Naden Lodge (Haida Gwaii) – Halibut Taming – September, 2010

Our fishing guide suggested we stand back while he employed a harpoon to haul the giant halibut aboard. “They can be a little ornery,” Tim warned.

The beast was boat-side, hanging precariously from 25lb test line, in jeopardy of breaking free and returning to the depths ninety feet below from whence I had lured him onto a herring-bated hook fifteen minutes earlier. He was a big one, too heavy to net or gaff, and the line was sure to break if we tried to bring him on board without the harpoon.

This was my biggest fish of the trip, more than twice the weight of the test. I had reeled and let him run repeatedly for fifteen minutes. Now he was at the surface, my arms were exhausted and I was afraid of losing him.

The harpoon hit its mark, the fish was hauled aboard and Tim’s salty sea dog face erupted into a single-toothed grin. “Now he just needs a little taming,” he cackled. The fight wasn’t over yet.

For a few days at the end of August we were guests at Naden Lodge, located in Massett, a small fishing village in the remote Queen Charlotte Islands off the west coast of British Columbia.

The lodge can accommodate up to ten guests for three or four day fishing charters. Despite its isolated location – Alaska’s hazy southern islands were visible in the distance – access to the Lodge from Red Deer was remarkably convenient.

My fishing buddies, Dale, Dirk, Dug A. and Barry (one of the lodge owners) picked me up at 6:30 am, our twin-engine turbo prop was taxiing down the Penhold airport runway at 7am and we were hooking Chinook and Coho salmon in the Queen Charlottes – now known as Haida Gwaii – by 10:30 am that morning.

Haida Gwaii are the “Islands of the People”. The indigenous Haida have inhabited this remote coastal archipelago for thousands of years, catching fish, hunting giant island black bear, carving totems and living an idyllic life in small seaside villages, each surrounding a communal sweat lodge.

Two guests were assigned to each of the lodge’s four Boston Whaler style fishing boats. Promptly at 7am each morning we boarded our vessels and began the thirty-minute commute to the offshore fishing grounds of Hecate Strait.

The first morning we trolled for Chinook (also known as King or Spring) in a slow circle just off the coast with downriggers set at forty-odd feet.

Occasionally an unwanted pink salmon would hit. These humpies (stinky pinks) are not well regarded and, despite the entreaties of a prairie boy who has just nabbed his first salmon, are immediately returned to Davey Jones’ locker.

In the afternoon we sought schools of Coho further a sea. One day we simply drifted in deep water jigging the bottom for halibut when the boat’s GPS showed a promising ridge on the ocean floor.

The seas were comfortably quiet during our three days of fishing. We had one day of four-foot swells where I almost tossed my cookies but a motion sickness patch behind the ear kept me from feeding the salmon landlubber’s fare.

One glassy calm afternoon we watched, mouths agape, as a mammoth pair of transiting humpback whales passed us, their giant flukes pounding the sea’s surface, en route to Alaska (their winter feeding grounds) from summer calving and mating in the Hawaiian Islands, 3000km away.

Ocean fishing is not the most exciting of affairs. A lot of time is spent swilling beer, swapping sea shanties and staring dully at a heavy-test line, praying it will grow taut.

There’s a lot of hurry up and wait involved; two or three hours of inactivity followed by a ten-minute flurry of excitement when the hook sets and the reel fun begins.

A Chinook over thirty pounds is known as a tyee and when landed is a badge of honour amongst fishermen. Only Dale (the names have not been changed to protect the innocent) managed to land one of these hard-fighting beasts.

Back at the lodge he posed proudly – the newest member of the “Tyee Club” – with his prize dangling heavily from the fish scale.

The other seven of us mumbled our disingenuous congratulations and then happily dedicated the rest of the evening to fine Scotch, French Pinot Noir and fresh, moist and delicious halibut fish and chips.

A big halibut is known somewhat less romantically as a “barn door” which accurately describes the sensation of hooking and bringing one to the surface. This is where the thrill begins.

When Toothless Tim finally brought my harpooned 50-odd pound barn door aboard, the fish came unhinged, flopping viciously and dangerously around the boat until the skipper whacked it repeatedly on the noggin with the blunt end of a gaff. “There, he’s tamed,” Tim guffawed.

A 50 lb halibut is middle-of –the-road size out here in the Queen Charlottes. They can weigh in at over three hundred pounds.

We heard-tell of a lady fisherman who, hoping to grab a photo of her just-caught halibut, slipped, fell and was summarily beaten to death by a monster barn door before the guide could “tame” the beast. It’s probably a seafaring myth but I can assure you I stood well back while our one-toothed captain beat that halibut into submission.

Our three-day fishing adventure was not for the faint of wallet. I calculated that the 75 pounds of frozen, cryo-packed Chinook, Coho and Salmon I lugged home on the plane worked out to over $50 a pound.

I could have sauntered down to Safeway and bought the stuff fresh for less than half the cost. But that isn’t really the point.

A friend once told me that if you really enjoy an obscure activity and have the money, time and health to pursue a special adventure, then you are a fool not to fulfill your fantasy. A fine – if somewhat expensive – philosophy to live by.We all left the islands with our full quota of the Pacific’s bounty – except Dug A. who brought home an abysmal 17 pounds of frozen fish, a Haida record worst.

I’ll be back soon to Haida Gwaii, seeking Tyee Club membership and trying to get my fish cost down to forty-five bucks a pound.

Gerry