The Salmon Chronicles  

A luxurious fishing trip, including cuisine from top chefs, inspires a new appreciation for West Coast salmon.

 


THE RAT OF THE SEA . That’s how Chris, our guide, derisively describes my freshly caught pink salmon. It’s my last morning of fishing in Haida Gwaii (the Queen Charlotte Islands) and I’m nowhere near my fish quota, so I’ll be damned if I’ll throw back a perfectly good dinner.

The effort required to land even this maligned pink fish in the choppy, frigid waters of the North Pacific required not only that I assume a goofy, spread-eagled stance, but that two of the women on the boat grasp my waist to prevent me from falling headlong into the drink.

Notwithstanding, Chris tosses the six-pounder back in. Noting my slackened expression, he concedes that the fish "fought hard…for a pink." Before I have time to lick my wounds, word comes over the radio that some 10-year-old kid has just landed a 47-pound chinook only a few hundred metres from us. "Funny thing, this fishing," Chris says.

I wasn’t keen to go fishing in the first place. The ocean and I have had an uneasy relationship, stemming from the exact day my parents decided that having a five-year-old kid shouldn’t stop them from seeing Jaws. But for this ocean voyage, I was assured something other than the usual small-boat, big-ocean Pacific salmon fishing experience. Instead there would be luxury accommodations, a five-star hotel perched on a cliff off isolated Langara Island. Gastronomic fireworks were promised from hotshot guest chef Robert Belcham, Vancouver magazine’s Chef of the Year in 2009 for his work at Fuel (now rebranded as Refuel) and Campagnolo. There was the enticement of an open bar. And an open candy bar. And finally, the offer of a helicopter ride to the remote lodge-the deciding factor, in my case.

Before I know it, I’m 900 kilometres from Vancouver with a helpful West Coast Fishing Club employee asking me a rather unusual question. "What size of survival suit do you wear?" I’m momentarily silenced, as she scans the rack of infant-sized suits for one appropriate for a six-foot-three man.
The bulky, bright-orange survival suit is oddly comforting. Feeling like I’m in the last scene in Armageddon, I take Affleckian strides down to the dock. (My wife might have mouthed something like "Pillsbury dough boy" under her breath, but I can’t be sure with my hood so snug.) Chris awaits aboard a sweet 27-foot Boston Whaler Predator, the equivalent experience to having a Nascar driver pick you up in a new Bentley. We peel away from the dock and the twin 225 Mercury Verados emit a Zen-like hum as we motor toward some of the islands’ legendary fishing grounds.

Chris attaches our fishing lines to a downrigger that guides them to a perfect 65-foot depth. He gives us a primer in the art of salmon fishing, including some war stories about celebrity clients (Costner’s a sweetheart) and tells us about the fish we’re targeting. This is when we learn of his disdain for pink salmon: "They’re everywhere and they get in the way of hooking chinooks and cohos, which are larger, more active and make better eating. No one likes pinks."
Sure enough, after the pinks start biting like crazy, we decamp to a new hole where the tips of our rods immediately bob up and down aggressively, promising big fish on the line. We take turns doing the graceless wide-stance shuffle around the deck to stay square with our prey, lest they spit our barbless hooks back at us. Under the guide’s expert coaching, the awkward dance pays off; soon everyone on board deposits a nice-sized chinook in the fish cooler.

Flushed with success, we goad Chris to find some halibut, offshore fish that can easily reach 200-plus pounds. He agrees, but cautions us against getting too excited: "They’re like reeling in a big, wet carpet," he warns. To city slickers used to shelling out $20 a pound for wet carpet, the lure of a freezer full of it is too much to resist.

When we hit the open ocean, the swells increase. The wind cuts our faces and the rain pelts our cheeks. By the time we kill the engines at the designated spot, we’re in seas that shame any roller coaster and I clutch at my survival suit like it’s a rosary. The group votes to head back to a quieter spot, a hole that quickly offers up a 10-pound halibut, far tastier than one of the tough, ancient behemoths.

Back on terra firma for dinner, chef Belcham and sous-chef Alvin Pillay dispatch a course of chilled asparagus soup with Dungeness crab; foie gras and duck confit terrine with rhubarb and fennel; and crispy pork belly with Qualicum Bay scallops and romesco. The anglers converge in the great room, where a collegial atmosphere prevails. We are few, we are happy and tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. it’s once more unto the breach.

Before I know it, it’s the final morning. On the ride back, chopper din keeps conversation at a minimum, but one fellow passenger gestures to the window. A small convoy of boats is speeding new arrivals to fishing grounds we’ve just trawled that morning. Nods and smiles all around the cabin. Soon they’ll be knee deep in chinooks. Or, if they’re less fortunate, Rats of the Sea. wl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 


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