Hooked on Floating Fishing Lodge

We were sky-dancing between the clouds, the mountains and the foaming sea, up the British Columbian coast in a powerful twin otter.

From the silt-laden Fraser River we zoomed north from Vancouver over the Sechelt Peninsula, with its hundreds of sea farms and log booms scattered along the coastline.

Civilization dwindled rapidly, its only evidence being the decades worth of clear-cutting scars and the hot pink mist of the ensuing fireweed. Over the noise of the engines the men--I was the only woman on board--were yelling their newly invented fish stories to each other.

The pilot made a sharp, knee-weakening arc to the right and landed in the water beside Cracroft Island.

As the plane taxied up to the pier I noticed huge casket-like styrofoam boxes--piles and piles of them--surrounded by a large group of very happy people. It was the last group of fishermen and their catch.

This was North Pacific Springs, a floating fishing lodge operated by former airline owner Keith Fraser. A tugboat tows Fraser’s 15-room lodge to where he can guarantee good salmon fishing in British Columbia. As summer sets in, the snows of Mt. Washington melt and water pours into Kingcombe Inlet, diluting its salinity and touching off the salmon migration.

Guests fish from the pier of the lodge, which is moved from various locations between Kingcome Inlet and Knight’s Inlet. It’s an area where fishermen can observe abundant wildlife and explore eerie abandoned indian villages, petroglyphed channels and fish farms.

The lodge is comfortable and clean, with private bathrooms and a large communal Jacuzzi. An open bar and good, home-cooked food are the order of the day.

The bewhiskered Fraser, after decades of flying and fishing the northern British Columbian coastline, looks the part of bushwhacker extraordinaire. He greeted us heartily and ushered us onto the lodge. His trophy Tyees and huge bearskin rugs lined the dining room. I smelled the tantalizing fragrance of freshly steamed shellfish and home-baked bread.

By the time I unpacked I couldn’t wait to eat. Between slurping buttery fresh oysters and wiping my glasses as sweet Dungeness crab juice spurted across the table (the lodge has its own crab pots dotting various inlets), I knew that I’d been dropped into “Fisherman Heaven.”

Most of the men had fished all over the world and they were here for only one thing--to catch a Tyee salmon, no matter how early they had to get up or how wet they got.

Fraser was there to help in any way possible, providing superb $300 reels, long and limber rods and fast boats that drive through the deep cold water that flows through Johnstone Strait and surrounds Cracoft Island. But above all, he provided an unerring sixth sense about where the fish were.

It wasn’t a timid knock that woke us up the next morning at 5, it was a serious bang on the door. Then there came the nose tickling aroma of fresh coffee and fruit-filled muffins baking.

Despite his infirmities, even Wyman, the 80-year-old lawyer from Los Angeles, crawled out of bed to inch his way to sustenance before tackling the steps down to the huge pier and loading area.

Tom, one of the jovial Californians in our group, explained that even though he’d once caught a 1,400-pound marlin with a 45-pound tuna as bait (itself larger than any fish I’ve ever even reeled in), fishing is such an incurable malady that, once stricken, a person travels the world to satisfy the addiction.

All I knew was that I hated baiting hooks with squirming worms, and now I was about to demonstrate my ineptitude in front of the elite of the angling fraternity.

Gray dawn covered Blackfish Sound as Dave, our guide, set the lines. “Say, this is OK,” I thought, “I don’t have to touch that slimy dead fish.” Kidding me all the while, Dave whipped up a contraption that was a combination of a “little pink hoochie to attract big pink fishies” and a silver flasher that I dutifully dropped off the stern of the boat. Meanwhile, we attended each of the downriggers, baited with herring, a chinook’s favorite snack.

Fishing for salmon is much like Fraser says: “Hours of boredom, sparked by moments of sheer terror.” The reason is simple. Huge chinook salmon are lazy fish. They’re down there--the depth finder/sonar gizmo says so. But they just open their massive mouths and dinner flows in.

You almost have to hit them on the head with the downrigger to get them to strike. Cruising in the sparkling clear sunlight, I fished and waited. Not for long.

Pink after pink hit the deck--five, eight, 10-pound beautiful fish filled my tub, perfect for the smoking and canning that the lodge arranges. And by the end of that first afternoon I realized that I’d almost caught the limit. So what else to do?

Earlier, on our way out to pull some crab traps, Keith had mentioned an abandoned indian village. So guide Brian and I commandeered a boat and struck out for the Kwakiutl village of Mamalillaculla.

Maneuvering through the brooding granite boulders that protected the ancient village site, we anchored the boat beside one of the three burial islands and leaped onto the barnacle-crusted rocks at high tide.

A recently built, concrete-block crypt stood sentinal above us. Stark and cold, it watched over the emerald green islands strewn across the bay and the mountains of Vancouver Island that rose in the distant blue haze.

Behind, a narrow path stole higher into the island forest. Something drew us to follow that path until, in the darkness, a weathered wooden structure arose, a windowless house for the dead. The side had been chain-sawed off and so it showed its hand-hewn cedar timbers. Around the building, bits of rotting, wine-colored cloth littered the forest floor. The shattered roof lay stacked crudely, gathering lichen.

Set aside from the destruction was a careful arrangement of what appeared to be human bones. It looked as if this had once been a holy place, a place the ghosts had fled.

The tide was ebbing fast, so Brian suggested a visit to the fish farm in a channel where the current runs quickly. Its pens were filled with 30- to 40-pound brood salmon. Not not as muscular as the wild salmon, but certainly as beautiful.

It was time to return to the lodge. With our hair flying, we were powering homeward through a strengthening gale when Brian suddenly wheeled the boat. Within 100 yards of us a huge pod of killer whales were feasting on the salmon we were supposed to be catching.

Inside the lodge we feasted on succulent giant prawns and thick steak that Keith said he had “flown into town for.” The aches of fishing were forgotten as new friendships were cemented and fish stories swapped in the swirling waters of the hot tub.

Another morning, another familiar knock on the door, and out into the dark we trooped. It seemed like midnight.

Tom, the tanned, handsome, Californian, had taken it upon himself to teach me how to bait a hook several nights before, so when one of his buddies asked, “Do you want to go fishing?” I immediately responded, “Just let me get my floater coat!”

Between us we needed only five fish to fill our legal limit, so we were mostly going out with the idea of just having fun. As it turned out, there was nothing but mayhem on our 17-foot boat.

I turned the boat too quickly and tangled all our lines in the propeller. Tom, tail end up and head almost in the water, couldn’t stop laughing, and from that moment we became good friends.

He steered us to the deeper water off Flower Island and calmly rigged our lines again. Immediately, hungry fish began to pull and tug as we roller-coastered around the boat, ducking and handing lines over and under. Wonder of wonders, we landed every fish.

Over the noise of the boat, our whoops of joy and the wind, we heard a terrific yell from one of the other boats bobbing in the brilliantly cold morning sunshine. Gary, another Californian, had hooked what seemed to be a record breaker. Young Brian, who had only officially been guiding for two weeks, jockeyed his boat and instructed the fisherman how to brace himself for the fight.

Blackfish Sound echoed with the screaming of the reel as the big fish peeled off 1,200 feet of line--right down to the knot. Dragging the boat into deeper and deeper water, the fight continued to the death.

When the triumphant, exhausted crew arrived back into the small clutch of boats under the slightly jealous eyes of the older guides, a new North Pacific Springs record had been set: 61 pounds.

Our group caught five enormous Tyee salmon, one by Wyman, the 80-year-old gentleman. Masses of smaller 5 to 25 pounders, several large sweet-fleshed halibut and even a few ugly ling cod were brought in. The spiny rock fish were flung to the waiting bald eagles.

Smoked, canned or frozen, our fish were loaded into the little seaplane so tightly that the aisles were packed. As we floated over the mountaintops, I looked around.

Every fisherman had his ear protectors on and was fast asleep, awash in his personal fish dreams.

Several all-inclusive packages are available for North Pacific Springs. Some include fishing for steelhead in a mountain stream and cooking your catch on sight.

Salmon fishing season starts at the end of April and lasts to October. Fly in from Vancouver International Airport’s South Terminal via Harbour Air. For details and/or reservations contact: North Pacific Springs, Box 928, 351 Festubert St., Duncan, B.C., Canada V9L 3Y2; (604) 748-3189.

For more information on travel to British Columbia, contact Government of British Columbia Trade & Tourism, 2600 Michelson Drive, Suite 1050, Irvine, Calif. 92715, toll-free (800) 663-600 or (714) 852-1054.