Halibut Fishing

                               Boats in Homer Harbor (the day before)

There was one dark day in Alaska, one day I would preferred to have slept through - the day we went Halibut fishing.

It started innocently enough.  Nonna, Colin, and myself paid for an all day trip on the Dutch Treat, and we were at the boat at 6:30AM in the Homer harbor - “Halibut Capital of the World” - where we met the captain, Tony, a disabled vet, and the deckhand Bob, a middle aged guy who certainly knew his way around a fishing boat.  There were three other passengers - Tom, a retired spark plug dealer from Ohio and his wife Betty, and her cousin Daria. 

We sailed out for over an hour, and the further out we went the rougher the sea became.  When we reached our destination Tony said it was “too nautical,” referring to the five foot waves and the fact that only Bob, the deck hand, could stand up for more than ten seconds.  So we motored off for another half an hour and found a place where the sea was calmer.  We started to fish, and it started to rain.  We didn’t get a bite, but we all got soaking wet and very cold.  Only Daria stayed dry - she was not fishing -  she was moaning and lying down, seasick...

Tony knew a better spot so we pulled up our lines and motored through rough seas.  By this time my hands were so cold I couldn’t feel them, my pants and feet were all wet, and my polar fleece and gore-tex were no match for the Alaska weather.  But now the fish were biting, really biting, so that as soon as my baited hook made it down to the bottom a halibut took the bait.  You can tell you have one on because they shake the line, and as you pull up you feel the head shake.  Otherwise they just lay there and it is like pulling a small refrigerator up from 200 feet - lift up, reel down, lift up, reel down, over and over.   What felt like 500 pounds turned out to be too small to keep, maybe 15 pounds, and Bob, with merciless efficiency, pulled the hook out of the fish’s mouth, threw it back in the ocean, and put a new herring on my hook.  “You’re good to go,” he said, as if I didn’t need a rest.  Numb hands, aching arms, freezing feet - back down went my bait, and within ten seconds after hitting bottom I had another one on.  And so it went - thankfully some were big enough to keep.

The halibut is a big fish, as big as 900 pounds in the early days of fishing, but nowadays ones over 50 pounds are unusual.  They’re a weird looking fish; flat, gray on one side and white on the other, and both their eyes are on the same side.  They have big mouths and eat anything that comes their way, including puffins that are unfortunate enough to dive in the wrong place.  It is a very mild tasting fish - “fish for people who don’t like the taste of fish,” someone said.

When we finally got back to Homer Bob had filleted our fish, two for each of us, and they took them up to a processing plant to be cut, packed, and frozen.  We picked up the fish the day we flew home - thirty two pounds of fresh frozen halibut fillets.  Those fillets had better be good for all the misery I (we) endured to get them.

                               A sea otter on a different, sunny day

The Bears of Katmai

                                View from our Cesna over the glaciers

The plane, a single engine Cesna with big balloon tires, took off about 8:00AM from Homer, after the young pilot assured us that he had seven years experience flying in the Alaska bush, and after we had our first safety briefing, on what to do if our little plane landed in the water. 

The plane flew southwest for an hour or more, passing close by Mt Douglas and the adjacent glaciers, then on along the coast to Hallo Bay, where, we landed on the sandy beach.  Our group consisted of my son Colin, his wife Sarah, and two guys from New York City, along with myself and our pilot-guide Tom. Tom was in his thirties, an Alaskan version of Steve Irwin.  Tom told us not to go more than ten feet from the plane while he gave us our bear safety briefing.  He that we should always stick together in a tight group, do exactly what he said to do, and that in no circumstances should we ever run from a bear - “he’ll take you down like you was a gazelle if you do.”  Tom’s only weapon was a marine flair, but he assured us that in seven years none of the guides had ever had to use their flairs.  It’s all psychology - bear psychology - making the bear think you are tougher than he (or she) is.

We had spotted a couple of bears from the air, and after walking a couple of hundred yards we found one of them, eating grass in meadow, looking more like a buffalo than a predator.  Since the salmon had not yet arrived the bears were eating grass, lots of grass.  The bear looked warm and cuddly, so cute, but when he moved they did so with the easy fluid grace of a lion.  Mostly he ate grass, then another bear joined the first one, and they started to play.  “Foreplay,” Tom said.  Sure enough, soon one bear mounted the other one right there in front of us.

We wandered on in search of other, more refined bears, and saw a young two year old cub whose mother had kicked him out of her care a week before, according to
Tom, who had seen it happen.  Tom said a big male bear nicknamed ‘Righty’ had killed a five year old cub a couple of weeks before.  “The big males kill and eat the little ones” Tom said.  So much for the warm cuddly appearance. 

These bears were used to having humans around and generally ignored us.  But one young male bear sat down in front of another group of five people, scratched his belly, and exposed himself to the whole group.  “Oh he’s a such a sweetie,” said Tom.  Right.  After all, a bear had killed and eaten the “Grizzly Man” and his girlfriend only fifteen miles from where we were.

We ate lunch sitting on some driftwood logs, and I tried to imagine the storm that put them a mile inland from the beach.  After lunch we walked through the deep grass looking for more bears when we spotted Righty and kneeled down to take his picture, unfortunately kneeling on the path exactly where he wanted to walk.  We slowly moved over to make space for his 1500 pound body, and he ambled by, ignoring us while Tom kept a tight grip on his flare.  “He got his name because he lost part of his ear in a fight with another bear,” Tom said.

After Righty had passed Tom said “It’s time to go.”  It seemed that we had only been on the ground for ten minutes, but when I looked at my watch it had been more than two hours.  Reluctantly we walked back to the Cesna, and after an exciting taxi down the beach we were airborne.  It was like being in flying dune buggy, and we had a smooth flight back to Homer over some of the most beautiful scenery on earth.

Salmon Fishing

A lone fly fisherman on the Nushagak River at midnight

Our first view of the fish camp was from the float plane - a few small temporary looking buildings on the banks of the Nushagak river - and as we landed I thought of all the times my high school friend Dave Heller and I had talked about an Alaska fishing trip, and how it was finally really happening.  The plane taxied to the bank and as we got out three aluminum boats with outboard motors came up to take us down the river to the camp - run by River King Outfitters. 

The camp itself, about 50 river miles from Dillingham, was run by the owner Jon, his helper, Chris, and a young woman who did the cooking.  Dave and I had our own cabin, which was a plywood building with two platform beds, each with a thick sponge rubber pad on which we put our sleeping bags.  There was a two-seat outhouse, and a bath house with hot showers.  The dining room was a large tent on a wooden platform with a single long table with twelve chairs for the twelve guests.  The whole thing felt like boy scout camp without the boy scouts.

Dave and I put our stuff in our cabin and walked out to a point of land and picked up two fishing poles left there, put in our lines, and in a minute I had a fish on.  I landed a nice small chum salmon, about eight pounds, and was congratulating myself when a boat roared up, coming out of nowhere it seemed, and a young state trooper, a bit full of himself, demanded to see our fishing licenses, which we had left in our cabin in our enthusiasm.  He puffed himself up and said if we had landed a chinook he would have written us a ticket.  It’s good they enforce the laws, but someone so far from town should be a bit more friendly. 

We had our own boat to use whenever we wanted, which was pretty much all day everyday for five days.  We got up and went fishing, came back for breakfast at 9:00am, then fished until lunch time - 1:00pm.  We then rested, took a shower, and went back out fishing until dinnertime at 7:00pm.  After dinner we fished some more, and since it stayed light until well after midnight we had lots of time to fish.

The river was very wide and smooth, and we would drift down the river with spinners and fish eggs bouncing off the bottom, watching the world go by until a big salmon hit the hook, and then the fight was on.  The fish would strip out line, jump out of the water, dive deep, and generally fight as if its life depended on it.  They were beautiful salmon, bright chrome color, fresh from the ocean.   We must of caught fifty fish each, about ten per day, but we only kept four chinook each, the legal limit.  The others we released.

My biggest fish was about 25 pounds, Dave’s biggest was about 35 pounds.  He is an expert fisherman - a self described all around angler.  I’m just a novice, but I still had a great time.

The other ten guys at the camp - all guys - were older men who loved to fish.  They were Republicans, members of NRA, sellers of genetically engineered seed.  I liked them.  Really.  Four of them were fly fisherman, and they would spend hours and hours standing in freezing water up to their waists casting and casting - and catching big salmon on light lines.  Real fisherman.

Chris and Jon filleted our fish for us, vacuum packed and froze the pieces, and we each took over 40 pounds of fillets with us when we left.  Now my freezer at home is full of frozen chinook salmon, and my head is full of great memories.
 

Bears!

I just got back from my trip to Alaska with stories to tell and pictures to show.  I will work hard and try to get something posted by Wednesday (July 25, 2012)

A brown bear in Katmai National Park.