The rain pounding on the windshield drowns out any other thoughts I might have. The sky is unleashing its fury on us — full throttle. My partner, Brady McDonnell, is driving and I give him a sidelong glance, shocked at myself for letting him talk me into fishing today. He responds to my look with a grin, excitement radiating off him.
Brady, like myself, is from Bellingham. He spent his childhood fishing Whatcom Creek, fly fishing with his grandfather in Eastern Washington, and his teenage years commercial fishing in Alaska. I, on the other hand, have never been much of a fisher, despite my mom’s maiden name being Fisher. Since moving to Juneau, where fishing is more a way of life than a hobby, I’ve dipped my toes into the fishy waters but haven’t yet caught the bug — or any fish.
We pull off at Sheep Creek, the southern tip of Juneau’s main road. Hesitant to leave the refuge of the truck, we don our waders and boots and grab our fishing poles. Brady flashes me a smile. “You ready?” he asks. I try to hide my attitude and shrug in agreement.
It’s coho season in Juneau. My Instagram feed is full of people holding up salmon half their size. I’ve caught a few fish in my life, but nothing compared to these giants.
Everything is shrouded in a blanket of gray. We walk until we are waist-deep in the ocean, as the rain echoes between us and the wind rips up the channel. About twenty other people are also braving the storm, hoping to be rewarded with a fresh-caught dinner. The rain doesn’t bother me now that I am partially submerged in the ocean.
The current rocks me gently, and I enjoy feeling the pull of the moon through my body. Harbor seals poke their heads out of the water to say hello, seagulls wait on the shore for potential fish scraps, and a waterfall chisels its way down Sheep Mountain behind us, rushing with the extra rainwater.
Two hours and countless casts later, we’re still fishless, although we have seen almost everyone around us catch a fish. Rather than feeling upset, I feel content spending hours immersed in the ocean and motivated to come back and try again.
The next evening we head out again after work. About 50 cars line the shore, and the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. We start wading into the ocean; I veer off Brady’s path slightly and venture to the right. Mid-thigh deep, I go to take my next step and instead plunge neck-deep into the water.
The icy water takes my breath away and fills my waders, thoroughly soaking my clothes. Even in the 50-degree water, my face is flushed with embarrassment as Brady, unable to contain his amusement, grabs me and pulls me back up.
That was the moment I knew I was “hooked” on fishing (sorry I had to use that once). Though the child in me wanted to throw a tantrum, I let myself laugh instead. Brady turns around, ready to throw in the towel and head home, but I insist we continue. Shocked, and excited, he turns and we continue onward. I was sure with this persistent attitude I would catch one.
Two hours went by, and nothing. Brady, who usually catches fish effortlessly, joked that I must be bad luck. Every time I skip a fishing trip, he fills the freezer. When I join, neither of us catch anything. Nevertheless, I had found my determination, wet pants and all.
The next morning, we meet low tide at the beach. I walk out, wary of any hidden drop-offs. I start casting, hopeful. Within five casts, Brady hooks a fish. I watch as the 30-inch salmon leaps 2 feet in the air, twisting and shaking the hook loose. I’m stunned by the fish’s size and power.
Two casts later, Brady hooks another one. This time, he sets the hook hard. I watch him fight the fish, taking notes. It’s a give-and-take; when the fish tries to swim away, he lets it fight but keeps the line taut. He drags it onto the beach and the other anglers cheer. I feel his adrenaline and excitement.
Brady returns to the water and immediately hooks another fish. And another. One fish even breaks his pole in half, and he pulls the 12-pound fighter in with his bare hands, the line cutting into his skin.
Here come my intrusive thoughts. Am I really that unlucky? Is it actually possible for someone to never catch a fish, no matter how hard they try? Should I give up now? My thoughts are interrupted by a nibble. I instinctively jerk up, setting the hook just as I’ve seen Brady do. The fish thrashes underwater; I keep the line taut, let it fight and when it settles, I reel it in, walking backward through the water. When the shore comes into sight, I nearly run, dragging the fish onto dry land.
Then the moment I’ve dreaded; killing the fish. As a retired vegetarian, I grab the closest rock to me, pin the fish on its belly and smash the rock onto its head. I see the nerves shudder down the fish’s spine and it goes limp. I did it. I caught my first salmon, and a lady salmon nonetheless. I thank her for her life as I gut her on the beach.
That night, we indulge in a salmon feast. The salmon melts in my mouth; the protein-dense meat has never tasted so good. I feel profoundly thankful and connected to my food — one of the best feelings ever.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
