Hook, line and salmon
Getting in with the fish during peak season on Vancouver Island
When completely immersed in salmon, it’s difficult to not think about bears. And, more important, about where along this river those bears go for sushi.
It’s the peak of the salmon run on the east coast of Vancouver Island, and I’m clad in Neoprene from head to toes, snorkeling with salmon in the Campbell River. Every so often, I scout the riverbank for hungry bears, but none appear.
It’s just me, swimming against those swimming against the stream.
The majority of the thousands of fish that surround me are pinks, also known as humpback salmon after the hump that forms on the backs of males during spawning. Of the five salmon varieties in this region, pinks are the smallest, weighing up to 12 pounds. But as I float slowly downriver, the mass of fish peeling away in front of me reveals an occasional monster hiding among them: a Tyee, a chinook salmon weighing more then 30 pounds. In a flash, the
behemoth is gone.
In Campbell River, considered in some circles the salmon capital of the world, high season is all about the pink-fleshed fish. Dedicated sports fishers and hobbyists flock to shorelines and boats in hopes of catching one of the large Tyees, but are happy with packing a box to ship home, laden with the fish they do catch. Even those who don’t venture out to battle with the salmon find fish available on every menu, allowing them to live the high life on land.
Salmon can be caught here year round, but during the height of the season ( July through September), it’s possible to experience part of the salmon cycle: try to catch one for the dinner table, watch from a safe distance as shaggy grizzly bears swoop their meals up in one huge paw, and go for a swim among the fish as they mass in the river.
The only parts of the life cycle you’re not witnessing are eggs hatching and the rush of juveniles to the sea. But they’re too small to eat. Give them time and they might come back one day as a big Tyee.
Fin to fin
In the Campbell River, I’m surrounded on all sides by churning walls of fish that zip just inches from my face and all around me, like a twitchy salmon force field. They move as if one organism: giving way as I approach, only to curve around me and close the gap as I pass. When I reach toward the fish, there’s no frenzy to escape — only an effortless dodge into the mass of scales, eyes, fins and tails.
Earlier in the day, I’d wandered along a pathway at the Quinsam River Hatchery and tried to spy salmon in the river that skirts the pathway’s edge. Initially, I was disappointed, convinced that occasional splashing was the most I’d see of the fish. A few steps closer, and I realized that the water was so thick with salmon that they were fin to fin. Every few moments, one would change positions by wiggling over the backs of the others and then squeezing into a new gap.
Many times larger than that spot on the Quinsam, the Campbell River allows its salmon to swim a little more freely. With my wet suit and life jacket, I let the river take me along as its passenger. All I have to do is watch the walls of salmon pass and scan ahead for rocks. Every once in a while, I hit a light rapid and use my hands to push myself above the largest river rocks, like a waterborne game of leapfrog. My guide in a nearby raft shouts out directions when I get too close to the riverbank.
As the river widens, the shore is dotted with fishermen. I angle my body away from the lines, and as I put my face in the water again, notice that the salmon are doing the same thing. They pack tighter against me as we all avoid the glistening hooks, and for a moment, I become part of that one organism until the current takes us speeding past the humans and their fishing rods, camp chairs and coolers. We are the ones that got away.
Near the mouth, the water’s clarity lessens as salt and sand mix in with the freshwater. I see a few fish here, a few there, but the mass has disappeared. My fingertips start to ache from extended time in the cold water.
“How are you doing? Ready to get in the raft?” asks my guide.
I look back at the raft. It’s full. Mesmerized by the salmon, I’m the only person left in the water.
Tyee fishing
In the chill of early morning, fishermen quietly load classic rowboats docked near the legendary Tyee pools at the mouth of the Campbell River. One by one, they shove off into the darkness and motor around the Tyee Spit and over to the edge of the pools. And one by one, the engines are shut off. Fishing in the pools must be done only while trolling from a boat that is rowed, without using motor power.
There are more requirements for Tyee fishing, set by the Tyee Club of British Columbia, including length of rod, type of line, use of leader, type of lure and more. Founded in 1924, the club is dedicated to angling for chinook salmon on light lines, and allowing open competition to all anglers.
The clubhouse, in perfect position on the spit, is the site for weighing the catch. If it’s a chinook more than 30 pounds, a bell will ring out across the pools — one ring for every 10 pounds. The catch is then recorded, and the angler becomes a member of the Tyee Club.
In the morning mist, the Tyee pools are dotted with rowboats. Occasionally, voices can be heard as boats pass and fishermen and women greet each other. Other times, a peremptory scowl will warn against chatter among fishermen. In my boat, I’m getting some history with my Tyee fishing lesson.
“Because this is such an old-school and traditional
style,” says my instructor, “some people say that fishing in the Tyee pools is like fishing in a museum.”
I watch the rowboat paseo, as boats slip past each other in the cottoncandy twilight, reach the end of the pools, then turn and pass again on the return trip. Occupants nod in greeting, but there’s an underlying tension despite the smiles. All anglers are waiting for lines to tighten, rods to arc and voices to shout “Fish on!” Until then, it’s a beautiful exercise in patience. And rowing.
Snacking grizzlies
People aren’t the only ones with an appetite for salmon. Signs along fishchoked rivers warn about keeping an eye open for hungry bears. In the dense forests and river estuaries of the Bute Inlet, deep inside the traditional territory of the Homalco Nation, grizzly bears fish the glacial-fed waters.
On a tour, I’m shuttled between a boat that has transported me here from Campbell River to a van that takes me to a number of secure viewing platforms so I can watch the shaggy brown bears in safety — without tempting them away from the meaty pink salmon. And there are plenty of grizzlies. In less than two hours, I count 11 bears, five of which are young cubs with their mothers.
We pass a carved wooden sign that says Xawas, the name of the grizzly bear in the Homalco language, and I notice that the edge is frayed.
“Every time we replace the sign,” says my guide, “the bears rip it apart. That sign is only 2 days old.”
Along the shoreline, grizzlies scout for food, whether it’s seaweed or salmon. Cubs play in the water, standing up on their hind legs when they hear a nearby boat’s engine roar to life. In the mud below the viewing platforms, bear tracks resemble dance step maps.
Grizzlies are so plentiful here that perhaps there’s no need for signs.
Taking one last look before my boat returns me to Campbell River, I see a mother bear rip apart a freshly caught salmon for her two cubs. They race to her side and inhale the prized fish meat. Their meal may not be a big chinook, but salmon are still heading up the rivers en masse in a migration both natural and unnatural with which all other attempts to go against the flow are measured.
There’s still time for plenty of fish meals, and, surely, the bears aren’t concerned about whether their catch will inspire the bell to ring at the Tyee Club.