Why does a salmon rise? Why does a small boy cross the street just to kick a tin can?
Lee Wulff
Jimmy’s text was direct – “5:30 Byrne Dairy. I’ll be parked next to pump #5. I have all the gear we will need. We will be walking.”
I had arrived at the Tailwater Lodge the night before, checked in, ate a great elk burger and quaffed 2 excellent martini’s, assuring a good and early night’s sleep, though truth be told, I never really sleep before a fishing trip. At best i slept a few hours, waking for hours at a time, going through a fishing checklist.
I was up early, downed a couple of cups of coffee, pounded some yogurt and an apple, and was soon driving in the pre-dawn darkness to the Byrne Dairy in Pulaski under star-studded skies. Jimmy was there in his old Escalade SUV. He complimented me on being early to which I replied, “that’s what the Navy does to you.”
From there we drove to the Ballpark, one of sixteen recognized “holes” on the Salmon River. After parking, we trudged a circuitous path in the dark to the sound of rushing water. As we approached the river, here and there were headlamps and flashlights of anglers already setting up. Then there was the wait for the magic 30 minutes before sunrise in the chilly morning.
We were, like every other angler I saw, fishing a similar rig – the well-recognized chuck and duck method of fly fishing – essentially lobbing an egg pattern on tippet with weight on the leader above a swivel. Jimmy painstakingly instructed me where to fish in some pretty fast water and all I could think was how the heck will we ever land a big king in this stuff.
We fished the Ballpark until it was pretty evident that the fish were not coming up in the numbers Jimmy expected. Initially I got a rod-jarring take so violent that the fish immediately broke off on the 15 lb. tippet. It was an apt introduction to the power of these fish. There was another brief hook-up and then finally, a cast to a lone fish that Jimmy’s eagle eyes had spied in a fast water slot – a king just holding and to most, hardly noticeable despite its large size. The fish ate and the fight was on, at first just holding in a fast water slot as if I were snagged to the bottom but with the slow, almost imperceptible pulse of a tail pumping in the water. Then it was running up, pulling drag, which was good of course – the fish now fighting both the heavy current and the fly reels stout drag – and which caused Jimmy to cry out amidst the commotion, “that’s where we want him to go.” But salmon have a mind of their own and don’t behave the way us anglers would like. The big fish slipped across and ran down to a pocket on the other side of some rocks and held again. After a bit and no sensation of life in the line, Jimmy waded out, net in hand. It appeared that the salmon had slipped the hook and in so doing hung me up. Jimmy rooted around, somehow keeping his balance in that fast water and the fish suddenly reappeared out of nowhere and the fight was back on. It now surged downriver over a rapid and into a deep pool, jumping and cartwheeling as it went. After being saved once, I thought for sure I was done. But Jimmy’s excellent guidance in fighting these fish saved the day. I was able to turn him to the head of the pool, some 50 feet below us, where Jimmy could finally net him. It was a brute of a male king. Jimmy painstakingly lugged it upriver – asking how in the world we hadn’t lost him.
The only King landed on Day One, but one well earned…
Our next stop was also the last one for the day – the private water of the Whiskey River Lodge – a place I knew from last fall, again fishing with Jimmy.
We both parked, then carried our gear – the two 10-foot 10 weight fly rods, tackle bags, and the big landing net with innumerable zip ties to close the gaps left by thousands of salmon landed over the years – down the path to the river. We stopped briefly, looking down from the high bluff, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Across the run were at least fifty big kings – quite possibly more – their broad black tails waving in the current. A few anglers below us cast to them and with every cast, they would slide out in unison to avoid the invasion of their world. Jimmy commented on their fickleness in the clear low water of the run. It would be something we would have to overcome and he had just the strategy in mind.
Once we got down to the river, we waded across to the low end of the run where Jimmy felt the fish would be less skittish under the cover of faster water. And Jimmy was right. He made a point of emphasizing the use of “marks” as we fished, setting me up on a large frying pan sized patch of gravel. He’d set me up, give a little instruction, then retreat back to the bank, watching patiently and making suggestions as needed.
It was more chuck and duck with the use of mending to get the egg down in the complex currents. The salmon were certainly there and appeared more comfortable with my drifts. Jimmy had me casting, then pulling out quickly after the short drift to avoid the snaggy bottom. I was getting hook-ups – Jimmy estimated at least 20 – but managed nothing to the net.
I got back to the Tailwater Lodge around 2 pm and decided to try my luck on the lodge’s private water. Downstream there were some very nice pools but they were locked up with a reasonable amount of anglers on either side, so I hiked downriver to the end of the property, looking down on some fast water, straining to see life. From the bluff I could look down and pick out a few fish, but getting down to the bank and casting to them was another thing. After a few noble attempts, I walked back upriver and found a few pools where I’d be alone on the Tailwater side of the river. I fished a good 2 hours without success. There were a few salmon caught but none for me. I headed back to the lodge to shower, enjoy a well-deserved drink, and dinner.
The two prominent common names for my quarry, Oncorhynchus tshawytscha, stem from historical and regional influences. “King salmon” is attributed to the fish’s size, prestige, and superior quality, highlighting its large stature and desirable characteristics, especially in regions like Alaska where it is the state fish. The name “Chinook” originates from the Chinookan peoples, Indigenous groups residing in the Pacific Northwest, particularly along the Columbia River. With all due respect to the Chinookan peoples, you’ll rarely hear the King Salmon of the Great Lakes referred to as a Chinook.
The story of what business Pacific salmon have doing in the Great Lakes is an interesting one. Before the 20th century, Lake Ontario supported the world’s largest freshwater Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar) fishery. These fish were landlocked, living in the lake and its tributaries rather than migrating to the ocean. By the late 1800s, however, mill dams blocked spawning tributaries, deforestation altered water quality, overfishing reduced numbers, and pollution degraded habitat. By around 1900, Atlantic salmon were claimed to be extinct in the Great Lakes. From the 1860s to the 1940s, U.S. and Canadian agencies attempted to re-establish salmon through artificial propagation. This included planting 13 million chinook salmon and landlocked/anadromous Atlantic salmon in Lake Ontario and other Great Lakes between 1873 and 1947. These efforts failed to produce self-sustaining populations, largely due to habitat degradation, predation, and the absence of natural spawning runs. Interestingly, it was the gradual habitation of an invasive that would be the basis for the Pacific salmon fishery that exists today.
By the middle of the 20th Century, some 70 years after they were first documented in Lake Ontario, alewives–able to move through locks and canals–began to dominate the Great Lake ecosystem. With numbers exceeding their carrying capacity, these plankton feeders underwent massive die-offs that littered miles of shorelines and hundreds of public beaches, with the accompanying putrid smell of rotting fish, in Lake Michigan, Huron, and Ontario. Those massive die-offs sparked public outcry, and fishery managers had an answer. By 1966, the Pacific salmon species they had tried unsuccessfully to establish years ago had a food source and the salmon fishery took off. The New York state record King salmon, caught in the Salmon River in 1991, weighed almost 48 pounds. The record New York Coho is just over 33 pounds. Those fish all got fat on alewives.
So, it goes in the modern era of this increasingly interconnected world – a seemingly biological invasive disaster turns out a success in other ways.
Day two of my trip started much the same as my first day, meeting Jimmy at 0530 at the Byrne Dairy and then heading off to a new spot – Pineville. We walked, rather stumbled, in the dark save Jimmy’s headlamp, crossing the bridge there and then descending down a rocky goat trail to the river where we had the place largely to ourselves.
We talked in the pre-dawn darkness – Jimmy lit a cigarette and though I only smoke cigars, the smoke smelled good on this early chilly morning. I asked Jimmy what prompted him to get into guiding. He had been a successful salesman in the pharma business after college – he said he’d never made so much money as he did in the 90’s – then ventured into his own sales business in electronic components and hardware where he also did well. He talked about some personal struggles during this time, which he overcame, but all along he was fishing and started guiding on a part-time basis on weekends. Clients kept returning and the word spread and eventually he decided, why not go full time, which is where he is now. “This is my office”, he said as we watched a beautiful sunrise.
There were a few anglers about on this section of the river. One older fly angler arrived above us – Jimmy seemed to know him and the angler described how he’d done well the previous day at the spot. But as you learn with salmon, every day is different. Despite repeated casts, I was not picking up anything nor were the anglers around me. Jimmy walked up a skinny river braid and after a while and called me over. He pointed to some fast water and said, “there’s one right there”, and had me cast to what I could not see. Somehow, we hooked up and the fight was on.
As with the previous day, we soon moved to the private water at the Whiskey River Lodge. The salmon were there again, and the move proved to be a good one. Jimmy had me fish the same section of the river, chuck, duck, and mend style.
All told, the day yielded another 3 kings landed. We lost count of the hook-ups that were far greater in number than the previous day.
As it is with salmon fishing, there will always be incidental snagged fish, especially when the fish are in thick. Most of these would either break off or we’d intentionally break them off. A foul-hooked fish always fights much harder than a fair hooked fish and the action of the day between hundreds of casts with a 10-weight rod and fighting these big brutes in current began to take its toll.
We got past the noon hour, and my arms were feeling it, but the fishing was so good Jimmy kept me fishing another hour or so. I persisted into the early afternoon and then it was enough.
We waded back across the river and climbed up the bank and hill to the parking lot. Soon enough I was on my way home to Rochester, with that good and happy tired feeling that always accompanies the end of a great fishing trip, already planning another trip next fall.
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