Salmon Fishing on the Brink

I was stunned to read this. Salmon fishing is closed. No special regulations, no more studies or political foot-dragging. The West Coast chinook salmon have been so ravaged that the whole thing had to be shut down.

What happened? Well, there are plenty of theories. The Sacramento River in California has the largest king salmon run out west. Some scientists say “ocean changes” are to blame. Others aren’t so sure.

From the N.Y. Times in March:

Fishermen think the Sacramento River was mismanaged in 2005, when this year’s fish first migrated downriver. Perhaps, they say, federal and state water managers drained too much water or drained at the wrong time to serve the state’s powerful agricultural interests and cities in arid Southern California.

There’s plenty of blame, but I point my finger right at the top. Even if federal regulators aren’t completely to blame, they are certainly in charge and that’s good enough for me.

From a dispatch in the Washington Post last fall:

Because of [Vice President Dick] Cheney’s intervention, the government reversed itself and let the water flow in time to save the 2002 growing season, declaring that there was no threat to the fish. What followed was the largest fish kill the West had ever seen, with tens of thousands of salmon rotting on the banks of the Klamath River.

We have two “outdoorsmen” in the White House and they have (with plenty of help, it should be pointed out) sold off public land en masse and been on watch as a fishery choked to the brink.

It’s sad and disgusting. I’m on my way up to Lake Ontario to fish the tribs for steelhead andI can’t stop thinking about this.

(Photo: USA Today)

When does a trip begin?

Before any flies are selected, casts are made or fish are caught, what is a fishing trip? In the space of time between the flash when an idea strikes and a plan is hatched to the actual moment when a trip begins, what is it? At what point does a plan become a trip?

The easy answer is to say a trip begins when you get in the car and take off on your way. Ok. But when you agree to make a trip — usually a phone call or handshake, or even an excited conversation at the bar — hasn’t it already begun?

I’m asking all of these questions because a friend of mine just backed out of a trip we had planned for the fall. It’s an annual pilgrimage upstate for the manic salmon run out of Lake Ontario. There are four of us that have been making the trip the last few years — two of us have been doing it for more than a decade. Fly rods, beer, very little sleep, numerous large fish, questionable accommodations, all at a time of year when we probably shouldn’t be taking a long weekend. It’s perfect, really.

At a small party with a dozen or so friends last weekend, Len said (sheepishly, I thought) that there “might” be a problem with the annual salmon trip. As it turns out, a wedding was recently scheduled for the same weekend and he was expected to attend. He suggested rescheduling the fishing trip, but he said that with the proper respect in knowing that there was no way that was going to happen on my watch.

My first thought was that the fishing plans — including the “uncancelable” Friday guide and four days of lodging at the peak of the salmon run — were made months ago, long before there was even an engagement from the couple planning their nuptials on the same sacred weekend. By my logic and order of priorities, I’d have to go with the fishing in this case. Len said he had to go the wedding. I was quietly glad I never got to know the couple very well.

Brian, a litigator sensing an opportunity for mediation who is one of the foursome, suggested that the trip should not go on without the group intact. I calmly explained that the trip had existed before the foursome, and it would go on as a solo venture, if necssary.

I did feel like a bit of a bastard. But this trip had already begun in my mind. There were the dozens of emails to pick the date. The calls to the guide. The calls to the motel. Another dozen emails when the dates wouldn’t all synch. Then, finally, in that magic instance of total synchronicity, the guide, motel, Len, Brian, Mike and I were in the same cosmic rhythm and the dates were set. At that moment, which I believe came at some point in January, the trip was underway.

I won’t start tying up the Krystal Eggs and Silver Doctors until August, and the salmon rod probably won’t come out of its case until a week or two before launch — but when the date is set, the trip has begun.

Len is one of my closest friends. I go to war with him if I wasn’t a pacifist. But in this case, he might as well have walked out of the river midcast.

It’s the same thing.

A Drink They Call Loneliness

There’s a nice article in this month’s Fly Fisherman magazine by Rick Kutich about trying to get away from the crowds to find Great Lakes steelhead. I’ve only fished Lake Ontario tributaries, which I’ve heard are some of the worst for crowds, but his article reminded me of a few days of fishing where I managed to find a little peace on a crowded river.

An Oswego County (N.Y.) guide told me once that those neat little “when to fish” charts that break down the season by week don’t apply to Great Lakes fishing. “The only thing you need is a weather report, that will tell you where and when to fish,” I remember him saying on a particularly dark morning.

Among Kutish’s tips are fishing after a river gets blown out, but before visibility completely returns, which he describes as: “When the water begins receding and visibility reaches a foot or two.” He even suggests fishing in chocolate milk conditions, while emphasizing the need for a dark fly presented in likely fish lies.

Avoiding weekends and fishing later in the day are two other tips he recommends that I can relate to.

The annual salmon run in Pulaski is a zoo, but I’ve had some nice evenings and late afternoons (especially on Sunday) after most anglers have left the water upon limiting out, heading home or just having enough.

I’d throw in one piece of advice that’s a bit risky but has a high reward. Heading out after slow (or even abysmal) fishing reports have circulated for a few days can get you on a less-crowded stream. With anadromous fish like salmon and steelhead, especially during peak run times (ugh, there’s those calendars again), the fishing can change hour to hour, day to day. Taking a chance when many other anglers are still waiting it out can find you on a stream loaded with fish. Throw bad weather into that mix and many anglers head home early or shy away altogether. I can remember casting flies with a few friends on one of the best sections of Pulaski’s Salmon River during the peak of the salmon run. It was freezing and the rain was coming down in buckets. We were the only ones in view for hundreds of yards. The fish were running and they were all ours.

There was also situation a few years back where two weeks of rain had elevated a particular river we were planning to fish in late fall to insane levels. Trips were being canceled by the dozen and the fishermen that did turn up looked dour, confused and, in some cases, even betrayed. When our guide called to cancel we begged him to give us a shot. There had to be a place where a fish or two could be coaxed. The guide was thinking, first, the fishing has sucked. Second, the river has been dangerous. And third, the fishing has sucked. After a half-hour of lobbying from my persuasive friend Len and myself, he relented to take us to a spot and show us what to do. “Sure,” he said, “but you’ll never land anything.”

We killed them that day. Our guide found a nice cut bank big enough for two fishermen that was loaded with fish moving upstream all day. Fish after fish were hooked and many were landed until we got tired. The handful of other anglers on the river were dumbfounded by our success.

The guide had a sheepish grin on all day.