Salmon on My Mind Chapter Seven

[Jennie@ifish]

Chapter Seven
Fishing For Fun and Profit

In May, 1952, two strange fishermen showed up in Ketchikan and soon had the local
sports fishermen wild with envy. They arrived with two wooden eighteen-foot open wooden
boats, real sea-going rigs, with lots of flare in the bow and freeboard. These were beautiful,
no-nonsense boats, each powered by a thirty-five horse Johnson outboard. A five
horsepower Johnson was used for trolling.

I first encountered them one day off the Community Club Hall at Mountain Point.
Instead of trolling rapidly back and forth, like everyone else, they stayed pretty much in one
place and barely moved. Each boat was equipped with three fiberglass sport rods, mounted
in rod holders, one over each side and one sticking straight back.

What caught everyone attention was the fact that one of the two usually had a salmon
on, and sometimes two at once. While the rest of us felt fortunate to catch one salmon a
day, these two men were catching ten or fifteen, and sometimes more, king salmon on a
morning tide. By noon they were usually back in town. They sold the fish at New England
Fish Company and stayed in a shack on Pennock Island.

They soon became the talk, and envy, of the fishing fraternity, including me.
It became my goal, as well as the goal of others, to learn what they were using. Naturally
they were secretive about their gear. Several binoculars were kept trained on them as they
landed a fish. Instead of a spoon or plug, there was actually nothing to see at the end of their
line, except the salmon, as they expertly scooped the fish into their big landing nets. If it
was a really big fish they shot it in the head with a .22 caliber pistol.

One envious local fisherman even set up a spotting scope on the beach by the
Mountain Point Community Club to try and learn their secret. He reported nothing interesting.


I was losing sleep over these two guys, and was determined to find out more about
them. One day I stopped at New England, where I always sold my fish to Jack Malocka,
the fresh fish buyer. I had an arrangement with Jack. Since I’d often come in with a fish
or two on my way to work before the dock opened, or after everyone had gone home, I
asked Jack if he would leave a box of ice outside where I could place my fish, with a tag
telling who it belonged to, and pick up my money later. One day I was there to pick up my
check, and saw Jack. I told him about the two strangers. He laughed, and said, yes, they
were sure making big money.

“Okay, Jack. What are they catching them on?”

Jack smiled. “They made me promise not to tell anyone, so I won’t. But they didn’t
say I couldn’t show someone. You’ve been a good customer, and I have a lot of faith in your
future. I know you’re going to get yourself a troller some day and catch lots of salmon. Tom
and Lloyd will soon be gone.” He motioned me inside the freezer room, opened the top
of a box, and pulled out a package containing a dozen tiny herring. “They call them firecracker
herring. How they use them I don’t know. Don’t tell anyone I showed you.”

I thanked him and went to town, more perplexed than ever. The firecracker herring
were bright and shiny and about six inches long, half the length of the herring I had been
using. I couldn’t imagine baiting with something so small, but knew they really worked.
Somehow I had to find out their secret. I had lots of company.

I purposely arrived at New England one afternoon the same time as the two men were
unloading a dozen big kings each. I introduced myself. Of course they had seen my boat
several times at Mountain Point. They peered into my empty fish box and sneered. One of
the men introduced himself as Lloyd Born. He was a huge man, six-foot-four and weighing
about 250 pounds. He wasn’t very friendly. The other, Tom Foley, was red of face and
also a big guy, but smiled and acted friendly.

I had brazenly tied alongside their boats hoping to get a good look at their gear but
was disappointed. Everything except fiberglass rods and landing nets had been stowed out
of sight in large plywood box between the seats.

I continued on to town. It was humiliating to fish Mountain Point, trolling around
without catching anything, watching these two pull in salmon after salmon. On weekends
they attracted quite a crowd, but ignored the questions and taunts.

The first break in the mystery came a week later when Rollie “Blackie” Linsey

approached me at Thomas Basin. Blackie owned a seine boat, the Diamond T. He also had
a skiff and liked to sport fish for king salmon. We’d discussed the kelpers3 and their success
at catching kings before.

“Frank, I know plumbing has slowed down and you’re not very busy at the shop.
Now that Earl’s there I’ll bet Ole would let you go for a while. You’ve a good boat. Ever
consider going fishing steady?”

“Yeah. But my family and I like to eat, pay the rent, that sort of thing.”

“Well, here’s the deal. Fishing has slowed down at Mountain Point. Lloyd and Tom
have chartered me to take the Diamond T over to Grindall Island. We can ice your fish for
you and I’ll have a few barrels of gas and oil. The two from Seattle and this new guy,
Idaho, are going to sleep on my boat, but you have a boat you can live on.”

“Who’s Idaho?”

“Another kelper that just arrived. They know each other. Sounds like he goes all over,
to Oregon and Washington, following the runs and fishes everything from sailfish to
salmon with his car-top boat.”

“What do you know about these other two guys?”

“Lloyd and Tom are well-known professional kelpers that have fished out of Neah Bay
for years. Highliners. Idaho claims Lloyd makes about ten to twelve thousand a season at
Neah Bay. Expects to better that here. He’s already made two thousand.”

“Wow! Really? Do you know how they catch fish?”

“I wouldn’t agree to charter for them unless they showed me their gear. They made me
promise not to tell anyone because they don’t want more competition. They use special,
small frozen herring, light nylon line and leader and a pair of small hooks.”

“Well, if you’re going to be fishing around them every day I don’t see how they can keep
it a secret. Can you get firecracker herring?”

“Got that covered. They ordered 500 dozen sent to New England. I don’t have any
way of keeping them frozen, but we can keep a week’s supply on ice in the hold. I’ll pick up
more when I come in to deliver. They said I can use some too.”

“How about me?”

“Sorry. They’d kill me. Tell Pete at Tongass Trading you need a herring net with oneand-
one-quarter instead of one-and-one-half inch web. All four of us have ordered nets.
We’ll set the nets each evening at the edge of the kelp and have fresh bait every morning.”

I began getting excited. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. When are you leaving?”

“In a couple of days. Come down to the boat and I’ll show you what you need.”

Aboard his boat Blackie showed me a box of hooks. The description on the box read,
Key Brand, Quality 92554, Hollow Point, Mustad-Beak Hooks, Tapered Eye, 2 ex. strong,
Special.

“These look like trout hooks!”

“I know, but they work, as we well know.” He showed me two of the hooks tied
together in tandem, about four inches apart, with small, woven nylon line. Two inches in
front of the first hook was the smallest stainless steel swivel I’d ever seen, with eyes barely
large enough to admit the braided nylon.

“That’s it?” I asked, in amazement. “That’s all there is?”

“That’s how they rig up a cut-plug firecracker herring. They call these hooks their “setup”
and bait is all they use. They use 15-pound test nylon line and 12- pound test leaders,
and they buy it by the 1000 yard spool so they can change it often. A four or six- ounce
crescent sinker is tied between the leader and line.”

“I can hardly believe it. No wonder we couldn’t see what they were catching fish with.
There’s nothing to see. Compared to the heavy line, leader and lures we’ve been using this
stuff is nearly invisible. How do they land big kings on this light gear?”

“Invisible, you said the magic word. The squid line is just long enough the salmon’s
teeth wear on that instead of the light leader. They use really long, flexible mooching rods
and Penn 49 reels, with lots of line on them. Those long rods wear a salmon out fast. The
trick is the light tackle. The heavy junk we’ve been dragging around obviously scares away
the big kings. Didn’t know they were so smart.”

“I feel as if I’ve just been given the keys to Fort Knox.”

“I know what you mean. Those guys were driving me, and a lot of other guys nuts.”

I left in a state of euphoria—-until I remembered I’d have to convince Ole Fosse to
let me go, tell my wife and two sons I was leaving, the new gear I’d have to buy and the
work I’d have to do on the boat to get ready.

My boss wasn’t too happy, but he let me go, probably because he realized I’d quit if he
didn’t. My wife took this opportunity to go south and visit her parents. With those hurdles
out of the way I went to Hetherington and explained what I needed. I told him I was
going commercial fishing. He didn’t have everything I needed but promised to order from
Seattle. That would take at least a week.

I went to work on the boat. To install the inboard engine I’d removed the bunk.
built a watertight bulkhead six inches high across the back of the cabin to keep fish gurry
and blood from running under the engine and into the cabin. I put the bunk back in, only
having to cut away a notch about six inches into the bunk where the front of the engine
was. The bunk was hinged, so it could be tilted up, sleeping bag in place during the day.

On the other side I fixed a place for my two-burner Coleman stove, built in a few small
cupboards and made a shelf under the bow deck for extra clothing and supplies. With a
couple of empty wooden dynamite boxes under the seat for groceries, and five gallon containers
for gas and water, I was set.

I tried out the bunk. To my delight I could take one arm out of the sleeping bag, reach
over, hand crank the engine, slide back into my bags for a few minutes while the cabin
warmed up, then dress. At night, the engine kept the cabin warm after it was shut off long
enough for me to undress and get into the sack This single feature, of always having a warm
cabin, and a place to dry clothing, proved invaluable in the cool, damp climate.

Not once did I remember that in Astoria, Oregon, I’d thought the thirty-four-foot
troller was “too crowded” to go to sea on!

Several days after the Diamond T departed I had everything ready. It was with a light
heart, and some apprehension, I headed west for Guard Island and Clarence Straits.
Somewhere in the back of my mind was the nagging thought that until now, I hadn’t been
able to catch enough salmon to pay boat expenses, let alone support my family!

Grindall Island lies at the western entrance to Kasaan Bay, on Prince of Wales Island,
across Clarence Strait from Ketchikan. Grindall is heavily forested, one and one half miles
long, and one half mile wide. An old, abandoned fox farm was located in what’s known as
Grindall Anchorage, a small cove on the northeast side of Grindall Passage. The hot fishing
spot was supposed to be off Approach Point, that sticks out into Clarence Straits and
Kasaan Bay on the south end of the island. Few sports fishermen had ever fished here
because it was so far from town and across Clarence Strait, which can be ugly during windy
weather.

After an uneventful trip across Clarence Strait I pulled into the anchorage late in the
afternoon. The Diamond T was anchored and had a shoreline off the stern tied to a tree
to keep the vessel from swinging around and dragging anchor. Bob Lindsey, Blackie’s teenage
son, came on deck and waved.

“Coffee’s on,” he invited. I went aboard to see what was going on.

“How’s your dad doing?”

“Going crazy. Can’t catch fish like he thinks he should. Loses half. I won’t go out with
him any more, he gets so angry. He’s used to hauling ‘em in with 120 pound test leader.
Won’t play them on this light stuff. Loses as many as he lands.” Bob laughed. He and his
dad didn’t get along very well.

We heard an outboard engine running full speed. Blackie arrived, obviously in a bad
mood. He hadn’t shaved for a week and his hair was long and unkept. He climbed aboard
and lit right into Bob, asking him if he had stuff ready for dinner. Bob looked his father in
the eye defiantly, then disappeared into the galley.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Terrible. That damn Lloyd and Tom are catching ‘em all. Lloyd had never seen
Approach Point before. He took one look, then plunked his three baits down where the
tide rip ends against the kelp in only a few fathoms of water, just as if someone had shown
him where to go. I thought, what an idiot, king salmon wouldn’t be in such a place. Rock
cod, maybe. Pinks and chums sometimes. Hell, you could see bottom at low tide. Within
five minutes he hooked a big king. Snatched it out from under the kelp beds like a bass fisherman
would pull bass outta the lily pads in some lake.

“Then Tom hooked a double, same place. Disgusting. They’ve been catching like
crazy. I think that big Lloyd has underwater vision.”

Bob was smirking and gesturing obscenities at his dad in the galley.

“Well, now we know why they’re called kelpers, huh?”

“You’ve got that right, “ Blackie spat.

“Have they showed you any of their tricks?”

“Hell no. Just the hook set up like I showed you in town.”

“Well, we’ll have to watch and learn, I guess. It’s early yet. I’m going to run out there
and try it. Mind if I put some meat in your hold?”

“Help yourself.” Blackie’s anger had subsided. He disappeared into the galley. In the
hold I noticed two bins were already half full of iced salmon. That was encouraging.

Three boats were fishing close to the kelp beds off Approach Point. Neither Tom or
Lloyd acknowledged me as I approached, which didn’t surprise me. They had known me
at Mountain Point and knew I wouldn’t catch many of “their” salmon.

I’d brought a 50 pound block of frozen bait herring from New England Fish
Company. The fish had been dumped into the box, so few were straight enough to bait like
the kelpers were using. I sliced the head off one on a forty-five degree angle and rigged the
herring with the hooks I’d bought from Herb, which were way larger that the ones the
kelpers were using. I’d found some small Oregon leader to tie the hooks together with, but
it was too stiff. I tied the smallest swivel I could find on the end. The set up was pretty
crude, but the best I could do until my gear order came. I guessed how to rig up the bait,
then trolled around feeling foolish, watching Tom and Lloyd catch fish. At six o’clock the
others headed in. Still skunked, I followed.

I set my herring net along the kelp bed in Grindall Channel, tying each end of the cork
line to bull kelp, then anchored near the Diamond T. I fired up my two-burner Coleman
stove, boiled some potatoes and wieners, washed the plate in the ocean and turned in. My
sleep was disturbed by vast schools of salmon jumping and swimming around my boat.
Tom and Lloyd’s faces appeared and disappeared in the fog. They explained that the school
of salmon belonged exclusively to them, but for a percentage of my catch I could fish with
them.

At daylight I jumped out of my bunk and looked at the stern of the Diamond T. All
the skiffs were still tied up. Tired and sleepy, but elated that I was going to beat everyone
out fishing, I reached for my pants. My dollar pocket watch hung down from its cord. As
I grabbed it to return it to my watch pocket I glanced at the face. The hands said half past
eleven o’clock! It took a while for this to soak in, but after it did, I went back to bed, then
laid awake for a long time thinking. Finally I drifted off.

The whir of outboard motors awoke me at four o’clock. I reached over and cranked
the engine. In minutes the cabin was warm and I hurriedly pulled on my pants and hauled
anchor. Three of the skiffs tied to the stern of the Diamond T during the night were gone.
Blackie’s was still tied up. A light rain fell and the clouds overhead were moving from the
southeast as I cruised over to check my net. It was empty. What would this first full day
offer, I wondered.

A light chop from the southeast was running as I approached the fishing grounds.
Lloyd Born was playing a salmon. I gave him plenty of room. I heard the crack of a pistol,
then saw Lloyd’s net dip up a big salmon. No one else was catching. Idaho, the new
guy in the group, was fishing from a very small car-top boat and he was already taking a
beating in the chop. I hadn’t met him yet.

The freshening wind and ebb tide soon caused a miserable chop that made controlling
a boat difficult. The rain increased to a torrent. I was using two rods, one mounted on
either side in rod holders. I sat inside where it was warm and dry, while the others were in
open boats, exposed to the weather. No one was catching.

Blackie arrived, his skiff beating hard against the swells. He looked at me and shook
his fist into the wind. “Gonna be a short day,” he yelled.

It was too rough to use the stove so breakfast was only a peanut butter sandwich. Nine
o’clock came and I still hadn’t caught a fish. The seas were getting rougher and the wind
stronger. Cold rain blew sideways. Occasionally the others stood up and beat their arms
against their oilskin-clad bodies to warm up. They looked enviously at me sitting without
oilskins in my snug, warm cabin. Everyone waited for someone to quit, not wanting to be
first.

Lloyd hooked another big king. The fish took off southeast, straight into the seas.
Lloyd looked like a Viking in his southwester hat, standing up facing forward, his pole
bent, one hand steering the five-horse outboard. He shook his head to clear his eyes as spray
flew into his face from the bow waves as he passed me. His mouth was parted in a wide
grin. He loved this, rough seas and all. The fish took him on a long, roundabout trip and
finally returned to where we were. Lloyd’s pistol cracked and he lifted a 50 pound salmon
with his net. I was sick with envy. How did he do it?

I heard him yell to Tom. “Did you ever see the like? Nothing like Neah Bay, huh?”

Tom was busy playing a fish and didn’t reply, but laughed and nodded.

By eleven o’clock everyone was fed up with the rough weather. Idaho was first to quit
and head in. Everyone, except Lloyd, followed. By now the seas were white capping and
becoming dangerous. As I ran before the huge swells I looked back. Lloyd was hooked into
another salmon. His magnificent boat rode the waves like a duck. Chinook tossed, wallowed,
almost broached, then flung her stern high as we cruised down the back sides of the
swells.

I dropped anchor, cooked bacon, eggs and hot cakes, then crawled into my sleeping
bag.

At four p.m I awoke to the scream of wind. The tree tops on Grindall Island were
whipping about. Little white caps were chasing each other across the anchorage. The skiffs
were seething back and forth at the stern of the tender. A can of beef stew made a great and
easy dinner. I went back to bed and read a book. My first day had been rough, disappointing,
and I was skunked! I would have many, many more like it in the future.

By three a.m. I couldn’t stand lying in bed. I cranked the engine, let the cabin warm
up and dressed. The clouds had stopped moving and the channel was glassy calm. I made
coffee, filled the thermos and ate two slices of toast piled high with peanut butter and jam.

There was no sign of life on the Diamond T. My net contained a dozen nice herring and
six ocean smelt, that I saved for dinner. They are delicious fried in butter. After leaving the
protection of the island a nasty swell was still running, but the wind had stopped, so I
expected the swells to level out soon. On the way out to the point my thermos flew off the
bunk and landed in the bilge beneath the engine. The liner broke.

My gear had been in the water for half an hour when Lloyd arrived. He ignored me,
no wave of recognition, just charged past and stopped at the edge of the kelp beds directly
off the point. He was upset because I’d beat him out to the spot. Almost immediately he
hooked into a salmon. The fish led him on a merry-go-around in and out of kelp beds.
Several times he bent down and sliced kelp that was over his lines with his cleaning knife.
Consumed with envy, I watched, realizing that I was watching someone at the top of his
trade.

Years later I talked with Jimmy Hart, a kelper who also fished at Neah Bay with Lloyd
and Tom. He told interesting stories about Lloyd Born. “He had truly been “born” to fish
salmon,” Jimmy said. “He was not only a fanatic, but totally unafraid. He sometimes ran
out to Swiftsure Bank, a very exposed location and a long way from Neah Bay, and fished
all day in weather so bad the rest of us, including the power trollers, refused to go past
Tatoosh Island.

“One day the weather was cranky and the Coast Guard had small craft flags flying. It
was southeast, so we all stopped at the red can off Tatoosh. Lloyd didn’t even stop but disappeared
amongst the high seas in the direction of Swiftsure Bank. I couldn’t believe it. He’s
crazy, you know. About noon the wind suddenly switched to easterly and came roaring
down the straits. We had a heck of a time getting back to Neah Bay. Lloyd didn’t show up
that night or the next. Most of the kelpers didn’t like Lloyd, and couldn’t care less what
happened to him. In fact, some would have been glad if he never came back. Jealous.
Someone finally told the Coast Guard. They went looking for him. Guess where they
found him? Fishing Swiftsure as if nothing had happened!

“That night he came into Bay Fish and unloaded 250 pounds of king salmon. I asked
him where he been.

“Oh, that easterly drove me all the way to Bamfield. [ Vancouver Island] I rented a
room and took a shower.”

“What did you do with your fish?”

[Jennie@ifish]

“Couldn’t sell them in Canada. Gave them to a fisherman. He sold them and gave me
half the money. After the wind went down I came back to Swiftsure. It was hot. Caught a
dozen big kings by the time the Coasties arrived. You should go there tomorrow.”4

Suddenly a salmon grabbed one of my baits. I was still playing it when Blackie arrived.
He held up two fingers in the victory sign. Over confident, I made a stab for the fish with
the net before it was tired. The fish was actually inside the net but lunged out. One of the
two hooks caught on the webbing, breaking the leader. The salmon weighed about 30
pounds. I was sick because I screwed up. Lloyd had been watching and shook his head, a
disgusted look on his face.

According to my logbook, by noon Lloyd had six, Tom five, Idaho two and Blackie
one. I passed close to his boat. “What do you think, Captain?”

“I think we better learn how to do this, or we’re going to starve,” he yelled disgustedly.

“Are you using their firecrackers?”

“Yeah, but you’d never know it by looking in my fish box.”

I heard the whirr of a reel and grabbed the rod. This fish felt heavy and dived deep. I
played it for a long, long time and had it near the boat several times but could never bring
it close enough to shoot it in the head with my twenty-two pistol. Determined to not goof
up, I took my time. The fish was worn out, finning near the surface, 20 yards behind the
boat, when suddenly a sea lion grabbed it, breaking the leader. The sea lion ripped off a
chunk then dived. Several times the sea lion resurfaced, grabbed the salmon, shook its head
to rip off another bite, then disappeared beneath the waves. I angrily emptied my pistol in
the beast’s direction, but due to the movement of the boat undoubtedly missed. I sank
down in disgust. If Clarence Straits hadn’t have been so rough, I’d probably have given up
and headed for Ketchikan.

The swell didn’t go down. After the tide began ebbing it became really uncomfortable.
After losing two fish I was in no mood to keep struggling, so I headed behind the island.
The others, except Lloyd, soon followed. I was beginning to see why some hated him. I
drifted around having lunch and noticed a flock of birds working in the channel. I put out
my gear. I caught a nice red snapper and saved it to eat.

About five o’clock Lloyd ‘s boat came around the corner. He noticed me fishing and
came over.

“How you doing, Lloyd,” I shouted, as he slowed down.

“Pull your gear. I want to talk to you,” he demanded.

I shut off my engine, wondering what I’d done to offend this salty giant. He pulled
alongside and wrapped a line around our cleats. I looked in his fish box. Several big kings
were under the burlap bags he kept them covered with. “Looks like you did okay,” I said,
wondering why he wanted to talk to me.

“Not very good,” he snapped angrily. I thought he was going to punch me. “Frank,
I’ve been watching you ever since Mountain Point. You make every mistake in the book .
You lost that big king to the sea lion. Probably couldn’t be helped. But if you keep your
boat right on top of the salmon while fighting it, you can cut sea lion losses a lot. You also
broke a leader, didn’t you?”

I nodded. Who can argue with a 235 pound giant who’s attempting to help you?

“Let me have your rod, he demanded. I handed it over, wondering what he planned
to do.

“Who showed you how to bait like this?”

“No one. I’m new at this.” I was trying to understand his anger.

“Your herring isn’t baited right. The hooks are too big and the swivel is too obvious.
Do you think those big kings are blind? Those hooks have to be buried until only the
points are sticking out at an angle. He ripped off my bait, cut off my hooks and tossed
them overboard. Grabbing a set of hooks from his tackle box, he carefully sharpened each
point on a worn whetstone.

“Hone the points until they’ll grab your thumbnail, like this.” He sliced the head off

a herring. “Bait it like this.” He carefully drew both hooks through the flesh, starting in
the front, then implanted one hook on each side,. the squid line draped over the herring’s
back. He shoved the hook eyes into the flesh until only the tips were visible. He hurled
the bait overboard and pulled it sideways through the water. “It has to turn slowly, like
this.”

“Thanks, Lloyd. Appreciate it. Why are you helping me?”

“Makes me angry. You come here, put in your time, catch nothing. What a waste. And
you with a wife and two kids. To just keep on trying without success is disgusting.”

“Well, I have to agree with you, but I’m doing the best I know how. Thank you for
helping. What can I do to repay you?” By now he’d quieted down.

“You can always find a way to repay a favor if you look hard enough. Let me see how
you tie knots.”

I cut off the end of my leader and showed him the knot I was using, six wraps and
tuck the end back through the opening.

“That’s no good. It will cut itself off in the knot, instead of break the leader. Every time
you catch a large salmon, replace the leader.” He cut off my leader. “Wrap it six times up,
six times back and stick the end through here, like this.”

“I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

He glanced inside my cabin. “I envy you having a boat you can sleep and eat on.
Living on the Diamond T is a zoo. Catch fish tomorrow.” He reached into his box and
grabbed half a dozen tiny packages wrapped in aluminum foil and tossed them into my
boat, jerked the starter rope and roared away. I sat there in a daze trying to figure out
why this guy, who had been so unfriendly, suddenly decided to help me. I opened one of
the packages. Inside were tied up hooks, including the tiny swivel. It was a precious gift.

My father always said, “If someone does something nice for you and you cannot
return the favor to that particular person, pass it on to someone else. The kindness will
spread. That is one of the Lord’s messages.”

As it turned out, I was able to do something for Lloyd, a lot sooner than expected.

Another southeaster arrived during the night. Rain fell in torrents. After breakfast I
went aboard the Diamond T and spent a couple of hours talking with the guys. This was
my first chance to get acquainted with Idaho. He was a nice guy. He’d inherited a small
hotel in Idaho from his mother that paid enough to support his fishing lifestyle. He fixed
up an old Ford panel truck to live in. With a car top fiberglass boat and thousands of dollars
worth of the best reels and gear money could buy he roamed from Cabo San Lucas in
the winter to Washington and now Alaska, during the summer. He proudly showed me a
photo of a marlin he caught at Cabo San Lucas that weighed 250 pounds. He was truly a
fanatic fisherman.

I steered the topic around to Tom and Lloyd, who were still asleep in the fo’c’sle.

“Lloyd’s a physiologist. A doctor! Has an office in Seattle, but takes off June, July and
August each year to fish salmon. He’s crazy, if you don’t already know. He doesn’t know
what fear is.”

Perhaps that explained why Lloyd had been angry with me. Probably considered me a
mental case. Perhaps he was right. I could have been working in town.

As usual, Blackie was in a bad humor. “How am I ever going to make any money
unless you guys get out there and catch some fish,” he complained.

“I’ll go if you do,” Idaho said. Just looking across the channel we could see seas breaking
on the other shore.

Blackie took a cut of 15% for icing and packing our fish. He weighed them as they
came aboard and gave each person a copy of the weight slip. New England Fish Company
kept track and wrote each fisherman a check whenever they asked for it, so Blackie didn’t
handle our money. He also made a little on the gas and oil. The cost of groceries were
divided equally between the four who were living on the seiner. Bob helped with the cooking,
icing fish and washing dishes. He didn’t get paid much, if anything.

I spent the rest of the day going over my gear making sure everything was okay. Now
that Lloyd had helped me and gave me some hooks I was confident that I could do better.
Without his help I might have quit and returned to town when the weather calmed down
because not catching fish was discouraging.

The fourth day dawned clear, bright and calm. I hurriedly made toast and coffee and
ate some cold cereal before leaving. It was one of those rare, clear, beautiful days in
Southeast Alaska when one can see great distances. The mountains on Prince of Wales
Island behind Kasaan Bay were white with snow, the sea was azure green and the air soft
and clear. A flock of sea gulls and kittwakes fluttered excitedly off Approach Point. Several
diving ducks swirled about, looking down into the water. An encouraging sign that bait was
present.

The morning started off with a hot bite. Several of the guys had fish on all at the same
time. Blackie landed two beauties right away. He was smiling as he came by. “Come on.
Frank, let’s give Tom and Lloyd some competition.”

“Okay.” Despite Lloyd’s help I was still skunked.

By ten o’clock I was desperate. A flock of excited sea gulls swarmed around waiting
until someone dressed fish so they could dive and gobble the discarded stomach contents.

Everyone was catching fish except me. I began wondering if it was the sound of my
air-cooled Wisconsin engine, or the wheel, that was scaring them away. But outboards, with
their underwater exhausts, made noise also. I began suffering the same old doubts that I’d
had before catching and losing that first big king at Blank Island. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to
be a salmon fisherman!

I was sitting in the cabin making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch when
both reels screamed at the same time. I rushed out, cracking my head on the door, jerked
the clutch out of gear and watched in dismay as the fish on the port pole rushed off towards
Clarence Strait while the other headed up Kasaan Bay! What to do? Line began rapidly disappearing
from both reels! I was so excited I didn’t know which one to grab first. To keep
the fish from breaking the leader on one untended rod I backed off on the star drag until
there was only enough tension to keep it from back lashing, as I’d notice Tom and Lloyd
do. Amazingly, the salmon stopped ripping out line off as soon as the strain of a tight line
stopped.

Later Tom explained the technique like this: “If there’s no strain, the salmon thinks it’s
loose, and goes about its business. The light leader doesn’t cause much drag on their mouth.

I’ve actually had them chase bait fish while still hooked.”

The first salmon weighed about 25 pounds and put up a tremendous fight. Elated, I
went after the second. It was cruising around in much the same place where it had been
hooked. They were a pair. I changed leaders as Lloyd suggested, baited and began trolling
while I dressed the first fish. Their stomachs bulged with juvenile herring. I tossed them
overboard. A screaming flock of excited gulls dived into the mess and began gobbling and
fighting over the free lunch.

Before I finished dressing the second fish another salmon struck. Previously, I’d reeled
in the extra line when I had a single fish on, but I’d noticed Tom and Lloyd didn’t. Even
if they had to run the boat after the hooked fish they simply allowed the other baits to drag
behind. This time I left my spare in the water while I played fish number three. I was
cruising along at a lively clip, chasing the fish, when another salmon grabbed the other
bait. Two double headers in a row.

Wow! My confidence received a much needed boost. Evidently a school of kings had
moved in because we all caught fish the rest of the day. At weighing in time that night we
were all pretty excited. I took my weight slip and headed out to anchor.

That night I wrote in my log book: May 28. Grindall Island. Today the weather was
beautiful and the fishing great. I caught seven kings for a total of 156 pounds, thanks to Lloyd
Born. Tom was high boat, weighing in with 320 pounds, Lloyd had 298, Idaho 110 and
Blackie 196 pounds. This is great. Have high hopes for tomorrow.

Fishing was hot for everyone again the following morning. Sometimes we all had fish
on at the same time. Sea gulls were diving and mewing excitedly as schools of tiny herring
boiled around our boats. A humpback whale steamed back and forth just outside where we
were fishing. When the whale surfaced a silvery stream of herring poured from the sides of
its huge mouth.

News of hot fishing seemed to spread on the wind like thistle seed. I had much to
learn about salmon fishing, an ongoing process that has never stopped to this day. I learned
that, almost no matter where one is located, you can soon expect plenty of help whenever
a school of salmon show up. Blackie had a two-way radio on board, but he hadn’t called
anyone.

The power troller Hulda arrived from Ketchikan and began trolling back and forth
quite a distance outside of where we were fishing. I was busy catching fish and didn’t pay
much attention to what the troller was doing, assuming it was catching fish like the rest of
us.

Two bald eagles took up perches in a dead spruce snag. Occasionally someone caught
and released a rock cod. The cod’s extended air bladder prevented it from diving. The eagles
waited until the poor struggling cod was a safe distance from the boat, then one left its
perch, made a long glide, lowered its talons, snatched the floating cod, and with a mighty
flapping of wings took off with the struggling fish dangling. The eagle landed on a big,
moss-covered rock near the snag and begin ripping up the cod. Considering the cod
weighed more than the eagle, I considered this a remarkable feat.

By noon fishing had slowed down. Our boxes were full of salmon and we all decided
to run in, unload, have something to eat, then come back out for the evening bite.

I unloaded almost 200 pounds. Lloyd had nearly 500. Altogether we unloaded nearly
1000 pounds of mostly large, fat kings. Blackie was happy and decided to stay aboard
and ice fish instead of going back out. After eating I returned to Approach Point and flung
out my gear.

But the bite was over for the day. The other boats arrived, fished for an hour, then
headed in. Since the sea was flat calm, I decided to drop anchor and take a nap, as it had
already been a long, long day.

I awoke refreshed at eight p.m. and flung out my baits. The Hulda had disappeared.
Immediately a large fish struck. It gave me a fight and I finally worked it close enough to
the boat so I could shoot it in the head. This was my largest yet, over 50 pounds. I laid
it in the box and sat admiring the perfect, overlapping, bright silver scales along the side.
The back was a deep olive green. The unmistakable rainbow hew along its upper sides and
spots on the tail identified it as a king. The salmon I’d lost at Blank Island had been nearly
twice as large.

Encouraged, I kept fishing and caught another that weighed 20 pounds. As I pulled
into the harbor the Hulda was anchored, so I stopped by. I’d met Slim on board the Eena.

http://www.ifish.net/board/../FChulda.png
The salmon troller Hulda, near Ketchikan.

Slim and Del were friends. Slim was a tall, rawboned, taciturn sort, with a leathery, heavily-
lined face, and lived on his boat. I pulled up to the stern. He remembered me, but had
forgot my name.

“How’d you do today, Slim,” I asked.

“No good,” he said, peering into my fish box.

I didn’t know what he meant. His catch was less than expected? Or he’d lost some
leads? I didn’t ask how many kings he’d caught.

“Lots of fish out there this morning,” I ventured.

“ Well, there wasn’t out where I was.”

“Why didn’t you move in closer?”

Slim smiled. “Evidently you’ve never looked at a chart of this place. There are several
high spots between where you guys were fishing and where I was. I cannot get into such

shallow water with power troll gear. I didn’t catch a fish.”

I was stunned.

“You kelpers are catching spawners that move along the shore. Ain’t good for the
runs.” There was no denying the implication in his voice.

Slim’s statement left me speechless. I began to realize there was a vast difference
between power trolling and sport fishing, or kelping.

“How do you figure?”

“Well,” Slim said, lighting one cigarette off the butt of another, “Once the spawners
have been caught that’s the end of that run, isn’t it?”

“Wait. A troller catches a salmon. A kelper catches a salmon. What’s the difference?
That’s one less salmon.”

“Not so. If a troller catches a salmon chances are it’s a feeder, not a spawner
ready to run up the river.”

“But the feeder you catch would have grown up and became a spawner. What’s the difference?”

“Not necessarily.” I struggled to figure out if there was any logic in what he said.

“After the fish is dead, regardless of who caught it or how old it is, there’s one less.” I
became aware that I was engaging in a topic with which I was totally unfamiliar——with a
man who’s thought processes were radically differed from mine.

Slim got around to what was really bugging him. “You see, I ain’t hurting the runs,
like you kelpers, cause I ain’t catching any salmon.”

It took time for me to digest this. I looked at the gear he had coiled on the stern. Crude
Oregon leader, heavy plugs and spoons. “Why don’t you try using lighter gear. Nylon
leader, for example?”

“Nylon won’t work on a power troller. Never will. Can’t coil the damn stuff. Besides,
it will break. The fish pulls against a heavy lead. Anything lighter than 120 pound test
leader will part.”

I didn’t doubt his statement. “What do you suggest? That I sport fish with gear like
your heavy commercial gear and catch nothing? Those big kings are smart. It’s not only
where we’re fishing, it’s the light, invisible leader we’re using that fools them.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t know anything about salmon fishing. What’s the answer?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Slim said, laughing. He went into the hold and brought out two
bottles of ice cold beer. “No hard feelings,” he said, offering one to me.

“No, of course not.”

Although I didn’t realize it at the time the controversy between commercial power
trollers and regular hand trollers who used heavy, commercial gear, versus commercial
sport fishermen, or kelpers was in its infancy. As long as the small boats stuck to commercial
gear there was no real controversy. But when they started using light tackle, caught
more king salmon than the commercial trollers fishing the same area, then sold the fish,
the problem worsened.

A few progressive-thinking power trollers decided to try the light gear. “If you can’t
whip ‘em, join ‘em,” Ole and Diane Olson, a husband and wife team explained to me. They

owned the White Light a well-known 40-foot troller. The Olsens were some of the first
power trollers to fish out of small open boats while living and icing their fish aboard their
trollers. They fished sport gear only during the early part of the season while concentrating
on big spawning-age kings. After the pinks and cohos showed up, they stored their
small boat and began using their regular power troll gear. The Olson’s, by the way, received
a lot of criticism from a few other power trollers for using sport fishing gear.

The trollers were jealous of kelpers because of our low overhead, and because we frequently
caught more kings than those using heavy troll gear. I was to encounter this situation
several times.

Later, I introduced light tackle at Point Baker, the stronghold of a community of hand
trollers, as Tom and Lloyd had done at Mountain Point. Here, at the north end of Prince
of Wales Island, I suffered consequences because I caught more salmon than the locals. But
that’s getting ahead of the story.

“Well, Slim, I hope you do better tomorrow.” I left, not mentioning that I’d already
unloaded nearly 200 pounds at midday. For dinner I fried rockfish and boiled some rice
with a can of peaches for desert.

The next morning Slim made one pass off Approach Point, as close in as he dared,
then took off running south towards High Island.

Another small gas boat showed up. It was K. Antonsen, from Ketchikan. Kay wasn’t a
troller. He was a hard-hat deep sea diver and worked on the salmon traps when needed. He
was also an expert wolf trapper and hunter, actually one of the few men who called wolves,
then shot them at night. Antonsen anchored his boat nearby, then began sport fishing out
of his little dugout boat powered by a small outboard. This dugout was more round than
narrow, like a skiff, and appeared more like a salad bowl than a boat. He’d carved it himself.
The freeboard was so low in the water he’d bolted a foot-high plank to the stern so
the outboard was the right height. Years later I watched in amazement while he hauled
two heavy seals, each weighing about 75 pounds, ashore at Foggy Bay in this ridiculous
boat. I expected it to sink at any moment.

It was time for the Diamond T to head for town and unload. Everyone, except me,
went too. Tom and Lloyd took off in their own boats. They looked forward to a shower
and break from the grind of fishing. Blackie left his skiff anchored for me to keep an eye
on. I gave him a list of items I wanted, bread, bacon, eggs, a new liner for my thermos
and the important hooks, swivels and squid line order from Herb’s.

Blackie expected to be away for part of three days and said I could fish two days before
he planned to return, placing the salmon in his skiff and covering them with kelp.

On my first day off I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of bacon and hot cakes, then
motored across the channel to the little cove protected from north and westerly winds. At
the head is a sloping gravel beach. This beach was the off-season storage place for two
dozen big, 10-ton cast iron star-shaped anchors. I’d noticed the rigging scow lifting them
off at high tide so they could use them for anchoring a nearby trap they were setting. The
anchors had been stored with the six foot long stocks standing straight up so they would
be easy to retrieve.

I had a small shovel lashed to the hand rail on top the house. I dug some butter clams.

Sliced in half, dipped in hotcake flour and fried in bacon grease with the shell side up, they
were delicious.

I moved across the channel and went ashore at the old fox farm. I’d been shown how
to anchor my boat out while going ashore so it didn’t go dry on the ebb tide. The trick was
simple. Place the anchor with about 25 feet of chain and line attached on the bow deck. A
twenty fathom long coil of line was bent onto the opposite end of the anchor. Once ashore
I’d push the boat out as far as possible, paying out running line until the boat stopped moving
I’d jerk the anchor off the bow, then carry the running line as far up the beach as necessary
to stay above the incoming tide and secure it to a rock or tree. Retrieval was simple,
if the anchor didn’t hang up solid on something. Fortunately this only happened to me
once and I had to go for a swim.

The fox farm buildings were rotting. Someone had camped in the cabin and built a
fire in the center of the floor. Behind the house were woven chicken wire pens overgrown
with salmon berries and grass where foxes had been kept.

I tried to hike across the island through thick woods, but windfalls and brush discouraged
me. It was wonderful to go ashore. This is what I wanted to do, fish, explore the
many wonderful places by boat and enjoy the country.

The next day I started fishing again and had the area all to myself. By nightfall I had
caught about 200 pounds. Since Blackie wouldn’t return until noon the following day, I
placed the fish in his anchored skiff and covered them with kelp, as he had directed. They
kept okay.

The following day brought several surprises. First a small boat with a cabin showed up
from the direction of town. It was a crude-looking rig, painted gray. On the bow the name
SPOOK had been hand painted in black letters. The owner was a tall, pleasant young fellow
who said his name was Norman Jefferys, from Lofall, Washington.

Tom and Lloyd arrived about eight o’clock and put their gear out. They wanted to
know how many fish I’d caught. The Diamond T arrived, towing not only Idaho’s boat,
but a nice green skiff. They went on into the anchorage. Next the seiner Tyee, owned by
my neighbor, Joe Krause, appeared and anchored near where we were fishing. Joe was towing
a skiff and promptly began fishing with sport gear. I pulled up beside him.

“I didn’t know you sport fished.”

“Once in a while. How have you been doing?”

“Not bad, for a greenhorn. There’s getting to be a regular fleet here,” I said.

“It’s no wonder. Blackie caused quite a stir in town after he unloaded 12,000 pounds
that averaged 23 pounds apiece.”

“So that’s it! Gee, the word must have spread in a hurry?”

“What do you expect? No one has ever delivered that kind of a trip of sport-caught
kings. There’s articles in the paper and everyone’s talking about the big fishing at Grindall.”

“Wow! I guess we’ll have lots of company. Well, good luck.”

Later that day I saw Joe playing a big salmon. After half an hour he worked it up to the
boat then began yelling and whooping like a madman. Finally he landed it and motored
over near me. “Hey, Frank, I need a witness. Take a look at this! Biggest king I’ve ever seen.
I’m running it to town to get it officially weighed by the derby committee.”

I looked at the fish. It was huge. I’d told Joe about the big one I’d lost at Blank Island
the previous year. It had been larger.

“I hope you have a derby ticket.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Good luck.” I watched the Tyee take off across Clarence Strait as fast as it would go.

Next time Blackie returned from town he brought a newspaper. On the front page was
a picture of Joe with his 70 pound king, so far the largest ever entered in the derby.

(After the derby closed at midnight August 31, Joe’s fish won the seasonal derby and
an all-expense-paid trip for two to Honolulu on Pan American. A new feature, the Seventy
Pound Club, had recently been started by the derby committee, and Joe became it’s sole
member.)

Publicity like that soon brought a swarm of hopeful weekend fishermen to Grindall
Island. Lloyd and Tom were unhappy.

Lloyd hooked a huge salmon later that day that led him on a merry chase way out into
the straits. After an hour the fish returned to where we were fishing, with Lloyd in hot pursuit.
Then, without seeing it up close, he lost it. Without a word or gesture he rigged up
again. Most of us would have been devastated. He was one tough customer.

A school of halibut moved into the area and practically put a halt to salmon fishing.
Halibut would grab the baits first. I think the kings were frightened of the halibut too.
Some halibut were huge and this was the only time I’ve ever seen halibut in such shallow
water. All anyone could do was break the leader, since the fish were only worth about six
cents or less a pound and not worth retaining. Blackie refused to accept them. I was glad
I had a new supply of hooks and swivels.

Watch for the next chapter!
New chapters around the 15th of each month!