WILD BLOG: Haunted by the ones that got away ...
POSTED April 12, 2009 / 2:30 p.m.

Every angler is haunted by a fish or two that simply kicked their butt, broke their heart and still gives them nightmares once in a while as they recall how close they came to catching a trophy, or how bad they got their rear handed to them by what would have been the fish of a lifetime.

As a guide and charter captain, I often relive the horror of losing these big fish, especially when a new season approaches and the excitement of getting back to a familiar fishing area escalates.

Kenai bye-bye: On the Kenai a few years ago, one of my customers hooked into one of those legendary Alaska hawgs. We were back-trolling below the Pillars when I saw a big splash behind the boat, turned, and noticed one of the rods on the starboard side was completely doubled over, its tip dancing up and down as line peeled from the reel.

“Fish on!,” I excitedly told the customer, who was looking at the opposite shore. “Hey, fish on!. Fish on! FISH ON!!”

He was wearing hearing aids and didn't hear me, even though my other three customers did, along with just about every other fisherman in the immediate vicinity.

Finally, the older gentleman realized something was going on (everyone else in the boat was now standing) and he reached for his rod. He reeled a few cranks, as I backed the boat downstream to try to catch up to the Kenai king.

“Reel, reel, reel,” I coached him.

He stopped, looked at me, and slowly said, “I am reeling.”

Fish off.

Trophy steelhead, meet anchor release: A few years early, I was drifting the Chetco River in March, in search of one of those late season 20-pounders the Southern Oregon river is famous for. Midway through the drift, in a deeper run above Loeb Park, one of the anglers up front hooks a steelhead - a big one.

We quickly realize it's the guy's fish of a lifetime, likely in the mid-20s (yes, bigger than 20 pounds!). The person fighting the fish has been on several trips with me. He catches lots of fish and knows his stuff. But the big steelhead is kicking his butt.

It suddenly races from the right side of the boat to the left, and it's going fast. Anticipating a jump, we all look across the river. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the rod is pinned under the bow anchor release of the drift boat. Instead of moving the rod up and around the bow of the boat, the angler let the fish pull the tip down.

Snap!

Fish off.

The ultimate nightmare: Only one fish wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

We were offshore of Seward last summer, at one of my favorite halibut hog holes (rather, a rockpile!). One of my customers, a veteran halibut angler, is jigging off the stern with a big Berkley Gulp! squid. He hooks into a fish, a big one. There is a short give-and-take fight before the big halibut is back on the bottom.

“He doesn't want to budge,” the guy says.

“You're sure you're not snagged,” I ask.

“No way! It's a fish, biggest halibut I've ever hooked.”

The angler slowly gains some line on the fish. It's a classic halibut battle, straight down, head shakes, gain a little line, lose some line. Anyone who has fished with me knows I use big enough gear to land pretty darn big halibut - heavy Penn rods, Penn Torque reels, 130-pound Spider Wire, 300-pound crimped mono leaders, 20/0 Eagle Claw circle hooks.

The fish is headed to the bottom for the second time and not even slowing down. All of a sudden, we learn just how big it is. Once it reaches the rocky ocean floor it decides it's had enough and begins swimming along the bottom. Soon the angler has been forced from the stern to the side of the boat near the cabin. Then he's on the bow.

“That fish is going to get into the anchor line,” I'm thinking. “You've got to stop him. He's going to spool you.”

The fish doesn't even slow. My customer puts the screws to him. I all of a sudden am feeling kind of sea sick as I see the line go slack.

Fish off.
-AM