The Fishing Life: A Story
You may have trouble remembering the last time you were up this early on a summer’s day; dawn is still a matter of faith in the eastern sky. At Good Hope, the coffee’s on and the kitchen is in full swing. Long-time guests have already been out to sniff the air and have a word with their guides in the time-honored tradition of first light.
For over a century, Good Hope Cannery has presided over the middle Inlet, and you get the feeling she knows her business. You can imagine the hiss of steam from 1895, and picture the early cannery fisherman walking these very decks, going through the same ritual you are. It is a warm feeling, in that chill air, to realize that you’re a part of history.
Down on the docks, guides are wiping down boats and laying out tackle, ready to carry out plans made the night before and confirmed by the morning calm. As fisherman bustle about in the murky dawn, running lights twinkle along the sides of the boats, creating an oddly festive scene.
You recognize a familiar voice and turn to hear your partner laughing as a staffer holds out your camera. In the excitement, you’d almost forgotten it.
Aboard, with gear stowed, there’s a momentary pause in the action, as if paying respect to the coming day. Then, with the first, subtle change of light, boats slip away, clearing the bay one by one.
At the helm are years of experience and gut feeling, and your adrenalin level seems directly connected to the throttle. You’re heading in the direction of the Inlet’s legendary ‘Head End’ and the prospects of mammoth Chinook.
The run is short and in the slipstream of cool Inlet air, invigorating. Idling in to the tack, it feels good to stretch and test the sea legs, and contemplate the challenge of working baits along such hallowed, virgin shores.
You know that adult Chinook in prime ocean condition arrive early to the Inlet, heavy from up to seven years at sea. In the green waters of their staging ground, finishing touches are added to near-mature bodies: in the transition from salt to fresh water, silvery ocean camouflage gives way to a to bronze Inlet patina, eyes are dark and moody, jaw lines powerful. A Chinook’s character becomes challenging and unpredictable.
Within minutes, a nickel-bright herring is cut out and the first rod bends to its weight from a stern holder. Fifty yards away, a thunderous strike rips across the stern of another boat. You watch the water erupt and the guide’s voice is a whisper. “They’re here. ” Reverence underscores his excitement and you notice your hands tremble as you work the rest of the gear.
Ahead, a salmon-stained sunrise is flaring through mainland valleys and you grasp to hold onto words you’ll use to describe it back home. Fishing no more than ten pulls deep, your partner and guide carefully switch places at the helm so as not to spoil the hushed drama of glassy water and bright anticipation.
The guide slowly executes a turn away from shore and you can imagine the out-side baits speeding up across the vanguard of a shifting school and the in-side ones fluttering down through them. Suddenly your partner’s rod slams down, then pops up silent. Everyone is galvanized, suspended, and just as the guide is about to say something, a second rod buckles and stays buried. Whether it’s over in seconds or still hanging in the balance an hour from now, one thing is certain – this is the moment you came for. |
