The Last Run
Perhaps we should not have gone fishing this day. It was overcast and cold with a blustery, biting wind. The forecast was for rain and “the S-word” was even mentioned. What kind of fool goes out in weather like that? On the other hand, this would be our last chance to get Paul’s 21-foot Lund out on the lake for the season. The Baileys Harbor marina was closing for the year and all slip renters were told they had to pull their boats out. The previous week’s weather had been awful with winds howling from the north and then the south making the lake surfable, but definitely not fishable. Comparatively, today looked rather pleasant. The winds were westerly, allowing some protection from the bluffs above Baileys Harbor. Paul and I have fished in worse conditions, much worse. We made the clear angler’s choice. Go fishing.
As I pulled into the marina parking lot and waved to Robbie, the harbormaster, I could see that Paul already had the boat warmed up ready to go. There were few other vessels left in a marina that had been filled all summer. A couple of salmon boats bobbed with rods waiting to be stored for the season. By next week, the town crew will have removed the piers and docks and stacked them along the breakwater to wait out the winter season. A few young guys were casting spoons in the marina basin in hopes of tying into one to the many 4-year-old Chinook salmon lurking there. Several of the dark-skinned “zombies” could be seen surfacing tauntingly. Each appearance elicited excited calls from the dockside anglers.
Paul and I would not be chasing zombies today. Our target was northern pike, although smallmouth bass, brown trout or even a jack salmon were all possibilities this time of the fall. The lake temperatures were in the mid-40’s and various species were active in the shallow bays. This is also the time of the year when lake whitefish migrate toward their nearshore spawning areas. The commercial fishing companies had already set nets just off Baileys Harbor and Moonlight Bay to harvest these roe laden treasures. Paul and I would be trolling for our quarry. We had set up six medium weight rods in lieu of our usual, much heavier, salmonid tackle. A key to sportfishing is to match the tackle to the fish being caught. Catching a 10-pound pike or 20-inch bass is a lot less “sporting” when hauled in with a heavy casting rod designed to subdue a 30-pound King salmon. Each of our lines would be attached to mini-planer boards, again matched to the target species, allowing us to splay out the lures in a wide swath. We would be deploying a variety of trolling baits including Huskey Jerks, large floating Rapalas and Thundersticks. I undid the mooring lines, scrambled on board, and Paul backed the boat out of the slip for the last time this year.
We quickly set out the lines just off the marina entrance. Our plan was to troll the shallow north end of the bay and head east toward the Baileys Harbor Yacht Club and along Lighthouse Island. We were well protected from the wind as we started trolling but we know this protection would not last. It did not take long before one of the mini-boards disappeared below the water and Paul yelled “Fish!!!” After a dogged battle, I lifted a gorgeous dark green, yellow striped pike into the boat. Disentangling the fish from the net and extracting the lure from toothy jaws, we returned the 35” fish to the lake.
As we moved toward the east side of the bay, we started to feel the bite of the wind. The waves and swells were getting larger as we became more exposed. It was getting challenging to control the boat. As we passed the yacht club marina, we realized the wind had shifted more southerly and we were now heading directly into a stiffening wind. This made it difficult to maintain speed and direction and nearly impossible to successfully boat a fish if we happened to get one on. We decided to pull the lines, motor south past the Olde Baileys Harbor Lighthouse and troll in the opposite direction. Within ten minutes we had completed the maneuver with all lines deployed as we started our run along the east shore of Bailey Harbor. We were still being buffeted by wind and waves, but it seemed manageable. Then all hell broke loose.
As we neared the Hickey Brothers boat dock, Paul again called out “Fish!”, “It’s a nice one.” Normally we take turns reeling in fish, but with the winds pushing the boat relentlessly sideways towards the rocky shoreline, I did not think it prudent to leave the helm, even for a moment. I called to Paul “You take it.” The wind seemed to have picked up, or maybe it was just the urgency of the moment, but I was struggling to keep the boat clear of the rocks. I increased power to maintain steerage. This made it difficult for Paul to reel in the fish. “Slow down”, he pleaded. “I wish I could.” I replied. It was time to prioritize the safety of the boat over landing the fish. I eventually got clear enough from the rocks and the concrete pier to be able to slow the boat and Paul moved the fish to the side of the boat. I quickly grabbed the landing net and scooped the fish into the boat. Another nice pike. Fortunately, this one was quickly removed from the net and released as I snapped a photo. Just then Paul noticed another fish was on. Then another. Maybe another. We were not sure how many we had on, but it was more than we could handle. By now the boat was careening toward an old, abandoned tugboat moored just off the entrance to the yacht club marina. If our trolling lines got into the steel cable stretched off the tug’s bow, we would be in big trouble. Not to mention, we might lose the fish.
Both Paul and I were attempting double duty, reeling in fish while steering the boat clear of the obstruction. Paul got one of the fish to the side of the boat and I got it in the net, barely. As Paul worked to release the pike, I steered the boat while hanging on to the pulsating rod. Paul took over the helm and I concentrated on landing the fish. But which one? Two of the lines had become hopelessly twisted together and there was no way I could get them disentangled with fish tugging on both. I decided to cut one of the lines. After doing so, I now had the task of retrieving the fish by hand. Fortunately, this pike turned out to be smallest fish of the day. Recovering the line hand over hand, I got the fish close enough to net it. Paul was too engaged maneuvering the boat to assist, so I grabbed the net in one hand, line straining in the other and slipped the fish into the net. We knew we had lost at least two of the fish we had hooked, but we still had another pike on. We switched positions and Paul proceeded to recover the fish. We had just cleared the tugboat line and were, more or less, out of danger. When the fish finally made it to boatside, I was able to net the fish. It was the largest of the day, a fat 37-incher. Once this pike was safely returned to the water, we had a chance to survey the carnage. Rods were strewn jackstraw all about the boat. Tangles of fishing line were strung around the motor and the rod holders like garland. A lure dangled from the landing net. The bottom of the boat was covered with a soup of slime, blood and seaweed. Paul was bleeding.
We decided to motor out to the middle of the bay and drift while we attempted to recover both the tackle and our composure. We now had time to consider what had just happened. It was still a blur, but we think we had at least six fish on within a few minutes. We had managed to put three of them in the boat. All we could do was laugh. We quickly cleaned up the mess, Paul bandaged his hand, and we considered our options. We knew where the fish were, and they were biting. However, the conditions were not improving and any attempt to continue fishing might be considered, by some, foolhardy. I trust I do not have to tell you what we decided.
We made another run battling the same winds, waves, rocks, and the looming tugboat. We lost one fish then hooked another which we managed to get in the boat. It measured 36 inches. At this point we decided to quit on our own terms. We released the fish to the lake, gathered up the lines and headed back to safe harbor.
As I stood on the dock, waiting for Paul to bring the trailer so we could pull the boat out for the season, there was a guy decked out in camouflaged gear launching a skiff filled with decoys, a shot gun, and related sundry items. We exchanged the usual greetings. I the piscator then smiled and said to this venator “What kind of fool goes duck hunting in weather like this?” All I got in return was a wry, knowing smile.
