WILD BLOG: The summer of 60?
Summer Archive, 2008

I’ve kept quiet about it, but ever since the sun started shining in June and the Chinook started to filter south out of Alaska onto the Salmon Highway, I’ve had a whisper in the back of my brain: “60-pounder … 60-pounder … 60-pounder.”

I haven’t said a word about it, but, here I am, at 7 p.m. on Tuesday, July 29, letting the cat out of the bag. I have a 60-pound Chinook in my future, and it’s going to happen this summer. Might be the Queen Charlottes. Might be Tofino. Might be Rogue Bay. I have all three of those big-fish hot spots on my dance card this year, and I’m telling you as sure as shootin’, one of ‘em has my 60.

I’ve tangled with at least two Chinook that big in my life, and have gotten my ass summarily whipped both times:

nThree years ago in Rivers Inlet, B.C., motor mooching off the mouth of the Kilbella River. It was an inordinately warm day in August, past the peak of the Chinook run, on an afternoon when the rest of the boats running out of King Salmon Resort had blasted straight to The Wall at the mouth of the inlet in pursuit of coho.

I couldn’t stand it: I can catch coho by the dozen 20 minutes from my house. Flying to Rivers Inlet to catch coho is sheer lunach, so I spent the week fishing alone at the head of the Inlet, criss-crossing back and forth between Shotbolt Bay and the mouth of the Kilbella River, searching in vain for one of the massive Chinook that Rivers Inlet is famous for.

About 3 p.m., in a near-doze, trolling a rod’s length away from the sheer rock wall along Marker 16/Two Square on the north end of Kilbella Bay, I was shaken awake by the sound of the “whappita, rattle rattle” of a rod clattering in the rod holder, and the “zzzttt zzttt zzzzzzzzzzzz” of line peeling off the centerpin reel.

I was on that thing like a fat kid on a French fry, crank, crank, cranking … and nothing. Crank, crank, crank, crank, cranking … nothing.

“Sh*t,” I thought. “Must’ve gotten too close to the wall and snagged up.”

I started winding everything back in, ready to head for the corral, when all Hell broke loose. My line stopped like I’d snagged on the bottom, the rod loaded up, and I felt the unmistakable “rrrrr rrrr rrrrooooolllf!” of something very big and very pissed off heading due west across the face of the bay and straight vertical as the line angle went from 90 to 60 to 45 to 15 degrees.

“What the eff?!?” I whispered to myself as I cranked for all I was worth to catch up, watching the line angle decrease until a gigantic, bronzy body catapulted out of the water for a half-second and ker-flopped on its side like a beer keg falling in a swimming pool. There wasn’t an ounce of grace in it.

There didn’t need to be. The thing was all of 60 pounds, power from tail to teeth, and after pulling me back down to 10-15 feet, it hung a hard right and blazed up past the deadline marker into the Kilbella. It kept going, and going, and going – me desperately reefing back in an attempt to slow the damn thing down – until, bink, everything went slack.

I have no clue exactly what happened. I could’ve gotten sawed off on a rock, could’ve gotten wound around some wood, could’ve been hijacked by Sasquatch. All I know for sure is that fish was a monster, and I didn’t have control of him for even a nanosecond.

nTwo years ago in Craig, Alaska, fishing with Rob Endsley of Prince of Wales Sportfishing and Bill Herzog. If you’ve perused this site or listened to Northwest Wild Country, you’ve probably heard or seen the references to “Don’t Know What U Got ‘Til It’s Gone” by Cinderella.

That was the song that started playing on Sirius satellite radio exactly 2.2 seconds after my Chinook of a lifetime was carried off by a sea lion.

I won’t go into the details about that fish because, frankly, I’m still haunted by visions of that sea lion, struggling under the weight of a monstrous Chinook as he carried the thing off around the wash rocks while Robbo, Herzog and I cursed and howled in protest.

This one was nearly unbearable because I had fought the fish to within 10 feet of the boat, and all three of us had gotten a look at the thing and let out a collective “HOLY SH*T!!!”

In the end, all I could do was wrap the line around the linecounter, close my eyes and listen for the “POW!” of snapping line.

“Don’t know what U got ‘til it’s goooneeeeee …”

This year it all changes, though. This year, the 60 comes to the net, hits the deck, and gets hoisted for pictures.

This is the summer of 60. I can feel it.

-JS

Post Script: It wasn't. Still looking. Dammit.