I missed my annual visit to my family’s home in Bliss Landing, British Columbia last year as my daughter was born in March and I was enthusiastically adjusting to fatherhood. This year I carved out some time and made plans to spend some days up here with my father and two college friends from Portland. While the fishing has been consistent, the size of the fish we’ve been catching has been disappointing with only two keeper Chinook coming home with us in four days of fishing.
I’ve asked my Dad before if he thinks that are luck is a lack of experience or a lack of fish, and in his mind it may be both. Well, I think that we would both agree that our collective experience is no longer a limiting factor. Everything involved, at least on the technical side of things, is dialed in. Downriggers and their attached lines spend more time in water. Our trolling gear is fine-tuned and tackle mostly limited to what we now know works. There’s very little, and I can say at this point that this is true for all of the fisheries I participate in, “riff-raff” or novelty tackle in the tacklebox. We’ve become better and faster at recovering from and avoiding malfunctions that in previous years stymied or ended the day’s angling. With that said, fishing has been slow and this has been stated by others online who see fishing near us and by the staff of the tackle shops I frequent while up here. Knowing that others are in the same boat does help ease the feeling that is is not us, but them.
We have had some success with our two keepers coming aboard and some very nice wild Coho being caught and released. Our two keeper Chinook were caught at around Sarah Point, but we’ve gotten into hot bites of undersize fish at Sutil Point, Grant Reef, Mystery Reef, and off of Kinghorn Island. Almost all of the fish landed have been on the same flasher/spoon combination that was suggested to us by a young buck at Marine Traders in Powell River. Normally and despite purchasing suggestions from tackle shop employees I’ll wave off these acquisitions as novelty or last-ditch, but in this case I owe credit where credit is due. At least in the case of the spoon he recommended which was a black/green Silver Horde Coho Killer. I used his flasher suggestion as inspiration to choose my own.
Humpback Whales Off Hernando Island
In our run from Sutil Point to Grant Reef on a day before the smoke really came in we spotted some whales approaching us. We were quick to see they were bigger than Orcas and cut the engine as two humpback whales cruised by. The whales circled back to our boat and the following video is the amazing encounter.
I stumbled upon Pete Rosko’s “one man show” video collection while searching for some footage of anglers jigging darts for Chinook salmon. It was nice to some of the techniques and rigging that I’d been using up in BC while fishing from a small tin boat and often also by myself. I’d basically figured out what I was doing over hundreds of hours bobbing around in a small tin boat, close to Bliss Landing. Fred’s Hump is a classic spot for me and one that I learned about from a former caretaker at Bliss who was also a guide on the side. I’ve fished this way, with 2 oz. Pt. Wilson darts for years and hooked enough fish to keep me out there as much as I can when I’m not in the big boat trolling. From Pete’s tactic for measuring depth to his choice of lines, leaders, color, how to cover water, etc. It’s a great technique and one that can even be employed without a depth finder..as long as you have a good set of charts, keep an eye on the weather, and fish with the tide changes. “Teacup on a wooden dowel” comes from Pete’s description of a de-hooker design that one can make in a pinch. We don’t get to see a prototype, but the description leaves one to wonder.
My family has a home at Bliss Landing which is at the mouth of Desolation Sound in British Columbia and for the past three summers I’ve been allotted the use of a small tin boat with a 25hp engine. From this boat I primarily fish using Pt. Wilson Darts, targeting Chinook salmon (called Springers here in BC) that come into shallow areas chasing bait fish pushed up by the high tide. It has been a frustrating learning curve getting these fish in the boat. The first summer I spent first discovering that there was a spot close to our home that I could access safely in a boat that frequently had mechanical issues and is very small. By the middle of August I think had hooked 6 kings, but not a one made it into the net. I was having troubles with my reel and rod choice and the appropriate amount of drag to be using. Barbless hooks were another challenging variable and I was also hooking these fish by myself in most instances, doing a one man keystone cops impression as I attempted to keep the line tight on the huge salmon now at the surface, while trying to get the net positioned effectively. On one memorable day I had hooked three, losing one that ran then surfaced close to fifty yards off of the back of the boat and another that broke off after I lost the net in the water and tried to host the 25lb fish into the boat by grabbing the 30lb test leader.
I thought about the failures of that day all winter long. Last summer I came prepared, or so I thought. I bought a small arsenal of jigs in all sizes and colors. I spent so much time throwing every color in the rainbow at them that I ignored the color that had worked that day the summer before: white. A long 4oz white needle fish jig with red eyes had hooked every salmon I had got into the summer before. I lacked patience and ignored many of the environmental contributors to great salmon fishing (tides, time of day, bait fish and bird activity). I landed one 14lb salmon towards the end of August in the small boat, but I was trolling and brought it in on an Islander mooching reel and a lucky net job.
This summer I’ve experienced hundreds of more days fishing and even more hours to think about what I was doing wrong. I stocked up on those white darts in a variety of sizes. I’ve had ample practice netting and playing fish in other situations that have practical applications to landing these larger ones. I pay more attention to the environment that I’m fishing in when it is both and not. These things are ingrained in me now, and have allowed me to focus more on technique. My rod and reel of choice was once just my rod and reel of default, but I’ve come to like using it. It’s a 6′ casting Shimano Trevala Jigging rod. The reel is a Shimano Calcutta with 50lb braid as it’s mainline. It’s the shortest rod I use in all my fishing, shorter than my ultralight trout rod, which lends itself well to netting fish by myself without having to worry about breaking it. To the braid I tie a snap swivel and about 4ft of 30lb flurocarbon leader which is then tied to the dart jig. With the drag set right, this reel and line do a great job of tiring a running salmon down.
In putting this equipment to work I do what is generally referred to as drift jigging. I’ll motor to about the middle of the bay north of Fred’s Hump and put her in neutral, waiting to see which way the current and wind are gonna push me before I cut the engine. Once I get an idea of the drift I’ll go north or south along the shore depending on the direction I’ll be drifting, so that I can start at the “top” and drift across the small bay where there is a drop off from water averaging 90 ft in the bay to 300ft just outside of it. I try to drift right at the edge of the drop off. I’ll drop my dart to the bottom and then reel up about 11 times to get off the bottom and out of the way of the small rockfish. As I’m dropping the jig I’ll keep my thumb on the spool and every so often I’ll feel a fish bump it on the way down. When this happens I stop feeding line out and give the rod a couple mooches. Twice I’ve hooked salmon this way.
I’ll drift jig until I’ve drifted into water too shallow or deep to productively cover water where I’ve historically hooked fish. I’ve hooked two big salmon drift jigging in water under 40ft deep. This summer I landed three nice Chinook in the tin boat at Fred’s Hump. It’s taken a long time but I feel I’ve finally figured out most of the techniques that are successful and learned to work with most of the variables that might suggest tweaking these techniques.
I’m lucky to have an amazing place to escape in my Dad’s home at Bliss Landing, BC. Seattle has me down and summer idleness sent me north to spend time with him for a full week of fishing and exploring parts of British Columbia’s Inside Passage. In the week I was there I went farther north then I had ever been in my life. Gordon, friend of my Dad and accomplished float plane pilot, nailed it when he said I was gaining a “new latitude”. While wallowing in the unmatched calm of Bliss is tempting with the unreal view and mesmerizing quiet, pocked with the sounds of gulls and seals, it was the two nights we would camp on Dad’s boat, the Orca, that turned into the highlight of summer.
I arrived last Wednesday and while rolling down the final stretch of forest service road bringing you to the property I encountered Dad, driving his trusty golf cart (the preferred method of transportation on the property) towards the boat dock to set prawn traps. I was serendipitously earlier than expected and immediately parked the car, carted my bags back to the house, and joined him to set the traps.
Dad and his two prawn traps are easily the most successful prawning operation going at Bliss. Two years running he’s caught hundreds of prawns more than anyone else and last year was awarded a prize for his accomplishment: One case of wet cat food-the preferred bait for spot prawns. Prawn traps are set in deep water, around 350-400 feet, and when you buy line for prawn traps it only comes in 400 foot lengths. Setting the pots is as easy as shoving them overboard. Pulling them is a different story. My Dad has his own tried true spots for prawn catching noted on the Orca’s GPS. They’re all a bit risky and lie right in the path of the occasional tug boats dragging giant barges of felled logs from northern logging operations. We’ve tensely watched through binoculars as these barges slowly make their way south and over the water where our pots are. This happened in June when I was there and mercifully our pots were dodged by the tugs. Because of this hazard it seems no other non-commercial prawn fishermen will lay their pots at these spots.
Being a gambler and having experienced the grueling disappointment of pulling an empty prawn pot, Dad sticks to his risky spots and it seems to pay off every time. We pull the pots up by hand and it’s a workout as each prawn pot has a giant segment of tractor chain in it to properly weigh it down. You’re arms get tired so you start pulling with your legs and body’s momentum. Soon that gets tiring and you switch back to your arms. The whole time your hands are burning from gripping the heavy line and when all’s said and done you’re upper extremities feel like wet noodles hanging off your shoulders. I inevitably squat down on the coiled rope and wet buoy to count the prawns and send them into the bucket, my hands on fire and lungs out of breath. When we returned to pull the pots on Thursday morning they were full of 100+ prawns which I brought home. We remove the heads in the boat and I separated our catch into small, medium, and large prawns before freezing them in seawater to pop into my freezer at home and eat throughout this winter. I’ve said it before, they are like no prawn you will ever eat…they are wild from the freshest water and worth any effort to get them on the dinner plate.
Besides prawns we fished for delicious Dungeness crab. After dragging up a prawn pot, crab pots are a walk in the park. You drop them on a sandy bottom at a depth of about forty feet and wait overnight or even just a few hours. On this trip we tried a couple of other spots to prospect as they say, but pulled one pot full of 6-7 starfish and another empty one. The night before our last full day in BC, we went back to where we knew crabs were crawling and pulled in 6 keepers, 2 shy of the limit. People experiment with all kinds of baits for crab (chicken necks?), but Dad has found that fresh bait works the best. He usually just goes to Safeway in Powell River and asks the seafood department for their salmon scraps which they gladly hand over. The scraps are then frozen in the bait cage that fits into the pot. We were lucky enough on this trip to catch our own salmon and use unfrozen, fresh bait that proved to work very well.
Sandwiched between our prawn fishing and our crab fishing was some of the most successful salmon fishing I have ever had. Fishing for salmon is a bit of a curse in my family. I can catch a boring rock fish as quickly as I can get a hook in the water, but an old boot has more action than a rock fish. My rock fishing highlight is the time I threw a little guy back and he sort of floated in a daze on the surface for a minute. That was just enough time for a bald eagle to come down from a tree and pluck him out of the water. I felt I’d just caught an eagle his lunch and that will likely never happen again. I grew up spending summers on Lopez Island in the San Juan Islands. Each summer for years we would fish for salmon and catch absolutely squat. I felt, going into my adult years, that I would never be a salmon fisherman. The Bliss Landing house changed the game for the Spring Chinook salmon run north of Bliss, along with the wild and hatchery Coho runs, provide some of the best opportunities to catch salmon on the North American west coast.
Dad knew that I would want to spend a lot of time with gear in the water while I was visiting. To mix things up he decided we would take the boat about an hour and a half north where the geography and accompanying ecology change dramatically. At Bliss Landing, the ocean water temperature is a cool 62〫, while a mere hour north it drops to a frigid 45〫. This drop in temperature causes drastic changes in air temperature, weather patterns, and in the type of life that can thrive in it. Beyond the water temperature you also find an increase in large mammal predators. Wolves, cougars, and most notably, grizzly bears are all abundant in the northern section of British Columbia’s Inside Passage. Our first night we moored at Big Bay on Stuart Island and the woman working the small store told us of a nice hike to a small lake. During her explanation of how to get to this lake there were a number of red flags that came up for me. First, she told us to walk a little ways on the trail we could see from the dock, and then “just go into the woods” and we would find it. Hmmmm. Next, she asked us if we would be hiking alone or together. Together. She then asked if we had a dog with us. No. She then revealed that we may need to be careful because a boater had spotted a cougar swimming from a neighboring island onto Stuart Island. Wow. Ok. The vision of a cougar swimming in 45〫water from island to island made me think that this cougar was very hungry and likely pissed. Also, Stuart Island is not very big and I’m not sure anything could have dragged me on a hike into the woods at that point. The next night, while mooring at Cordero Lodge, I got to hear about how a cougar had come out of the woods and killed both of the caretaker’s dogs on the boat dock.
Regardless of the cat problem, we were there for adventure and we were there to catch salmon. We arrived at Big Bay on Friday night and trolled that evening without a bite. The next night we would be mooring at the Cordero Lodge in Johnstone Straight and spent Saturday morning fishing before heading into Blind Channel for lunch. Blind Channel was pretty and bustling with large, cruiser boats trying to tie to their small dock. They had a sort of shack built around a BBQ being run by a college-age kid and that kid made my Dad and I one of the best hamburgers I have eaten in my entire life. I’m not just saying this because I was hungry. We’re talking a brioche bun with house-made BBQ and chipotle sauce, fresh fixings, and local ground beef packed with spices, minced onions and green peppers. Kudos to that college kid.
After Blind Channel we checked in at Cordero to let them know that we would be mooring on their dock and joining friends for dinner that night before heading north to fish in Loughborough Inlet. The hankering to head into Loughnorough was inspired by a desire to see a property that a friend of a friend of my Dad had purchased years ago. We boated up the inlet and arrived at the property, to find what I can only describe as a “spooky” scene. There was a very large house that years ago had been partially built by the owner, only to be abandoned when he ran out of the resources needed to continue building. It is a huge, beautiful house in the middle of absolutely nowhere that, in my Dad’s words, seems to be “returning back to nature”. The owner’s boat is moored on a small dock in front, but only to make people believe that someone actually lives there. It reminded me in spirit of the Stanley Hotel in The Shining and gave me some serious heebeegeebees. We motored away from the creepy property and decided to find a place to fish.
We chose the sunny side of the inlet by a vaguely described “green patch” that the woman who ran Cordero suggested. A spot that she grew up fishing with her Dad. We trolled along the shore with one downrigger pulling a green hoochie down to about 110 feet. In the morning we had seen bait fish jumping close to shore and usually bait fish jump out of the water when something is chasing them. This led to my Dad suggesting that maybe we should drag a buzz bomb off the back of the boat just to see what happens. This was a bit out there for me, as I usually only use the buzz bombs for mooching purposes. Despite my borderline-dismissive apathy, the bait fish were jumping and I ran a long line off the back with a buzz bomb. After twenty minutes the buzz bomb pole snapped hard and I reeled a nice sized Coho into the net, absolutely blown away that it had worked. The fish was beautiful and our first success of the trip north.
Giddy with the fact that we were no longer skunked, we head back to our night’s moorage at Cordero Lodge. Cordero is a restaurant and small lodging house run by two generations of Germans who built their property on float houses thirty-something years ago. Float houses are traditionally used by loggers and are built on large logs that allow them to be floated and moved as the supply of trees dry up and the operation requires a new forest to cut down. Cordero Lodge is this family’s lifework and due to illness and the lack of desire to carry on the struggling enterprise by the next generation, this summer will be the lodge’s last season. They serve a delicious German dinner in a floating dining room/bar filled with booths, a piano, and dozens of hanging bargees donated by many boats that have moored at Cordero over the years and enjoyed their hospitality.
After our obligatory shots of schnapps, my Dad and I retired early in anticipation of catching the “early bite” the next morning. My Dad had arranged a four hour outing with a guide suggested to us by the couple that ran Big Bay’s marina. We met our guide, Mike, at Big Bay at 7:30am and piled our bundled selves into his small, open boat for a brisk, fast ride through the Dent Rapids to Denham Bay. My Dad had seen the boats fishing at Denham the night before and decided that the logistics of trolling with 25 other boats on the same strip of shoreline was understandably not worth the effort. Mike was a pro and informed us that there was a system at Denham Bay where you trolled “starboard to shore” and that kept everyone looping around at a civilized pace.
We arrived at Denham and within fifteen minutes of having the gear in the water I had an 18lb Spring Chinook hooked, netted, and in the boat. It was unbelievable and an immediate testament to the benefits of fishing with a local guide. Mike was a great guide and a great guy to share a small boat with for four hours. He guides hunting expeditions as well and when we got into his boat I noticed two large bones setting on top of his flashers, keeping them from flying out as we motored along. My Dad wittily inquired if they were from dissatisfied customers and Mike dryly replied that they were Grizzly femurs. One from a ten foot bear and another from a smaller, nine foot bear. I thought they were merely a showy method for weighing his lighter gear down in his open boat. But when I reeled in that first Chinook, he used one of the femurs as a “fish bonker” to knock the salmon dead before putting it in the cooler. Using a bear femur to kill a just-caught salmon may be the most primal showing I have ever witnessed and Mike acted like it was the most sensible use of a bone in the world. Fred Flinstone would have been proud.
We caught two more salmon while at Denham, one small Chinook we released and Dad caught a beautiful hatchery Coho that we had for dinner the next night. It may have been the best tasting salmon I had ever had. Between the prawns, crab, and slab of salmon I now have a very full freezer in my Capitol Hill apartment. The fish should last well into winter and every time I dip into that seafood stash I’ll be reminded of this trip and more importantly my Dad, who made it all happen.
Jade and I had an amazing trip to my father’s summer-house in Bliss Landing BC. We were up there from June 16th through the 24th and were lucky enough to share time at the house with my Dad before he left on 20th, leaving us to our books and oysters. While he was there we spent many hours in his fishing boat setting crab pots that returned more crab then we were legally allowed to keep, prawn pots that held over a hundred, delicious spot prawns, and I also managed to reel in a nice size ling cod while we were trolling for salmon. The spot prawns were the big winner as far as I’m concerned. They are beautiful, medium size prawns that don’t require any de-veining as they spend their wild lives in some of the cleanest water in the world and taste like lobster. We saw Orca whales and Jade and I saw a young black bear scatter up a tree about ten feet from our golf cart (the preferred mode of transportation while on the property). I already miss the easygoing life we had for the short time we were there and hope to make it up again later this summer. I’ve posted most of our photos on my Wild Coasts Flickr.
Gorge Harbour is an idyllic boating outpost on the west side of Cortes Island in the Discovery Islands between Vancouver Island and Canada’s mainland. I made the trip there with my dad and girlfriend for Father’s Day in his boat for brunch and to seek out some pictographs that are found on the steep face of the narrow harbor entrance. The entrance to the harbor is dramatic, although narrow and easy to miss. As you enter steep cliiff faces surround you that in the past thousand year have served as a defense post for the native peoples that called the harbor home. That is before their communities were decimated by small pox and tuberculosis after the gold rush of 1858 brought hundreds of thousands of gold-seeking white men through the area. The harbor’s inhabitants would poise large boulders on the tops of the cliff faces and with timely precision drop them on marauding invaders from other tribes. I have also read that in foggy weather the tribe would position a young woman with a big singing voice at the top of the cliffs to serve as an audible beacon for canoes coming in from hunting. I find this about as haunting as it is fascinating.
Small caves also line the harbor entrance and were formerly used as native burial sites. This practice contrasts with other methods of burial and general dealings with the dead by the ancient indigenous people of the area. In Wylie Blanchet’s Curve of Time memoir she describes seeing ancient burial boxes hanging from trees over the water north of Gorge Harbour. While still very much alive, local natives would build their own personal burial box and keep it in their home, often using is as a piece of furniture, a shelf, or a table. When they passed, their family would put their body, curled in the fetal position, into the box and hang the box from a large tree. At a predetermined time of the year all of the settlement’s boxes would come down and be cremated as part of a ceremony. I can only imagine the morbid site of these boxes hanging from trees. In her travels, Wylie also saw abandoned camps where some boxes had fallen from rotting ropes and their own weight to the shore below, while some still swung from cedar ropes above.
The anthropology of Desolation Sound and the areas surrounding my father’s home at Bliss Landing continues to fascinate me the more I learn about it and see it with my own eyes. I was particularly excited to see the pictographs that were on the cliffs at Gorge Harbour’s entrance.
In our first pass I missed them. I had read that often shore side pictographs could be found at a very specific level, coinciding with the height of man standing in his canoe. I was looking at arm’s reach-height and saw nothing as we motored though the pass. As we left Gorge Harbour we were able to spot them. Much higher than I expected, but still vivid and unfaded.
Where it was obvious that they had not been drawn from a canoe’s perch, I also have doubts about the theories that suggest the artists had been lowered from the top of the cliff with woven cedar ropes to paint the figures. It seems that the cliff face has a convenient, flat perch there that easily could have held a man without fear of falling or losing balance. The markings themselves I find eerie and hard to understand. There is the obvious drawing of a man perched atop a whale or large fish, but the other stick figure drawing I can’t begin to comprehend.
The age of these pictographs is also hard to tell. There’s no doubt they were there painted before 1858’s gold rush and subsequent small pox epidemics, but just how long is unknown. I have heard of other local shore side pictographs being dated anywhere from 200 to 2000 years ago. Locals and anthropologists theorize that many of the shore side pictographs mark great fishing spots. I can’t see this applying to the Gorge Harbour entrance, as fishing would be questionable in the shallow water, although the harbor currently holds a successful commercial oyster farm and likely provided its ancient inhabitants with bountiful shellfish, if not salmon. I interpret the pictographs as a warning or marking of territory. They could also just be ancient graffiti. A local wanting attention after making the dangerous climb down or around the cliff, akin to a graffiti writer climbing a train trestle or overpass to spray paint their tag.
There will be days when the fishing is better than one's most optimistic forecast, others when it is far worse. Either is a gain over just staying home.