Alaska Fishing: Jonathan Bender's Cape Chacon

Part I of this Series was posted back in November of 2009. Part II was posted in January 2010. You have to click on the Blog Archive for the appropriate month to bring them up. If you haven't been following the story go back now to the archives and pick up the thread. Enjoy!

Captain Mac

On the first two days of their trip, fishing out of the Lodge, we’d connected with huge schools of migrating silvers, and had been treated to the non-stop action we called “Coho Chaos” that comes standard in such cases. For hours, at no time were there less than three people hooked up; the darting silvers taking bullet-runs every which way; me shouting, “Over!” “Under!” Guiding the fishermen, trying to prevent line-tangles. All the while, I’d struggled to keep up with the action, retying rigs and baiting hooks in the spaces between netting, often two fish at a time. The intensity of these silver footballs of muscle never ceases to amaze me. My favorite incident this trip occurred on the first hookup, when Tim had announced, “I think my line broke,” upon noticing that it had gone slack. “Reel!” I shouted, trying to deliver some urgency to the situation. Just then, I noticed the chartreuse lead zipping under the boat. The fish was passing us!

So by one in the afternoon, having gotten their fill of salmon, the sextet had unanimously supported the pursuit of Tim’s trophy. Over those first two afternoons, the group brought in eight halibut, all less than 50 lbs. (excellent eating), and innumerable cod to round out each day, but we hadn’t gotten the big one that Tim wanted. I had reassured them that we still had Cape Chacon, and a good bet for the trophy.

Cape Chacon is the southernmost point of the Island, facing open water. (See the chart in Part I) There, weather permitting, lies some of the best bottom fishing in the world. Two opposing currents collide, welling up nutrients from deeper waters that result in tremendous feeding frenzies. Huge schools of feeding black rockfish commonly called “sea bass” are occasionally mauled by a giant lingcod, while bright king salmon dart past, snatching up stray herring. Occasionally, when we’re lucky, we’re treated to a rare group of frenzied halibut, up from the depths to gorge themselves on whatever strays a bit from the cover of the rocky pinnacles. In these cases, a boatload of excitement is multiplied by double, even triple hook-ups. On the previous day, I had started filling the minds of our guests with such tales, such anticipation, being sure to qualify everything with the tag lines, “on good days,” “if we’re lucky,” or, “if you’re good.” The third being a bit strategic with this group, a comment that serves to both challenge and bolster their manly pride.

The coast here is magnificent. 300-foot cliffs, jagged and gnarled, are a testament to the kinds of storms that regularly visit here. A few gnarled, twisted trees cling to the rocks near the top, a sort of masthead on the island’s bow and breakwater; the only representatives of the land that dare face the dominion of this sea. Today is bright and calm, the only conditions in which we brave these often-violent waters. I’ve tied up over 100 rigs, and they’re hanging from the rubber trim atop the cabin window, a strange, functionless curtain. We’ve started the group off with the heavier halibut rods, since the chance of hooking a 50 lb. lingcod or a large halibut is high, and we want to be prepared for that trophy if it hits. We arrive at the pinnacles where we usually have some success and set up for the first drift. As soon as everyone drops, bam! Four hookups. Before those first four make it to the deck, the other two are on. I’m running around, gaffing everything in sight (netting is too messy for rockfish), trying to keep everyone baited. Tim’s dad, Jerry, while bringing up a black rockfish, notices a dark shadow lumbering behind it. “Give’em some slack!” I instruct. He drops his rod tip and almost immediately it doubles over from the weight of the huge preying lingcod. I know the lingcod is most likely not hooked, just greedy, refusing to release the meal from it’s gaping, toothy grip, and I tell Jerry, this time calmly, “Whatever you do, don’t lift it out of the water. Only up to the surface.” I’m going to have to place the net under the big fish very carefully so as not to spook it, then net it, and hoist it over the rail and into the boat quickly. “Help us out. Clear a space!” I announce, “This thing’s going to go ballistic as soon as it feels the net!” Gingerly but as quickly as possible I position the net under the big fish and give a mighty heave, trying to fluidly move into a lift, as I bring the gruesome thing in over the side. It’s a twisting, angry, snapping 35-pounder, and I’ve got to ‘subdue’ it quickly, with the aid of my trusty aluminum club.• This kind of scene is constant for three hours, with short, five-minute breaks for us to reset the drift.

• Captain Mac’s Note: At the time of this trip there was no slot limit for lingcod. Today at Cape Chacon a lingcod must fit within a 30” to 35” “slot” – the fish must be no less than 30” long and no more that 35”. Still a pretty nice fish!

At one point, Jim, another of the sons, brings in a 35-pound king salmon after a 20-minute battle, bright chrome with that characteristic purple tint along the sides. Such a catch is enough to request everyone else to bring in their lines, giving me a short break while we fight the king. But Tim ignores the request and instead moves to the opposite end of the 37 foot boat, away from the action. He is on a mission. I steal occasional glances at him, making sure he is all right. He is concentrating intensely on the sparkling, mysterious water, almost mesmerized. "C'mon fish. C'mon fish."