Fish Tales

Catching halibut, almost

We always tell our guests that it's important that a few fish get away and that you don't catch them all. You remember the ones that get away more clearly than most of the fish you land.

We were trolling for silver salmon off Pleasant Island, in Icy Strait, near Glacier Bay National Park, SE Alaska, and I noticed that when we turned into the current the boat essentially stood still in the water. The water was flowing about the same speed as we were trolling. We decided to let the water do the work since the current was so strong. I checked the fish finder and determined that our depth was less than 200 feet so our anchor could easily reach the bottom.

I pitched the anchor and when it hung on the bottom the fish finder read 191 feet. We let the lines hang out the back just like we were trolling and caught several nice silvers. When the current seemed to be slackening to I put my salmon rod away and got out the halibut setup. I put two 10-oz weights on, added a large herring to the circle hook and dropped it toward the bottom. We had called it right. The current was slowing and I hit the bottom without any problems.

The bait had only been on the bottom a few minutes when I felt a slight bump on the pole tip. I've fished enough halibut to know that the size of the strike has little to do with the size of the fish. I raised the pole slightly trying to feel what was causing the small pulling action. The pole raised just a slight distance before the line became tight and I could feel definite movement on the other end of the line. I checked the drag, tightened the line a little more and gave several hard cranks on the Okuma T-20 loaded with 80-pound-test braided Dacron line. The response on the other end was wonderful and exciting.

Immediately, the tell-tale shaking of the head, characteristic of big halibut, was there. Then the line began to stream off the reel. Zip, zip, zip. I'd checked the drag at the first sign of the strike and knew it was tight. But the ease with which the fish was pulling off the line, and the amount of line it was taking, made me want to tighten the drag more. Still the line was streaming out. After over 100 feet had been taken, and no letup in the run was evident, I pushed the drag lever forward to tightened the drag more. I also applied heavy pressure with my thumb on the reel spool until the friction of the line against my thumb burned the skin.

The tightening of the drag had the desired effect. The fish stopped running. Looking at my reel I estimated it had run over 250 feet, mostly down the side of the sloping bank we were anchored on. I thumbed the reel and began the slow, heavy process of lifting the pole and then lowering it quickly and taking up the line at the same time I lowered the rod. Each raising and lowering of the rod allowed me to gain 6- to 8-feet of line.

I had gained about 50 feet of line back when the fish took off again. I was standing in the back of our 20-foot Alumaweld near the side the fish was on, bracing my foot against the point where the floor of the boat and side touch. Suddenly, the line quit coming off the reel but the fish was still going. The result was a strong jerk on the pole. I hit the edge of the boat, hung onto the pole with one hand and grabbed the boat with the other to keep for being pulled into the water. Those watching from other boats in our group thought I was going overboard. Fortunately, the fish stopped its run before I lost hold of the pole.

I looked at the reel and could see that the line was twisted and knotted. No more line could come off the spool. I quickly tried to free the line on the reel, realizing that another run would probably break the line and cost me the fish. I could feel the fish shaking its head as I tried to get a little slack and free the line. No luck, the snarl was too tight. My only chance was to get more line back onto the reel and hope the fish wouldn't run to the end of the good line again.

I started the familiar pumping motion on the reel, watching the line come back onto the reel, and slowing starting to cover the problem. The weight of the fish bent the pole almost into a 'C' shape as I lifted and strained to gain more line. I've helped land halibut up to 200 pounds before and this fish had all the characteristics of the big "barn doors." I kept comparing this fish with the 121-pounders I'd landed a couple of weeks earlier. This halibut was much bigger and stronger. This fish could take line easily, even with a very tight drag. I started to get the familiar aching in the arms and back that result from pulling on big halibut. I started to look at others on the boat to see who I'd trust with the pole when I needed a rest. I would make sure I had plenty of line back on the reel before trusting the pole to anyone else though. About that time the halibut started to shake his head so I stopped reeling and just held the line taunt. I didn't want to do anything to cause the fish to run again. No luck, the run began again. I pushed my thumb hard against the spinning reel to add to the drag. The heat of the spinning line burned my thumb again and I had to release the pressure. The snag on the reel was becoming visible as the run continued. I braced myself. The fish hit the end of the available line, I lurched forward from the pull of the fish, and then the sickening sound of the line breaking.

There isn't much you can say to comfort an angler at a time like this. At first I wanted to blame someone for not being careful when they put the line on the reel, but who should I blame. I couldn't think of any words, good or profane, that would improve the situation so I elected to say nothing. Anyway, the silence felt good at a time like that.

Somewhere in Icy Straits a large halibut it toting my 16/0 circle hook, two 10-ounce weights, and a little line. It will take a few weeks to a few months for rust and corrosion to set her completely free from this tackle. I went back to the same area twice more to see if she would come calling again, but no success. I'll go back again next summer too, and the summer after that. Somewhere out there, . . . You see what I mean about remembering the ones that get away.