We also noticed, as we had when previously driving along the lake, that it was frozen over solid to a depth of about 16 feet, and there was no way a float plane was going to take off or land. We figured that if we ever did get to the lodge, we would be fishing through holes in the ice. No wonder that the tackle shop guy had also tried to sell us an ice auger.
Anyhow, when we called Ragnar at the lodge, said not to worry, and told us a plane would be waiting at the airport. He also asked us to pick up a couple of ladies and bring them along. I told him that we had tried, but when they heard we were going to Ragnar's place, they had immediately lost interest. Anyway, out to the airport, on to the Beaver, and onward to the lodge. When we got there, Ragnar was disappointed that we had no ladies with us, but decided to make do with some Swedish girlie magazines.
It turned out that we were the only paying guests. The rest of the inhabitants were Henry, a TV journalist doing a fishing show, and his crew, a charming Canadian lady who was an Olympic swimming gold medal winner, and Michael Olson, the Director of Marketing for First Air, (Canada's second largest airline). Anyhow, Sam's cigars made a big hit with everyone, except the lady, and we were soon all fast friends.
The next day these guys all moved out and a bunch of dentists from Toronto moved in. This was quite a change, but I guess dentists are a necessary part of life. Anyhow we split into two groups. The dentists in one group, and the Internationalists, meaning Ragnar, his Swedish brother, the Indian guides, and Sam and I, in the other.
One of the perks that Ragnar provided was free wine. This stuff, however, was made from the leavings in the bottom of the barrel, and was so bad that the vintner would not put his label on it. Ragnar solved this problem by printing and affixing his (Ragnar's) own private label, and attempting to pass the stuff off as vintage quality.
But I almost forgot, we came to fish, so I better talk about that.
We were assigned the Head Guide, a Dogrib Indian of indeterminate age named Jonas. Jonas was not much on English, but he sure knew where the fish were. Once he decided he liked us, (no he did not smoke cigars, but hey, it was a choice between us and the dentists, so it was really no contest) he couldn't do enough to be helpful. We did have one language mix-up the first morning. Jonas kept suggesting a tea break, and we kept telling him we didn't like tea. As he became more and more uncomfortable, we finally decided that he meant pee break, so we quickly acquiesced. To avoid further confusion, we taught him to say whiz break, when he had this problem in the future.
Jonas had a simple method of classifying fish. Anything under 30 inches was a baby, from 30 to 40 was a lunch fish, and over 40 inches (which was trophy size) was a submarine. Lunch fish, incidentally, was just what the name implied. Around 11:30 we would catch and save two or three 30 inchers. Then we would stop and Jonas would fillet and cook them (along with good condiments he had brought along in the boat) right on the beach. These shore lunches were the high point of the day. Even the time that Sam kicked over the kettle, and our lunch was kind of mixed with bilge water, sand, and fish guts.
We saw Jonas smile once. He had inadvertently picked up the total days supply of cookies for everyone, and put them on our boat. He could hardly contain himself when the radio started to chatter about the missing cookies and who might be the perp.
The fishing was fantastic. Sixty to 80 fish a day landed, with 5 or 6 being in the trophy class, from 40 to 48 inches. In fact, it became a challenge to keep anything less than three feet long off the hook. Those guys would strike a lure trailing in the water beside the boat, and would sometimes snap up a 12 to 15 incher right after we hooked it. Jonas was really a big help. He would talk to those fish, and I swear that he charmed them right into the boat.
As to the technical details, we used medium action casting and spinning rods with 14 pound line. This tackle may have been a trifle light, but that added to the fun. Ragnar recommended Rapala weedless minnows in the 3 inch size, and they did work well. We had our best luck though on Johnson's silver minnows, in gold or silver in the 21/2 inch size. 2 1/2 and 3 inch five of diamonds also worked well. Braided steel leader is a must. We used a 9 inch length, but 12 inch would probably have been better.
If you are really into fishing, and like remote areas, we would highly recommend Trout Rock Lodge. However, next time we are going to fly, and maybe bring our own wine.
TROUT ROCK LODGE AGAIN
Since Sam and I had such a super time fishing Great Slave Lake, we decided to give it another try the following year. But this time we decided to fly to this remote spot.
As I said before, Great Slave Lake is in Canada’s Northwest Territories, at Latitude 63 N, about 2000 miles north of Seattle. Sam still says that the place is only two blocks south of the North Pole, but that is really a bit of an exaggeration.
We drove from Everett WA to Vancouver then got on an old (maybe 35 years old) 737-200, for a flight to Edmonton. The airline was called Zip, and was aptly named, because they didn't give you zip on the whole flight. But at least they didn't lose the luggage. From Edmonton to Yellowknife was an airline called Canadian North, with an even older 737-200. This one being a real bush plane. Configured for half passengers and half freight, with passengers in the back, sled dogs and oil drums in front, and rigged to land on gravel. I hadn't seen one of these since I left Alaska thirty years ago, and they were old then. Canadian North service, though, was as good as US domestic first class. Should have been, almost $500 US for the trip from Edmonton to Yellowknife.
Ragnar, our good friend and the owner of Trout Rock Lodge, who you remember from last year, had fixed us up with accommodations at one of the better hotels in Yellowknife. Only problem was that the hotel courtesy van wouldn’t start. They graciously offered to call a cab, but finked out on paying for it. Anyway, Yellowknife had lots of shops, few tourists, and still no Starbucks. The Territorial Museum and the Information Center are highly recommended. We bought our fishing licenses there.
Ragnar had alluded to eight rich guys from Minnesota, who were flying in on their private jet and would be fishing with us at the lodge. When we headed for the float base to catch the Twin Otter charter to the lodge, though, they were nowhere to be found. Finally, they straggled in forty five minutes late. Seemed there had been a misunderstanding, and after we got that straightened out, they turned out to be pretty good guys. By the way, their “Jet” was really a Beech King Air, owned by one of the guys who was a Fixed Base and Charter Service operator.
So we all got on the Twin Otter and off for Trout Rock Lodge. Everything was about the same when we got there, except Ragnar had finally taken delivery on his Swedish tundra hopper. It was called a Haglund, and looked like the illegitimate child of a Vietnam era APC which had mated with a Hummer. (3) His plan is to name this thing the Aurora Express, and make big money hauling unsuspecting Japanese tourists around during the arctic winter.
Ragnar had really gone all out for us this year. We were housed in the Executive Suite, (which even had a propane heater and it’s own private outhouse) Of course he had our Ford emblem on the door, but the crowning touch was Hotel Okura slippers and mats. This was lost on the Minnesota boys, but since both of us had stayed at the Okura many times, we really appreciated Ragnar’s thoughtfulness. (2)
Ragnar's private label wine, now called GGG for Granite Grown Grapes, was substantially better than last year. Ragnar said that it was because he had imported some rock worms, which burrow into the granite, thus aerating the vine's roots. He had a bad habit though, when everyone was feeling good on this year’s vintage, to slip in a couple bottles of last year’s rotgut.
Speaking of wine, Ragnar had made a great issue of us bringing him a couple of bottles of Two Buck Chuck. (If you are unfamiliar with Two Buck Chuck, see footnote 1 below.) Although I never drink the stuff myself, I talked a less discerning friend in California into giving me two bottles, which I dutifully carried up to Ragnar. He allowed that it was pretty good, which was true, compared with his GGG, and proceeded to drink both bottles. He then disappeared, presumably to bed. Next morning, he showed up late for breakfast, looking like he had lost a fight with a polar bear. His face was all torn and bloody, his foot and leg were all beat up, and he could hardly walk. He claimed that he had fallen out of bed, an unlikely happening for an old merchant seaman. The ladies on the staff were not talking, so who knows what really happened. Maybe he got mixed up with a moose while taking a pee. Anyway, from that moment on, Ragnar was badmouthing Two Buck Chuck.
Again we were assigned to Head Guide Jonas, who you met in last year’s story, and he was really glad to see us. Might have had something to do with the handsome tip he got last year, or maybe he was just lonesome. His English had not improved, and he still tended to revert to his native Dogrib language on occasion. Sam had brought him a hat emblazoned with “Head Guide” in large letters. We couldn’t get it off Jonas’ head, and I think that he slept with it on.
Jonas principal entertainment this year was hassling the one white guide. For example, when the white guy would ask on the radio how the fishing was, Jonas would say "No good, No good", then laugh while we were pulling in 40 inchers. When the Indian guides inquired, he would give them the real scoop, in Dogrib.
Jonas' fish classification system was slightly different than last year. Anything under 30 inches was a p…..fish, from 30 to 40 was a lunch fish, and over 40 inches (which was trophy size) was a trophy. Lunch fish, incidentally, was just what the name implied. And just like last year, round 11:30 we would catch and save two or three 30 inchers. Then we would stop and Jonas would fillet and cook them, and we would then eat them (along with good condiments he had brought along in the boat) right on the beach. These shore lunches were really appreciated, as the cook at the lodge was nothing to write home about. We found out later that she was Ragnar's sister in law, so was guaranteed lifetime employment.
Jonas did occasionally enhance our fishing with strips cut from a previously caught small fish. When the Minnesota guys inquired about this, we told them it was some kind of a Dogrib Indian religious sacrifice to the Fish Gods. We assured them that we would never use that kind of stuff to bait our hooks, as that would be strictly against the law.
Like last year, the fishing was fantastic. Sixty to eighty fish a day landed, with eight to fourteen being in the trophy class, over forty inches long. In fact, it became a challenge to keep anything less than thirty inches off the hook. Jonas was really a big help. He knew where the fish were, and, it seemed that when he went into his chant, he could sill charm those fish right into the boat. Incidentally, when I got the largest fish of the week, a 47 inch 35 pounder, on 17 pound test line, Jonas was more excited than I was.
Well, all good things come to an end, and a charter Cessna 185 was supposed to pick Sam and me up at 7:00 PM on our last day. The Minnesota guys were all down to see us off, but when the plane didn’t come and didn’t come, we all got into the Lodge liquor supply. Ragnar, entering into the spirit of things, declared an open (free) bar, at least for Sam and I, and then the booze really flowed. Hours passed and we pretty much depleted the stock, so when the plane did show at 11:30 PM. nobody really cared one way or the other. The guides finally got us poured on the plane, the Minnesota guys cheered lustily and off we flew into the sunset. When we got to Yellowknife, the pilot insisted on driving us to the hotel, not trusting us to walk, hitchhike, or grab a cab.
If you are really into fishing, you like remote areas, and can stand a Swede who sometimes turns into an animal, we would highly recommend Trout Rock Lodge. Might be a good idea, though, to bring your own wine, and leave the ladies home.
1. Two Buck Chuck is the Charles Shaw Wineries vintage which Trader Joe’s stores sell for two dollars a bottle in California
2. The Hotel Okura is perhaps the best hotel in Tokyo, Japan, and one of the better hotels in the world. It was a bit incongruous to see their stuff in an Arctic fish camp.
3. An APC is an armored tracked vehicle, used to carry an infantry squad around the battlefield.
SKITCHENE LAKE
Best friend Pat and I had stayed at the Skitchene Lake camp a couple of times, before I got hooked up with Sam. This was another roadless camp, where one had to hike in five miles, while the duffel was packed in by a mule. Actually the name on the map was Dagger Lake, but Skitchene sounded more sophisticated, I guess.
Every year it seemed to rain harder, the price seemed to get higher, and the amenities seemed to get worse. We finally quit them altogether when they started charging world class prices for a classless, and mostly clueless British Columbia fishing camp.
But we had heard rumors of new management, and Sam really wanted to try them out, so off we went. Pat, however, had enough sense to pass on this one.
We finally got to the trailhead, after the normal misadventures with BC Forest Service roads, which you will hear much more about later.
The new owners had improved things somewhat, in that now both you and duffel rode the five miles in a wagon pulled by a two mule team. The mule’s names, improbably, were Black and Decker.
Arriving at camp, we found some further improvements had been made. A remodel of the lodge, and a couple of new cabins. We had elected to stay in the upstairs rooms in the lodge, trading privacy for convenience, and a real flush toilet down the hall.
The other guests were the usual motley collection one might expect. Richard, a retired geologist, who had fished all over the world and was one of the owners. Jimmie, who was Mark the camp manager’s ten year old nephew, and was actually a guest, rather than an indentured servant. The gust list was rounded out with a family consisting of Grandpa, Father, and son, about 10 years of age, but more on them later, and a couple of other unremarkable people.
The rooms were OK, the food was good, and the wine, while nothing to write home about, was better than Ragnar’s, and best of all, was complimentary.
Jimmie (the ten year old nephew) was a really good kid but not much of a fisherman. I kind of bonded with him, and we spent considerable time out on the lake. The kid learned fast, and after a couple of days his fishing skills had improved substantially. This pleased Jimmie, no end as well as his uncle Mark (the camp manager) to the point where complimentary beer, in copious quantities, flowed for both Sam and me.
The family I mentioned earlier was really kind of funny. Like in weird funny. Grandpa went around barking orders like a drill sergeant, which we could see that the son resented. The grandson, not really knowing what to make of his, just kind of chilled out. Anyway, we finally figured out that grandpa was not a sergeant, but a genuine retired senior army officer, the son was an ex army officer, who apparently had gone back to civilian life, which of course had upset the dad, and grandson who was just trying to be a kid. It looked like the dad had set up this fishing trip with the idea patching things up, and getting everyone back into the fold, but it just wasn’t working out.
Sam, got himself a bit worked up over this, and finally told the dad one morning to get the ramrod out of his ass, relax and let everyone have some fun. Nobody, of course had talked like this to the General for a long time, and he was totally taken aback. But not being completely stupid, he conceded, at least to himself, that Sam had a point. So everything loosened up. Grandpa and son started hiking off to remote lakes to fish, and Sam took grandson under his wing. The whole atmosphere in camp kind of improved and we were informal heroes. It didn’t hurt anything either, when I pulled in a trout that turned out to be the lodge record for the year.
I did have one interesting experience though. Since Sam and I were the only upstairs lodgers, we did get a bit informal about our dress. And one midnight, when I was heading down the hall, buck naked, in the pitch dark, looking for the bathroom, I felt something like a wet dishrag hit my bottom. Needless to say, this startled me, and in looking and feeling around, I found that I had been cold nosed by a good sized dog. I later found out that the camp manager’s girlfriend, had hiked in during the night with her dog, and taken up residence in the room next to us. It would probably have been more fun to have been run into by her, but that was not to be.
So, it was finally time to leave. The boys said their sad good byes, and Mark, since the wrangler was not to be found, harnessed Black and Decker to the wagon, and drove us out himself. The mules, though, did not seem to be into it, and despite curses and threats from our self appointed “skinner”, things just were not working out. Sam surveyed all this for a few minutes, and then suggested that Mark stop the team. Sam then got out, inspected the harness, and announced that the problem was that the thingamijig that held the whatsis to the gizmo had been put on upside down, and the mules were, in effect, pulling against themselves. Sam righted things in a couple of minutes, explained what he had done, climbed back on the wagon and away we went, right as rain. The mules seemed to be relieved but Mark was a bit pissed when I observed that the dude guest had to show the big shot manager how to properly harness a team.
A MYSTERY LAKE
You wouldn’t believe this, but Western Outdoor magazine turned this tale down for publication because they thought it was fiction, which they don’t accept. So maybe truth is stranger than fiction, after all. And with that introduction, here goes.
After a long rambling argument over beer and cigars one night, my old fishing buddy Sam convinced me that I should spin a tale, for all you rabid trout fishermen out there, about the joys of our previously secret fishing hideaway. So, here goes a “true” fish story about one of my favorite spots, which Sam has since fallen in love with as well.
This rather rustic place (to say the least) is about 25 miles up a four wheel drive road off the Trans Canada highway, in central British Columbia.
The camp is really interesting, as is the owner, an old guy who we will call Dick. Dick really doesn't care for guests, and only tolerates them because they bring in (barely) enough money to support his drinking habit. Accordingly, he does everything possible to discourage them. To start with, he only has an obsolescent radiophone with no assigned phone number. Because almost every one of these phones was phased out about 10 years ago, no one, including the telephone operators, has a clue as to how to contact him, even if you have broken the code and obtained the channel name and number. So you spend 10 minutes arguing with an operator, and maybe after the third try you get Dick on the phone. Then you have to convince him to rent you a cabin. If it is early in the morning, you have a chance, if after noon, forget it, as he probably won't even answer the phone.
It's also a good idea to call him back (going through the same hassle discussed above) about a week before your planned arrival date to make sure he hasn't forgotten. Not that he is overrun with business, but he just might have decided to shut the place down and take off for parts unknown, at the time of your planned stay.
Then there is the problem of getting there. As I mentioned, it is 25 miles up a four wheel drive road. I didn't mention that along the way there are innumerable road branches and cross roads going in all directions, and Dick, of course, does not believe in signs. If you had the foresight to get directions when booking, it still doesn't do much good as his verbal instructions are incomprehensible. And to top things off, for the last mile the road becomes downright impassable. Once a young friend of mine stuck his truck here so bad that we had to get two four wheel drives to pull it out.
What a sight awaits when you finally get there. The facilities are about 35 years old, and have had zero maintenance for the last 30. I have heard tales that there is a well somewhere, but otherwise there is no water except the lake, and no indoor plumbing. Some of the outhouses, however, do have doors. The cabins sag in all directions, with the floors being so uneven you get dizzy just walking across the floor, even without one of Sam's strong cigars. They also have wood stoves, which are totally burnt out, and smoke so bad they will drive you outside. Sometimes, if one is lucky, Dick even provides wood. Sam anticipated this, and brought along presto logs, which burnt so hot they almost melted the stove, and got the cabin up to about 120 degrees. Of course there is no electricity, but Dick does furnish one old time gas lantern, which you can sometimes get going without an explosion. The beds all sag, and in some cabins are partitioned off like the cribs in an old time whorehouse. (Or so the big boys tell me.) Bedding is non existent. There are some dishes, but if you use them, Dick charges you an additional twenty dollars.
Speaking of the cabins, the guests sometimes must share them with strange forest creatures. But let me explain. One night I am wakened from a sound sleep by Sam yelling and banging around. I ask him what is the problem, and he says that there is a rat in the cabin. I tell him that if it bothers him that much to get up, open the door and let it out, but not to wake me up with his problems. Sam replies that he (the rat) is eating our apples. So what's wrong with sharing, I ask, and try to go back to sleep over the sound of crunch, crunch, crunch. I don't know why Sam got so upset, as we trimmed off the parts which the rat had gnawed on, and there was no real harm done.
Anyway, Sam now brings a BIG box of Decon, and gets real satisfaction from listening to the rats slurping this up.
Sam really appreciates the informality and the absence of women, who generally have enough sense to stay home. The informality, however, sometimes goes a bit far, as when Dick takes a pee out the front door of the office. Dick though, is really an OK guy after he has his second cup of coffee about 9:00 AM, and before he has had his fourth beer, at about 11:30. After Noon, if you want Dick, forget it, its every man for himself. Dick, incidentally, is the only guy I know who buys his beer by the pallet load.
So why do we go to this place. Simply because the fishing is fantastic. Rainbow up to 4 pounds, and we never fail to get our limit. Two days, though, is usually enough, before one has to retreat to the nearest town to get a hot shower and some decent food.
PS. We asked the Editors to run a contest to see if any of you fishermen out there could identify this camp, but on the advice of their attorneys, they declined.
MYSTERY LAKE AGAIN
You see, Sam and I don’t also stay in exotic lodges. We like the rustic places as well. The place I talked about in the previous story, for instance. And we like it so well that we fish there often. So here goes a story about another one of those trips.
This venture was really nothing very exciting. Just limited out on two pound Rainbow Trout in two days. The loons, though, made this feat a bit difficult, as you will soon see.
Started out in Kamloops as usual, going to our favorite restaurant, The Keg, the first night. They probably should have named it Hooters instead, for reasons we don’t need to get into. Anyway, the scenery was great, and the food was acceptable. Sam though, thought that giving us bibs to keep us from drooling on the table was a little much.
Next morning for breakfast, our luck changed. Arriving at our favorite Denny’s we were seated, against our objections, in the unlucky section. And guess what?? Anything we tried to order, they didn’t have. Finally in desperation, we got the manager to ask the cook for a list of what he DID have.
Arriving at the fish camp, our bad luck held. Setting up the boat, we found that the hose connecting the motor to the gas tank was missing, and presumably had been left at home. We appealed to Dick, the owner, but instead of loaning us a spare hose, he insisted in renting it to us for ten dollars. That turned out to be his bad luck, because his intransigence on the hose issue cost him a twenty dollar tip, so he was out ten dollars on the transaction. Some people just never learn.
One really does have to watch one’s pennies at Dick’s. At CAN $50 per night for the cabin, and an additional CAN $20 per day for the boat, one could go broke quick, if one was not careful.
As I said before, the fishing was great, but the loons were getting smarter. After checking us out for most of the first day, they decided that we were reasonably good fishermen, and started shadowing the boat. The result was, when we got a fish on, the loons dove for it, and it was a race to see if we could boat the fish before the loons got him. We managed to save about two out of three, but sometimes it was close. It is quite a site to see a loon paddling around eating your fifteen inch fish, while laughing at you with his RACK, RACK, cry. I have, incidentally, caught an unlucky loon or so (instead of the fish) under these circumstances, but not this time.
All in all it was a good trip. Fantastic fishing, and the weather was warm and sunny for a change. The rats ate the Decon instead of our food, and Sam’s excellent cooking made up for the terrible Australian wine, which he had brought. The Forest Service had even graded the last two miles of road into the place, for the first time in living memory. Although this eliminated the Jeep eating potholes, I suppose the improved road will eventually screw up the fishing.
I wonder, though, if those guys staying next door ever caught any fish on the flies we told them we were using.
AND YET ANOTHER MYSTERY LAKE TALE
After skipping a year, (due to lethargy and medical problems) Sam and I decided to give fishing at Mystery Lake, in central British Columbia, another try. Times had changed a bit at Dick’s though. He had brought in son Dickie as a partner, and Dickie had done a bit to spruce the place up.
And you remember the obsolete radio phone. Well it was still in use, But Dickie had sprung for e mail, so If you can get hold of their e mail address, which seems to be a closely held secret, you can book by that means, and maybe get a confirmation a week or so later.
Dickie has also made a couple other significant improvements, he has pretty much rat and mouse proofed the cabins, so you no longer have to spend the night with these pesky forest creatures. And has installed doors, but no locks, on most of the outhouses. To compensate for all this luxury, though, he has raised prices to $CAN60 per night.
Speaking of money, we got two more nasty shocks before the trip got well underway. The exchange rate at the bank was $CAN.985 to $US1.00, almost one to one, and the BC Government had classified all Americans as ALIENS, thus justifying a charge of $CAN53 for an 8 day fishing license.
Anyway, upon arrival, we stowed our gear in short order, and then hit the lake. Temperature was near 60 degrees F, best I had seen there in September, real shorts and tee shirt weather for Canada. But guess what, no fish.
We tried every fly and lure we could think of, but all to no avail. I finally had to physically restrain Sam from trolling his tackle box, which he said would probably be more efficient. Even the loons, who usually hang around in hopes of stealing a hooked fish before one can reel it in, decided that shadowing us was a waste of time, and deserted the cause. Only consolation was that other fishermen seemed to be catching nothing as well. Anyway, after several hours of this, we gave up and retired for a session of beer and cigars on the cabin porch, which seemed to be a more productive use of our time.
Next day though, our luck changed, and we managed to almost catch our limits before heading home.
All in all, despite a slow start, it was a successful trip, and I even managed to almost convince Sam that due to the 5000-foot altitude, I was incapable of doing much useful work. The trip home was uneventful, except costing us $CAN100 for enough gas to get to the US, and a two hour delay at the border caused by the US Border Protection guys hassling every Canadian car coming through.
YAP
Sam and I had been trying to put this trip together for about two years, ever since he had met a Yapese on an airplane, and I had gotten acquainted, via the Internet, with an expatriate American who was the Yap high school principal. And with their help, we finally sorted it out.
So at the appointed time, I flew to Hawaii, hooked up with Sam and we both flew to Guam, where, we caught this beat up old 737 island hopper. So far it had been a hell of a lot of flying and we hoped the trip would be worth it. Anyway, after what seemed like forever, the old 737 touched down on the deserted strip at 11:00 PM. And, as we headed into the ramshackle terminal, a topless lady greeted us with a cheery “Welcome to Yap”. Well, maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all.
For all you guys who were asleep in Geography class, Yap is an island in the Western Pacific, at latitude 9 north. It is located in the Western Carolines, 4000 Miles West of Hawaii, 2000 Miles South of Tokyo, 1200 Miles North of Papua New Guinea, 1000 Miles Southeast of Manila, and 400 miles Southwest of Guam. Or to put it more simply, about a million miles from nowhere. It is served by Air Micronesia with twice a week flights from Guam.
The island itself is about 35 square miles and holds approx 10,000 people. Yap is associated with the Federated Micronesian States, and bound to the US by a mutual assistance treaty.
Although colonized by the Spanish and the Germans, then occupied by the Japanese, and later the US Navy, the island has not seen very much Western presence, because there is nothing there to exploit, and the islanders did not accept any missionaries.
There was some Japanese influence, and a bit of American, but mostly the culture is pure Micronesian, dating back hundreds or thousands of years. There is little tourism as such, but the place is frequented by some intrepid divers, drawn by the certainty of sighting Manta Rays. There are maybe 50 whites resident on the island, and a very few European visitors.
It is really incongruous to see a topless lady in traditional garb wheel up in her SUV, or an old timer dig a cell phone out of his palm frond bag of betel nut accoutrements.
One unique Yap item is its stone money. Enormous discs of stone, with a hole in the center for carrying. These discs were quarried on Palau, and then carried to Yap in dugout canoes. They are still in use today as tender for some transactions.
I had heard about Yap after the Second World War, but I first became interested when I was looking for Japanese Zero fighters for the Seattle Museum of Flight about 30 years ago. I did manage to track some Zeros to this island, but they were considered national treasures, and the islanders would not part with them. They were still there this trip, but now just piles of scrap, after 60 years exposure to the tropical weather.
But we had better get back to the trip.
Along with the lady greeter, a resident American named Dave, who owned the “Beyond the Reef” dive operation was on hand to meet us. Dave had helped set the whole trip up for us, and could not have been more helpful during our stay.
The “hotel” turned out to be a rather rustic but clean place, consisting of seven Nippi Palm huts straggling up a hillside, connected by ramshackle wooden walkways and steps. It was native owned and operated, and the staff couldn’t have been more accommodating. The downside though, was that there were some cockroaches hanging out which were big enough to saddle and ride away. There was also a pet bat named Maggie, but she sort of just hung around the lobby, and didn’t really cause any trouble. There was, however, a bit of a problem with the toilet, although not as serious as our difficulty in the Amazon. Seems that the second day, the seat on the appliance broke. I duly reported this to the authorities and they said they would handle it. And when I returned that evening, there was no broken seat, in fact, there was not even a seat. After a couple of days though, a new seat appeared and all was well.
We arrived in time for Yap days, the yearly local celebration. The main venue was an open field outside the only town. Booths were set up to sell various delicacies, and there were contests and dancing in a large field.
We found ourselves a spot in the VIP reviewing stand, along with the Governor, the local Chiefs, all in native attire, some big shots from Palau, other assorted high mucky mucks, and even the Ambassador from China. It was hard to keep one’s mind on the program though, as there were numerous topless women running around, old young and in between, with an amazing variety of boobs hanging out. Needless to say, gawking and photography were not appreciated.
As the festivities wound down, we repaired to our hotel bar, an outdoor affair, where we were joined shortly by the Governor and most of the Chiefs. It was apparently the best watering place on the island, as all the big shots seemed to hang there. Soon we were all knocking back beers, and became fast friends, which didn’t hurt us a bit for the remainder of our stay.
The Village Chiefs actually run the island, subject to “suggestions” from a few "mature" ladies, who seem to be the power behind the throne. They give "suggestions" to the village Chiefs, who then govern, subject to these ladies' concurrence. This system seems to work for the islanders, and maybe isn’t so bad after all.
Getting to know the big shots paid off in invitations to some of the secondary celebrations held in the villages scattered around the island. These villages were mostly collections of huts along dirt roads, populated by families with scantily clad children and assorted dogs. At one of these celebrations in particular, we noticed numerous cases of Bud Light, and were plied with beer after beer. When I inquired about the easy availability of so much beer, the Chief explained that if some of the younger people did not wish to participate in the traditional ceremonies they were allowed to opt out, but were fined a case of beer. Seemed to work out OK for everybody.
Almost everyone on the island chewed Betel nut, a mild narcotic, which acts as a stimulant. It is mixed with lime and wrapped in a leaf, with vodka or tobacco, or both, being sometimes added for an enhanced effect. The near term effect is a bright red mouth, gums lips and teeth. Long term, it appeared to be hard on teeth, as no one over fifty seemed to have any. The fixings and accoutrements were carried in a purse kind of container made of palm leaves. And no adult seemed to be without one.
But we went for the fishing, so I had better get to that.
Dave set us up with one of his dive boats, a 22 foot open cockpit affair, sort of like a Boston Whaler, with two native boys as crew. The tackle probably would not have been fit for the bargain table at Goodwill, but there were so many fish that who cared. We even sometimes set the poles aside and used the traditional hand lines that the Polynesians had fished with for eons.
We fished the open ocean for Tuna, which were there by the millions, and along the reefs for Shark, Wahoo, Marlin and Barracuda. Actually, we sometimes used birds as "fish finders" to lead us to the schools of Tuna. Just like the Micronesians have done for hundreds of years.
The tide rips and winds were tricky, even miles from land. Twelve foot seas were not uncommon, and between them and the rainsqualls, one was constantly wet. The native boys, though, were excellent seamen, so we were not concerned. Except maybe for their habit of smoking around the open gas cans and spilled gas.
A typical day’s catch would be maybe a dozen or so Tuna. Yellow fin up to 60 pounds, Skipjack, and a colorful variety called Rainbow Runner. Along with this would be a couple of Barracuda, a Wahoo or two and an occasional shark. We would take a couple of each variety back to the hotel for supper, and Dave would distribute the rest to deserving locals. Each evening then, we would sit down to a plate of assorted raw fish, a plate of assorted grilled fish, and a heaping bowl of rice. All eaten with chopsticks, and washed down with copious quantities of beer.
Afterwards in the bar, a few drinks with the locals would be in order, and we would then repair to our private veranda for a beer and a cigar, before heading for bed. Next morning it was up and at ‘em to repeat the whole drill again.
So how could one beat this? A tropical paradise, with world class fishing, and shore attractions running to topless women, good food and drink, and Cuban cigars. Things don’t really get much better than that.
But all good things must end, and all too soon it was back on the airplane for the long flight back to civilization.
Yap is certainly not for the faint of heart or thin of wallet, but if you are healthy, have a taste for adventure, and appreciate out of the way places, it might be worth a try.
CAVERHILL LAKE
Casting about for another good British Columbia fishing experience I happened upon some interesting information about a lake called Caverhill, about 70 miles north of Kamloops British Columbia. So I thought, what the Hell, let’s book the place and see what happens. So I did.
Bright and early on the appointed morning, Sam and I climbed into the ol’ truck and headed out on this adventure. Hopefully to catch our limit of record Kamloops (Rainbow) trout
Stopped in Kamloops for lunch, then on up the scenic North Thompson valley to the vicinity of Little Fort. Then the fun began. The instructions said to go approx 20 miles down a logging road, and were accompanied by a rather primitive map, which Sam ignored.
So, one half mile down the road we found ourselves in a cow pasture, complete with cows. Obviously a wrong turn, so after regrouping we headed down the right??, or was it the left?? road. The landmarks showed a vague resemblance to the markings on the map, which Sam was now studying with care, and after only a couple more wrong turns, and dodging innumerable logging trucks, we miraculously ended up in the parking lot by the lake, only about 15 minutes late.
Our co-host, Larry Loney, met us, grabbed all our gear in one carry, (He looked like a porter in Tokyo Station) and deposited gear and us in the lodge boat, where we got acquainted with Jake, the camp dog. A 10 minute boat ride got us to the lodge, where we were greeted by Marlene Loney, our charming co-host, and Larry deposited our gear in our cabin.
The cabin was cozy, had running, or should I say trickling, water, and that ubiquitous BC wilderness contraption, (like you heard about at Bare Lake), a composting toilet. For those of you who are not familiar, this is a formable piece of plumbing, about the size of a Bob Cat tractor, which you mount via steps or ladder, and perch precariously atop while doing what comes naturally. If they had these things in the States, the DOT would demand they be fitted with seat belts and an oxygen mask. Anyway, when done with your business, you scatter a scoop of peat moss over the whole disgusting mess, and replace the cover. Fortunately, an exploratory trip turned up a real flush toilet in the communal washhouse, so we gave the composting contraption a rest.
We hit the main lake in the afternoon and caught a few, but nothing spectacular. Dinner was served at 7 PM and we trooped into meet our fellow guests. Quite an interesting bunch. A dad and son from Vancouver WA, who were really nice guys. But son, inexplicably, did not try to put the make on the two young ladies working there. Then there was Chris, an OK guy from Washington State, and Dennis, a totally crazy Viet Nam vet, who lived in an old mobile home out in the woods on the Nevada California border near Bishop. Last but not least, were those three guys which we introduced you to at Bare Lake. All from the Seattle area. I happened to be wearing a tee shirt with the logo “People like you are what make people like me take medication” and told those jerks that it was particularly meant for them.
After supper we joined our fellow guests in the lounge for tall tales and drinks. Problem was that Dennis (the Viet Nam vet), could tell “true” stories faster than Sam could make his up, so we retired to our cabin to enjoy a cigar and a beer on the porch, while we watched the sun set over the lake, and listened to the loons. Then it was time to turn in.
Cabin illumination consisted of one propane light over the beds, which was so dim that one actually had to light a match to see if it was burning. Thankfully we had flashlights and twilight lasted a couple of hours, but reading in bed was impossible. What the thing lacked in light output though it certainly made up for in heat. I think that it put out about 20 thousand BTUs. So we left it on all night, thus keeping the cabin toasty warm, and we were certainly not bothered by the glare. This heating method, incidentally, seemed to work better than the stove, which either tended to get the place up to about 120 degrees Fahrenheit, or not burn at all.
Next morning after breakfast we decided to try one of the outlying lakes, which entailed a hike for about a half mile. I wanted to ride John Henry, the camp mule, but Larry nixed the idea, so after I convinced Sam that I was an invalid and could not handle the 4600 ft altitude, we settled for Sam carrying the pack. After what seemed like an endless uphill slog, accompanied by at least 10 million angry mosquitoes, we came out on this pristine lake. A boat and motor awaited, so we climbed in, proceeded to fly fish, and caught our limits of 12 inchers with no trouble. The hike back was uneventful, but would you believe that it was uphill as well, the 10 million mosquitoes had brought along another 10 million of their friends, and Sam had to carry the fish, as well as the pack.
Next day was a similar gig, except the trail was about a mile longer the fish were bigger, and the mosquitoes meaner. My invalid story again caused Sam to feel sorry for me and carry all the paraphernalia. Rods tackle, nets, and the works. We found this lake to be really productive, despite a real gully washer rain and hail storm. We skipped the flies here, and went with triple teasers. Of course we then had to invent a fish story for the guys back at the lodge, because we did use lures instead of flies, which is definitely not macho.
Packing up to go back to camp, I jammed most of the gear in the backpack, then stomped it down and jammed in the rest. Sam complained that it weighed about 20 pounds, so I told him he could carry the twenty pounds of fish to balance the load.
Of course we had some other adventures, like Sam making a misstep off the dock, or boat, or something, and having to swim ashore. (And this was before he had anything to drink.) Also, there was the evening at dinner when I mentioned that Sam was a cousin of Mike Lowery. (An ex Washington state governor.) To this, another guest remarked that Lowery was so butt ugly that he would have trouble getting elected dogcatcher, and a third guest noted that there did seem to be quite a resemblance between Sam and the ex governor. So who cares if Sam didn’t share his cigars that evening? It was worth it.
Anyway, it was a fun trip. Great hosts, fantastic food, good accommodations, and lots of fish. We will go for it again next year, and if Larry builds a new washhouse facility like he promised, we might even consider taking along the ladies.
TUNA ‘ROUND THE WORLD
YELLOWFIN
One memorable fishing trip, which I almost forgot to mention, happened in the distant past, on the Gulf of California, off Guaymas Mexico.
My ol’ Air Force buddy Don Treder, myself, and our families were Christmas vacationing near Guaymas when we heard of the fantastic yellowfin tuna fishing just off shore.
We decided to give it a try, so one morning Don, myself and Don’s father in law set out before dawn in a borrowed beat up 12 foot aluminum boat, to try our luck. Now all we had was steelhead gear. Light spinning rods with about twelve pound line, going up against those ten pound and up, and I mean way up, monsters. We also had neglected to get any bait, but remedied that by purchasing some fresh mackerel from a passing Mexican.
So we trolled away, and shortly after sunup we hit a school. Fish everywhere, they were big ones, and they were biting on anything. We didn’t have a clue about what we were doing, and our gear was way too puny, so we were losing three fish for every one we boated. But we were having so much fun that who cared.
At one point, Don was hanging onto me to keep a big one from pulling me overboard, and I was laughing so hard that I was not paying attention and I snapped my rod in two. But it didn’t matter, the other two guys were pulling in enough for all of us. After about an hour of this hectic rush though, we had to quit, because we had so many fish aboard that, and I kid you not, we were in imminent danger of swamping the boat.
Motoring up to the dock with gunnels awash, we caused quite a stir. And after weighing in, and at that tender age not knowing how good raw tuna could be, we only kept one to cook for ourselves, and distributed the rest to the natives. Making us heroes of the day, I might add.
Anyway, since then, I have fished for tuna all over the world, with every any kind of gear imaginable. But never again was it as much pure fun as that morning in the leaky boat, off Guaymas, Mexico.
WESTPORT TUNA
Even while working, I had been fishing for tuna out of Westport WA for years, and after I hooked up with Sam, he shared in the fun as well.
This particular trip, we outdid ourselves in putting together a really motley crew. In addition to myself, Sam, and his two boys Keala and Rits, there was Ray, a buyer, and two Texans. Bruce, a high powered corporate lawyer, and Shu, a Presbyterian preacher. An unlikely bunch, would you not agree? In addition, two other guys finked out. My buddy Jurgen, who claimed his daughter was getting married in Hawaii that day, and our pal Tom, who complained that his back was out and he couldn't move. A couple of weak excuses, I think.
So we pile into my Explorer and Sam's pickup and head for Westport. Arriving, we find some good news. Our friend Capt. Dave, the best tuna skipper on the North Coast, is rarin to go, and his boat is all shipshape. As an additional bonus, we again get Capt. Dave's 15 year old son Tony, and Tony’s high school buddy as deck hands. We figured that we should get some real attention from these kids on this trip; since last year we gave Tony a big enough tip to pay his first year's college tuition.
So we set sail about 8:00 PM for an uneventful run to the fishing grounds, except Shu gets a little queasy. Three hours later we arrive and after late evening cigars, and a drink, we sack out for the night. Since we only have seven guys on a ten person boat, none has to sleep in the dreaded "filing cabinets". (So named, because they really resembled a filing cabinet drawer.)
Next morning we are up at the crack of dawn. Everyone is too excited for breakfast, so we immediately start fishing. For those of you not familiar with live bait albacore tuna fishing, the drill goes something like this. Capt. Dave decides where the fish will be and commences a medium speed troll, trailing several lines dressed with artificial squid. Eventually one or more tuna strike, then if the lay of the land (sea) looks good, Capt. Dave stops the boat and everyone gets their line out. For you technical types, we use 20 pound line with medium heavy action poles, and a #6 hook on the end. We thread a live baitfish minnow on the hook and throw him overboard. The fish swims away and eventually a tuna hits. After a sharp fight, which could last awhile, depending on the relative strengths of the fisherman and the fish, you (if you are lucky) haul the tuna aboard and repeat the process. This usually goes on for about fifteen minutes before Capt. Dave has to look for a new school
Anyhow, things were slow in the morning, but speeded up a bit in the early afternoon. 30 fish or so caught.
Then at 2:00 PM we ran into a promising school and got the lines in the water. I'll tell you then that all hell broke loose. The bite was on big time, and there were hundreds of tuna fighting for the bait. You couldn't keep your line in the water for 30 seconds without a fish, and everybody had fish on all the time. Pure pandemonium, with the deckhands untangling lines and gaffing fish like mad, and Capt. Dave running around screaming and hollering like a kid. After an hour or so of this, The Texans claimed that their arms had given out, and they had to be physically hauled back to the rail. I tell you, that at times, we were literally up to our asses in fish. Anyway 4 hours and 110 fish later the bite finally stopped. By this time everyone was totally pooped, so we knocked off for supper. Compared to that experience, the rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, with a few more fish caught and pints consumed. To sum it up, we had 156 fish weighing an average of 22 pounds each. This equated to over 3400 pounds of fish, or 490 pounds per person. (To put this in perspective, the average albacore tuna usually weighs from 12 to 16 pounds.) To top it off, Ray got the season record albacore for the port, 29 pounds 9 ounces. Which was good for a $1000 dollar prize. Capt. Dave said that in twenty years as a skipper he had never seen anything like it. The truck and Explorer were piled to the gunnels with fish and the springs groaned and complained all the way back to Everett.
Needless to say, Sam and I immediately chartered the boat for the same time next year.
MORE TUNA
And the trip next year was pretty interesting, as you will soon see. Again, we put together another improbable bunch. Myself and Sam, of course, and again Sam's two kids. Along with an old time Texas rodeo rider named Steve, and our old friend Tom, a retired bean counter. Anyway, we piled into Sam's new Ford pickup and my Explorer for the long ride to Westport and the annual tuna fishing trip.
Checking in with our good friend Marianne at Ocean Charters we immediately got two pieces of bad news. First, some of our old fishing buddies who were going to share the boat with us had chickened out, and in their place Marianne had booked three dentists. If you recall the story about the Yellowknife trip, we had just suffered thorough several dentists on a fishing trip, and were not at all sure that we could handle three more.
The second piece of news was even worse. Capitan Dave’s boat, which we had chartered, had blown an engine and was hors de combat. At that point we decided to take a break, think things over real seriously, and consider our options.
We started our intelligence effort in the Westport bars. The consensus of the locals was that Jim, the potential substitute skipper, was a good guy, and had some clue what he was doing, but wasn't in the same league as Dave. We had some doubts, but after a couple of beers he sounded better and better, and besides, Keala and Steve had come clear from Texas. As to the dentists, we could try to get along, but decided that Sam's suggestion to freak 'em out was probably a better solution.
So back to Marianne. We would settle for the substitute boat if they would throw in our old friend Tony. Tony was delighted, of course, as he figured that the potential tips would finance another year of college. Then as we started loading our gear on the boat, we found more bad news. While we were screwing around trying to make up our minds, the dentists had grabbed all the good bunks.
We eventually got aboard, stowed our gear and gathered on the foredeck for cigars and more beer. After a couple of rounds of this, we rousted the dentists out of the saloon, and settled in to swap lies and repeat oft heard war stories during the five hour run to the fishing grounds.
At the crack of dawn we were up and at 'em, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and ready to kill every fish in the ocean. But guess what? We motored around for a long time with no bites at all. After about three hours of this, Sam finally explained to the skipper that we were on a fishing trip, not a cruise, and would he please get with the program.
Anyway, something musta happened because we started catching fish. About half of them tuna and half of them sharks. (By the way, Dave had seldom caught sharks.) This went along for some time, with the sharks being more annoyance than problem, till I managed to get my line in a half hitch around the tail of an eight footer. This got him a bit pissed, and before we could cut the line, he had destroyed my gear, as well as my finger, which had somehow got caught in the reel.
We had just about got this sorted out when the squall hit. We had noticed a kinda black cloud in the north, but had paid it little heed, till the wind got to forty knots, the seas got to twenty feet, and the boat started rocking and rolling. When the rolls reached 45 degrees, the gear started breaking loose, and pandemonium ensued. Sam’s kid got chased around the boat by an errant cooler, and Steve got nailed by another. Tom and I, both trying to keep fishing, were hanging on for dear life, while dodging a charging bait bucket. During a short break in the action, Steve allowed that this was more fun than riding Brahmas in the rodeo.
A funny thing happened to the bait at about this time. They all just kind of turned up their tails and died. Sam thought that they might of died from fright after the ugliest dentist had been peering into the bait tank, while I thought that their buddies continuously being fed to the sharks might have traumatized them. Maybe it was the storm, but in any event there they were, all floating belly up.
So here we were, getting dark, no bait, and the boat pitching and rolling enough to make any consideration of sleep impossible. On the plus side, the fish tank was almost full with about 80 fish, which equated to around 1600 pounds of tuna. Anyhow, after a short war council, we decided that discretion was the better part of valor, we had enough fish anyway, and we might as well return to port forthwith. We then did so, arriving back at two AM, and catching some sleep on the boat at the dock.
Anyway it turned out to be an OK trip. We got enough fish, some good male bonding, and as Sam said, "Three days with no women" was the best of all.
Before leaving we ended up chartering our regular boat and skipper, the Ms. Magoo and Dave, for the same time next year. After some negotiation, the group even agreed that I could bring a silk stocking friend from Palm Springs to add some couth to the party, if this could be balanced off by Steve bringing another Texan.
TUNA 2008
Here we are, heading off on another Albacore Tuna fishing expedition.
Starting out, we all piled into two SUV’s and a pickup and headed for Westport. Upon arrival, we met Dave our skipper, renewed old acquaintances, and piled onto the boat.
Two good things happened before we even got on the boat. Dave had fired his booking agent, Ocean Charters, and we had already paid for the boat, so we were spared the usual argument between Sam, our resident accountant, and the Ocean Charters clerk, over how much each of us owed.
The other good thing was that Cowboy Bob’s, the ptomaine dump where Bruce always insisted we eat, had gone broke, so we had to settle for a much nicer and more civilized eatery. The downside, though, was that Bruce didn’t pick up the check. Comes the appointed time for departure, we are all lounging on the aft deck drinking beer and trading lies when Capt. Dave, and his son Tony, who is our deckhand, show up, and we are ready to go. Except we are short one deckhand. But presently, this good looking young lady wheels up in a pickup, charges down the pier and leaps into the boat. We can’t figure out what’s going on till Capt. Dave announces that this is Nicole, our second deckhand.
So off we go, over the bounding main, with Capt. Dave driving, Tony and Nicole hid out somewhere, and our team drinking beer, swapping more lies and retelling oft told war stories. Finally, a few hours out, and what seemed like half way to Japan, Capt. Dave decided that this was the spot, shut her down, and we all turned in for the night.
Sleeping arrangements were in the front under the foredeck, and rivaled “The Black Hole of Calcutta” for squalor. Eight people packed together, in a space not fit for four, with the whole place completely lacking in ventilation and smelling like a combination of fish, Diesel oil, and old wrestling trunks. And to add insult to injury, if in a lower bunk, you got trampled every time the guy in the upper got up to pee.
But, having been on this boat a few times before, I slung my bag down on the bench in the saloon. Kind of narrow, but infinitely better quarters than “The Hole”. Nicole, though, by the second night, decided that anything was an improvement from the floor in the wheelhouse, and grabbed my vacant bunk, down there with the boys.
Speaking of Nicole, The deckhands, for several good reasons, tend when on the job, to be totally swaddled in rain gear, with only their noses sticking out. So when Nicole was getting ready for bed, after peeling off a few layers, I announced to the boat in general that there really was a girl under all those clothes. Which really didn’t make me a lot of points.
Next morning we were up at the crack of dawn. Everyone was too excited for breakfast, so we immediately start fishing. But the problem was that there weren’t no fish. Trolling back and forth and ‘round and ‘round, and no takers. Except an occasional retard who had skipped “school” that day, and was wandering around lost in the briny deep. This went on all day, and by dark, we had less than 30 fish in the fish box. Of course, on the plus side, there was lots of time to swill more beer, and the sea wasn’t too rough.
I did hook one fish, which I had some difficulty getting in. The guys even started yelling at me to turn up my pacemaker, and get with the program. But when I did manage to boat him, he turned out to be a 24 pounder. The biggest fish caught for the trip.
Anyway, at dawn the next morning, it was up and at ‘em again. Dave must have finally got his electronic gadgetry to play, because we started catching fish. And had almost seventy in the hold when we called it a day and headed in. The fish, though, ran 10 to 20% heavier this year, so this somewhat made up for the lesser quantities.
In summary, if you have an iron stomach, like cigars, go for male bonding, and are into riding the mechanical bull in a Texas saloon, you might enjoy tuna fishing. Particularly if you happen to be a masochist. If not, you might want to give it a pass.
HAWAII
So, Pat and I are off to visit Sam and Glenda at their Honolulu home. Needed some rest and relaxation, and hopefully some decent fishing.
Since Sam didn’t have a boat in Hawaii, first day was spent making the rounds of the charter companies. We mutually decided that they were too expensive, but Sam had a backup plan.
Seems that some shirttail relative of Glenda’s knew a guy named Peter who allegedly had a boat. Turned out that he was an older fellow, but seemed like a nice guy, and he talked a good fishing story. Besides, the price was right. Like free. So we signed on for the next day.
We should have gotten a clue when we saw the boat. It was an ancient 21 foot Bayliner Trophy. With, you guessed it, an even more ancient Force outboard hanging on the transom.
Now all you boaters probably already know that a Force outboard is mostly good for an anchor, and definitely not a good bet to power a boat on the open ocean. In fact, to sell any motors at all, the company had to change their name three times, before they finally went out of business.
Anyway, Peter said that he used to have an auxiliary outboard, for when the Force quit, but that somebody had stolen it. Must have been a smart thief, as he passed on the Force. By the way, Peter’s excuse for owning this piece of crap was that it only cost him $9000 for boat and motor, while a decent motor would have cost $10000.
Eventually we got the boat in the water and, Force engine wheezing, motored out to the north tip of Oahu. Peter thought he knew where the fish were, but navigation aids were a bit of a problem. Turned out that the depth/fish finder had a cracked transducer, which made it inoperable 90 percent of the time, and the GPS had been forgotten at home. When we went to rig the tackle, we found that was not the only thing that had been forgotten. The toolbox also turned up missing.
Peter finally found a rusty pair of pliers, and we got the tackle set up and the lines in the water. We pulled in a couple of trumpet fish, and several with the improbable name of Humuhumu-nukunuku-g-pua’a. This latter is allegedly the Hawaii state fish, the name said to have been picked by some grade school kids.
Fishing then got kind of slows, and we started running short on bait. And about that time the Force started really running rough, so discretion being the better part of valor, we headed back to the boat ramp.
As we were cleaning up the boat, one of Peter’s Japanese buddies happened by and gave us a couple of Osa Paka, which he had caught. So we proudly took home two tasty fish. We were very careful to not say that we had actually caught these fish, only telling people that we had brought them home.
OZARK FISHIN’
Favorite son in law Hugh had invited me to fish with him in the Ozarks, and he didn’t have to ask twice. So it’s pack the gear, and out to the airport.
I’m a couple of hours early at Sea-Tac to catch a plane for Dallas when the bad news starts. Thunderstorms at Dallas Fort Worth, and three flights in a row are cancelled. Not a very auspicious start for a fishing trip to the Ozarks.
But a couple of minutes before I would have missed my connection in Dallas, the field opens up and an airplane prepares to leave SeaTac. Only thing, there are about 2000 folks fighting for the 150 seats.
Turning on the charm, I convince the Gate Agent that I am handicapped and I snag a precious seat. Things begin looking up even more, when the cute young flight attendant feels sorry for me and sneaks me free beer all the way to Dallas.
But then comes the dreaded American Airlines terminal at DFW. 150 gates, and the one where your departing flight leaves is always at least two miles from where you arrived. I think that if they extended the concourses a bit farther, you could walk to your final destination. Anyway, I sink into a cart for the handicapped, and it takes me about 200 yards to the end of the line. And guess what, the moving sidewalks are not running, so it is hoof it the last mile.
So I just manage to catch my connection for Springfield MO. Which turns out to be one of those little Embraer jets. But not too bad, really.
Anyway, Hugh and Michelle meet me at the gate, and it’s a good dinner and then crash in the sack.
Next morning we roll out the camping trailer, hook it to the big truck, and we are on our way. No tent this time, thankfully.
So we arrive at the campsite and settle in. Just steps from the potties, the store and the boat launch. Thing is, it’s about a forty five degree slope down to the boats. Not bad going down, but Hell to get back up.
We grab our poles, and go rent a boat. But guess what, a thunderstorm is coming in, and they won’t let us on the water. And by the time the storm passes it is too late for fishin’. Lucky Hugh had us well stocked with Coronas, so it wasn’t too bad.
We had planned to hire Hot Dawg Curtis, the self styled “Fish Acquisition Specialist”, for the next days fishing, but by the time we got through screwing around, he was booked. So we rented the last boat, and guess what, the motor wouldn’t start. The rental guy assured that the motor would be fixed momentarily, but that turned out to be Ozark time, and we finally got on the water about 11:00 AM.
We didn’t have a clue what we were doing, but we finally managed to catch a few fish, even though two lunkers broke my six pound line, and several more got off Hugh’s barbless hook.
On the plus side, the river was scenic, the weather was perfect, and the boat guy let us have the boat all day for the half day rate. And as I remarked, the fishin’ was great, but the catchin’ did leave something to be desired.
Arriving back at camp, we found about one hundred Boy Scouts had invaded our campsite, and it rained most of the next day. But with the help of a fresh supply of Corona, we coped.
Anyway, it was a good outing, lots of Corona and male bonding. And the trip was a real bargain. I figure that the fish only cost about $100 per pound.
But next time, I think we will take advantage of the Hot Dawg Curtis guide service.
MORE OZARK FISHIN'
Well, I’m off on the second annual Ozark fishin’ trip with favorite son in law Hugh. And incidentally, Hugh says it is our tenth outing. But, frankly, I have been having too much fun to keep count.
Anyway, I’m off to Branson MO, with a plane change at Denver. This seemed to be better travel arrangements than before, since the tiny burg of Branson (6000 souls) now has its own airport, and is just a few miles from the fishing.
I decide to carry all my baggage and paraphernalia aboard, and everything goes well till we deplane at Denver. And there I am staggering up the ramp with about 40 pounds of gear, and I think that I am going to have a coronary. What’s wrong? This has never happened before!! But then I realize that Denver is the “Mile high city” and that the 5000 foot altitude is taking its toll. So I take a rest for a couple of minutes, and everything is OK again, but I went real slow, from then on.
The flight to Branson was interesting. The airplane was a 90 passenger Embraer. It had full size luggage bins and four across seating. More like a junior airliner than a commuter jet, and very comfortable.
But one thing was unusual. The Airplane belonged to Midwest Airlines, and was in their livery. But the flight crew was with Republic Airlines, and the flight was billed as a Frontier Airlines flight. This wasn’t really doing Frontier any favors, as the cabin was dirty, and the cabin attendants surly.
But we made it to Branson with its brand new airport, and a terminal that looked astonishingly like a Bass Pro store. Which wasn’t too surprising, since Bass Pro corporate headquarters is only about a 45 minutes down the road in Springfield.
It was about 95 degrees outside, and the coat I was wearing to keep warm on the airplane did seem a bit superfluous, but Hugh and dog Cal were waiting with truck and trailer right outside the terminal, not more than 20 steps away. So there are some advantages to a (very) small airport
We were at the campsite, and getting set up, in about 30 minutes. And after a couple of beers we hit the sack early, as I had been up since 3:00 AM PDT.
But next morning we were up at 4:00, as Hugh had engaged a guide, and unexplainably, had agreed to meet him at the dock at 5:30 AM. My theory is that fish don’t wake up till 8:00 AM anyway, so being on the water before that is a colossal waste of time. And I was proven right again.
But guide Pete knew his business, had $60,000 worth of boat, outboard and electronics, and as an added bonus, was a retired oilman rather than a local Good ol’ Boy. And at 8:00 sharp the fish started cooperating, and we caught about twenty between us, for the day.
Next day we decided to go it alone, renting our own boat. And although Pete had tried to teach us to be good bass fishermen, we didn’t do nearly as well without him.
And would you believe that the boat rental, gas, insurance, etc, cost about as much as Pete’s guide service, we had to use our own gear, and the rental agreement prohibited booze on the boat. That got me so dehydrated that back at camp I had to drink three beers in a row, before I could even pee.
Well, live and learn. But you can guess how we are going to play it next time.
Next day was more of the same, but by then we were smart enough to spend less time on the water and more in camp drinking beer.
All in all, it was a great trip. A few fish, and lots of male (and dog) bonding. And the Ozarks are spectacular in summer, with lots of great scenery and varied opportunities for recreation. Even if Branson itself is a bit hokey.
And to top it off, when the airplane taxied out on the return trip, the entire ground crew lined up and waved, just like in Japan, and the Captain announced that we were first in line for takeoff. Not surprising, since we were the only airplane in sight.
CAVERHILL 2009
And now, one last story about a trip with best friend Pat, to Caverhill Lake, one of my most recent outings.
It was a toss up, whether to go to Marlene and Larry’s lodge at Caverhill lake, or not, this year. I actually cancelled once, but then felt better in December and sent my money in.
Then my old fishing buddy deserted me for his girlfriends, but Marlene felt sorry for Pat, and talked her into going with me. Better looking, and with a better disposition than my old pal anyhow.
So we headed to Kamloops, overnighted there, then on to the lodge. Weather didn’t look too promising, but what the heck. Anyway, got settled in and hit the lake about two PM.
Caught a couple of small ones, then the heavens emptied. Like the proverbial p… out of a boot. But with the rain gear, didn’t get too wet. Then came lightning, thunder and about a twenty knot gale, and I headed for the barn in a hurry. So there went the first day’s fishing.
Next day’s weather was a lot better. And another plus, it turned out that we were the only ones in camp. As to fishin’, I was in kind of in a quandary. Didn’t want to fish the main lake, but didn’t feel up to hiking to the outlying ones, and surely wasn’t going to row, after I got to them.
At this point, I don’t know whether Marlene felt sorry for me, or was bored to death. Anyway she offered to hike to an outlying lake with me, carrying an oxygen bottle if necessary, and even to row the boat when we got there. So how could one turn down a deal like that, from a pretty girl, as well, and I jumped at the chance.
Well, we made the hike OK, all up hill, of course, and with ten million mosquitoes taking sample bites. Took about thirty minutes to go two kilometers, and I only collapsed once, but thankfully the oxygen was not needed.
But the weather was warm and sunny, fishin’ was great and we both limited out. And I managed to stagger back down, but it seemed like up, the trail, collapsed into the boat, and we motored back to the lodge.
And after a couple of Coronas, I even felt well enough for dinner.
Next morning, Marlene talked me into doing the whole thing again, at another lake that she said was even better. And this time we drove part way in her old Jeep, and only had to hike three klicks to get to the lake. Of course, Marlene was loaded down like a pack horse, with coats, rain gear, lunches, fish boxes first aid stuff, etc. I even think that there was a collapsible stretcher in there somewhere.
Uphill again, of course, and even more of the ubiquitous mosquitoes. And when we got to the lake, I was really draggin', without Coronas or cigars to perk me up. But I had smuggled along some “uppers”, and after popping a couple of these I felt I could take on the world, but I did let Marlene row again.
Anyhow it was a perfect Canadian North Woods day. Blue skies with fluffy clouds, bluer water, loons crying, and fish jumping like mad. We found that chartreuse Carries were knocking ‘em dead, but Marlene only had one in her fly book. So I scrounged around in my pack, and found about twenty of ‘em, and we were set.
Anyway we were catching fish so fast that we actually lost count. In fact one guy, who I had hooked well, gave up the fight and jumped right into my lap, in the boat. And at this point, Marlene rightly remarked, ”When you are catching so many that you lose count, it’s a good day”.
After about three hours of this frenzy, we both hooked a big one at the same time, and after boating them both, I told Marlene that we could never top that, so we had better quit while we were ahead.
So we drug back down (or up) the trail, collapsed into the Jeep and back to the lodge. And by this time the uppers having worn off, I was in really bad shape. And actually felt that I would have to get better to die.
Anyhow we managed to pack up the next morning, say ‘bye to everyone, and somehow got over the border and home, before I collapsed. Being too pooped to go to the emergency room, and too broke to call an ambulance, I poured into bed, and was first in line at the Doc’s office the next morning. Dr. Jim took one look, and didn’t seem to know whether to check me into the hospital or the morgue. But he is a fisherman as well, and when he heard my tale, less the part about the “uppers”, he sympathized with me, kind of. But he did remark that I was lucky that I hadn’t just keeled over at the lake, and that next time I probably would, if I kept this stuff up.
Anyhow, it’s now day four, and I am well enough to crawl out of bed and drag myself to the ol’ computer. But I haven’t yet decided whether to sign up again for next year.
FINALE
Well, I guess that for now, I have just about run out of fishin' tales. But if you were paying attention, you probably have learned more about weird fishing experiences than perhaps you really wanted to know.
John, Palm Desert California, September 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment