I set my paddle across the cockpit and lifted the rod from my spray skirt. The line was still slack. Thinking the lure might be caught on the bottom, I reeled in a little line and yanked hard on the rod, trying to dislodge the hook.The rod slammed down, and the reel spun and hissed as the line tore out. It took all my strength to pull the rod’s tip back up—the force pulling the line doubled it over almost parallel to the handle. I screamed to myself in my head, “You idiot! You’re salmon fishing in a kayak!!” I braced myself in the cockpit, and the whole kayak swung around. This wasn’t a snag, and it wasn’t a small trout, either. It had to be a king salmon, and a big one at that!
The fishing line ran guitar-string straight into the glassy water, making a miniature wake as it moved across the surface. Then, 75 feet in front of me, the fish jumped out of the water, twice as high as my head! It darted left then plowed right. I held the rod tightly as the boat pivoted to the side and was pulled by the fish at trolling speed. I was being led out farther away from shore and the calm lee of the point, which made me nervous, but I figured I’d better let the fish drag me because my reel was loaded with only 12-lb. test line. If I pulled back too much and bullied the fish, the line—maybe even the rod—would snap.
The line buzzed and hummed as the salmon pulled me along. I used the rudder to keep the nose of the kayak in the direction the salmon was moving. I didn’t want to let the fish get over to my side, where a hard pull could flip me. I had my wetsuit on, but I didn’t want to end up in the cold water.About four boat lengths out ahead of me, I saw the salmon’s tail slapping back and forth on the surface as it struggled to get away. I found myself wishing I’d hooked a smaller fish—a thought that had never crossed my mind when I was fishing from a motorboat.
After 20 minutes of being pulled around by the salmon, we had moved 500 yards offshore, where it was windy and rough. I was now in car-sized waves, and the gusts were frothing whitecaps. With the rod in my hands and my paddle sitting across my lap, I couldn’t stabilize the kayak with the paddle, and I was surprised by how tippy it felt. Waves slapped over my lap. The boat tipped to the right, so I dropped one hand and quickly smacked down on the paddle shaft, bracing against the water.
The wind picked up and blew me farther out from shore. Looking back, the branches, trunks and boulders of the pine- and cedar-covered rocky shore faded into a gray-green strip on the horizon. Whitecaps broadsided me and sprayed across my face. Again, the fish darted and drove forward, slamming the rod down and yanking me in its direction as I strained to hold on. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and reminded myself that if conditions got worse I could just cut the line and paddle in. With the waves pounding on me, I decided that keeping the fish out in front was less important than steering to keep the waves from nailing me on the side and knocking me over. All the balancing and bracing was making my legs and hips ache.Fifty minutes had passed, and I hoped that maybe the fish was starting to tire. Then I saw it right out in front of me on the surface. It was as long as my kayak’s cockpit.
The salmon swam in close to me, saw the red kayak and dived in panic. I held on to the rod as my forearms burned. Dang! Dang! Dang! I mumbled as the line buzzed out my reel. I eased some pressure onto the line, trying to tire the salmon, but it just kept running.I felt in awe of this salmon, in a way that I never had from a motorboat. It weighed 20-some pounds but was able to tow 300 pounds of me and my kayak in circles for over an hour, for what must have added up to miles, making every muscle in my body cry for relief.
Another tall wave rocked the boat. I looked up in surprise to see that the 1-mile marker buoy was now between the shore and me. My hands stung, my back throbbed and my heart beat hard, but I told myself, “You know how to land a fish, and you know how to handle yourself in a kayak. Now just do them at the same time! And, besides, you can’t go home and tell people about a huge salmon that you cut loose.”
I took a deep breath. My eyes followed the angle of the taut fishing line from the tip of the rod to the water in front of me. For a slow-motion second, I could see the green silver of the salmon’s side 15 feet below as it pulled left then right on the line. Then it bolted again, fading into the green of deeper water.
The line went slack. The fish was running straight at me! With no tension on the line, the hook could fall out of its mouth, so I reeled frantically and got the bend back in the rod and tension in the line. Suddenly the salmon was on the surface just feet from me. It banked on its side, saw my boat and took off again, heading behind me. I held the rod up and out to keep the line from tangling on my rudder.
The back-and-forth tussle went on and on for another 10 minutes, but I eventually brought the now sluggish fish in close enough to try to land it. With one hand on the rod, I lifted the tip high in the air, holding the salmon’s head out of the water to keep it from making another dive down. The salmon’s tail kicked and thrashed, blasting me with sheets of water. Instinctively, I lowered the fish back into the lake, and let it swim 15 feet away, where it would be harder for it to spit the hook out of its mouth.
The salmon lost steam, and I guided it back and lifted its head out of the water again. With my free hand, I reached for my trout net and scooped up the salmon’s tail, but that’s all that would fit in the net! I was stuck. I had the rod in one hand, the net in the other and I was holding the fish half out of the water, but with one good kick by the fish I could drop and lose everything!
My paddle slid into the water, and I saw it drift to the end of its leash. The -salmon, still only half in the net, was slapping the side of the kayak like a fist pounding on the hull. I was struggling to hold it up out of the water. I looked at the faraway shore and at the jumble of fish, net and rod that I held in my hands. I considered dumping it all into the cockpit but was afraid to undo my spray skirt because of the waves that were washing over the deck. The last thing I needed was to take on water.
I put the rod handle in my mouth. I tucked the tail-filled net under my arm and grabbed the homemade rope stringer off my deck. I tried to run it through the salmon’s hard gill plate, but the salmon whipped its head and sharp teeth past my hand, slicing my fingers and leaving a thin line of blood. Panting, I tried again and was able to pass the rope stringer through the netting and the salmon’s bright red glistening gills. I tied the whole big mess of fish, net and rod to the side of my deck and let everything fall. The pile was safe, but it was in a huge tangle and was dragging in the water.