Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Yesterday’s conditions were spectacular—clear skies and calm water, so we got in a good day of fishing. The early-morning “zinger” was seeing a big pike with a half-eaten fish in the clear water off the starboard (shore) side on our way out to Yacht Entrance. It confirmed a positive turn in the ecology of the Les Cheneaux. Bill and I each boated a small salmon with some well-considered work in the zone off Boot Island. With the weather remaining glorious, we headed over the reef to “Salmon Alley,” hoping to find a Chinook near the shipping lane. JD came up with a decent Coho instead, the biggest fish of the day. When we snagged our lines in unfamiliar waters near Strongs Island, due to our worries about the presence of Indian nets at East Entrance, we figured it was best to call it a day.

Our good buddy Mike had arrived on Wednesday afternoon. He treated us to some perfect BBQ chicken from the grill that night. Mike doesn’t fish, but loves to relax near the dock while we’re out on the water, which I’ve come to learn he doesn’t do very often with his fast-paced lifestyle as a top salesman in the food service industry. Last night, after the five of us enjoyed an evening at the Islander Bar in Hessel, he dropped his bummer bombshell on us—a diagnosis of aggressive rheumatoid arthritis, a potentially crippling medical condition. It’s been difficult to think about anything else since, because now I can see he’s moving much too slowly for the dynamic guy I’ve known. I felt odd when he watched me do my third channel swim yesterday. Before supper on the day he got here, I discovered a ten-pound boat anchor during my daily swim—a quarter mile out, naturally—so I got the brilliant notion to carry it back with a lifesaving stroke. It didn’t feel very heavy at first, but it was a real challenge not to drop it before I made it back. I’m sure I said some kind of cocky remark to Mike after the meaningless feat, not aware yet of his progressive debilitation. The ego can be nothing but trouble, for the most part.

Today’s weather was almost as pleasant as yesterday’s, so we basically replicated the course of action from Thursday’s expedition. After a “strike out” at the “Booty Zone,” we tried “Salmon Alley” and Bob scored his first ever salmon, a nine-pounder. Bill came back with a small pink, and then I was “up to bat.” I targeted some work in 60-to-70-foot waters, but had no hits for the rest of the session. I remained in the captain’s role when we visited the bay near the dolomite-loading port later in the evening. I was still in standby mode until a few minutes after 8 o’clock when a fish with some apparent size to it hit the port-side “dipsy-diver” line. It’s a wild feeling when the adrenals kick in after so much tedious effort, but that’s what salmon fishing is all about. JD performed an excellent netting action to help get my King into the boat. It’s appearance—a skin tone that lacked a degree of silvery gleam—indicated it was on the way to spawning waters. When we got back, it weighed in almost 12-1/2 pounds, so I steaked out most of it, fillet-cutting the tail end. It seemed to take me forever. I’m pretty slow at the fish-cleaning table, but what need is there to be in a hurry?