|
| Not your usual
start...
|
| Ken Nastrom seemed
unperturbed by our late start. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and
we had already missed the first heavy flush after the tide change. It
was my fault for not looking at the ferry schedule. I assumed that the
first sailing would be at 7:00 a.m. as it had been for a number of
years. Arriving at the Horseshoe Bay Terminal at 6:30, I was shocked to
learn that we had just missed the ferry. If there was a good side, we
were at least first in line for the 8:30 sailing. |
|
| Time doesn't matter
? |
|
| Ken reassured me that
starting out late wouldn't make any difference. He said that if I had
gotten into Campbell River at 11:00 a.m. as planned, he would have had
to delay our fishing charter anyway, as the new owner of the Riptide
Striker Lures, he used the two extra hours to prepare a large order of
his lures for shipment back east. |
|
| Location is
everything... |
|
| The "HUMP"is
a gently sloping underwater hill just south of the Cape Mudge Lighthouse
on Quadra Island. The top of the hill lies at a depth of about 140 feet,
and it gradually drops off into about 270 feet. Ken found the crest of
the HUMP, then maneuvered the boat so he could back- troll to control
our drift against the heavy tide flow of the big flood tide. |
|
| Watching the
action... |
|
| All around us, small
Boston Whaler guide boats from other lodges jockeyed for position to
keep their clients mooching gear relatively vertical. A few larger boats
trolled around the edge of the moochers, a huge herd of seals cavorted
in the tide eddies, waiting for the sound of the clicker on a reel to
scream out a dinner call. Normally shy Dalls porpoises swam lazily right
through the fleet, their small black dorsal fins cutting gentle wakes
behind them. There was something wrong with this idyllic scene; no one
was playing a fish. |
|
| Start your jigs... |
|
| The Lowrance 55A sonar
showed 147 feet on the backside of the Hump. Ken asked us to drop our 6-
ounce needlefish Strikers, in the latest Army Truck color, to within 10
feet of the bottom. As we drifted, the depth quickly dropped to 170
feet. Ken started up the main motor, slipped it into reverse to slow our
progress, and allowed the lines to go vertical. |
|
| Something on my
line... |
|
| I lifted on the rod,
then quickly lowered the tip to let the jig flutter down. A bump
telegraphed its way up the T.U.F 100% Spectra superline. I pulled up
hard on the rod. Something on the line pulled back, and dragged the tip
of the rod back into the water. I put my thumb on the spool and drove
the hooks in with a short but solid stroke. Line spilled off the reel,
went slack for a split second, and spilled off again in a supercharged
run. |
|
| Us vs the seal... |
|
| Ken yelled only one
word: "seal!" He spun the boat around and followed the fish. I
frantically wound the slack line. When I felt the weight again, it
didn't feel like a seal had grabbed my fish- I was sure I felt only the
solid tugs and runs of a large chinook. Just to be certain, Ken kept the
boat right over my fish the rest of the fight. After another ten minutes
of dogged battle, Ken slipped the net around my 20-pound chinook.
|
