TYRONE BUCKLE
Alan Penner explains why his love for autumn coho fishing runs deeper than the fish themselves
Part 4: Life and death in the Pacific Northwest
AUTUMN’S ARRIVAL in the Pacific Northwest means the movement of birds. Warblers leave for the tropics as insects grow scarce, and bald eagles gather in cottonwoods and river flats, calling in high falsetto tones. Shorter days bring cooling temperatures as maple, alder, and birch cast their leaves upon the forest floor. Misty mornings arrive and storms bring rain.
But one event is the cornerstone of it all: the return of Pacific salmon to the arteries of the land. They arrive in pulsing waves, responding to the rise and fall of rivers, filled with an instinctive urgency to reach the gravel beds of their birth. Chinook are the greatest voyageurs of the genus and begin their journeys first, arriving at river mouths as early as April with bodies robust, polished, and radiant. Other salmon follow suit, and the waves of running fish accumulate over the months, swelling to a life force of monumental proportions.
Zombie-like fish, covered in patches of fungus, disfigured and blind, bump into banks, logs, and the legs of anglers
Anglers preparing to ambush coho as they run the arteries of the Pacific west coast in Alaska.
JUSTIN KENNEDY
Amid this cornucopia, an angler is easily overwhelmed. Salmon are everywhere. Dead or alive, their presence can be seen, heard, and smelled. Zombie-like fish, covered in patches of fungus, disfigured and blind, bump into banks, logs, and the legs of anglers. They swim aimlessly or float with the current, every iota of life energy expended on the next generation. They were among the first to arrive, and many of their companions already lie dead. Others were dragged or carried onto the banks and into the forests by bears, mink, and otters.
In the rivers, trout (rainbow and coastal cutthroat), dolly varden, and bull trout are among the species that partake in the banquet. Not one will step away from the table until every drifting egg or piece of flesh is consumed.
Into this frenzy of life and death, I enter each autumn. The river before me is welcoming fish with shiny scales and gleaming eyes, and I am eager to catch one with a fly.
The months of autumn are short, but angling opportunities are abundant, and priorities must be set. Most rivers are in prime shape and filled with fish — resident and anadromous — and all of them are worthy of pursuit. The residents are in the best shape of the season and eagerly feeding; the visiting fish arrive fresh from the ocean and full of vigor. With all these choices, one might be excused for being indecisive. Yet, when fishing my local waters, I always return to a single fish: the coho salmon.
Piscivorous while at sea, coho willingly respond to a retrieved fly. In my early days of fly-fishing for coho, I was told to “retrieve your fly until it reaches your feet.” The first one I ever caught came on a perfectly timed, accidental hook set. I had retrieved my fly almost to my feet, leaving enough of the fly-line on the water to partially load my rod, and upon picking it up a coho was there to check the rod’s momentum.
Similarly, two seasons ago, I was retrieving my fly from a deep pool with a sharply inclined bank. The point where the water transitioned from dark blue to green was my cue to lift into another cast. One cast was stopped short just before the transition zone, and when I set the hook, a large coho threw itself out of the water and onto the bank, disoriented, panicked, and thrashing. It was not an elegant moment — literally a fish out of water. Eventually, its flailing landed it back in the river, where it dashed around the pool. The coho eventually tired, and I landed it, reminded again of the advice shared with me so many years ago.
Well deserved: a solid coho from the frigid waters of Alaska.
In my early days of fly-fishing for coho, I was told to “retrieve your fly until it reaches your feet”
For a few months each autumn, the rivers of the Pacific Northwest are overrun with salmon, as all five species — chinook, chum, sockeye, pink, and coho — may be present simultaneously. When the ocean is traded for a river’s narrow confines, space is at a premium, and if every salmon used the same redds, most eggs would be left exposed and inviable. Nature’s simple solution is that each salmon has a preferred niche, and coho gravitate towards side channels, sloughs, and creeks. I have spent hours stepping softly, approaching promising water to look for dorsal fins exposed at the climax of a slow, arcing rise. If I observe, instead, the churning ruckus caused by chum salmon throwing their bodies around the pool, my optimism dips a little. But if the pool is calm and the only breaching is cautious, each cast is made with excitement.
Sometimes there is opportunity to walk along a high bank with an elevated view, looking into pools to spot coho before making a calculated approach. For several seasons there was a side channel on a local river with a deep pool directly beneath the abutment of an old bridge. Coho used it to rest from their upstream migration, and I frequently monitored their arrival.
Time and again I walked to the edge of a cliff over the pool and peered in to see schools of coho suspended above their shadows. The gentle current pushing against their bodies offered little resistance and the smallest gesture of a broad tail was the only movement required to hold their stations. The ensuing moments of watching, strategizing, moving into position, and making the first cast are some of the keenest moments of anticipation I have known.
Although I single-mindedly search for and fish “coho water” during the autumn months, other encounters occasionally distract me. Chinook, chum, sockeye, and pink salmon all respond to a fly. In September, I ease into the season. Although the expectation of encountering an early running coho is reasonable, I often simply explore. One day I was scouting a pool in a deep side channel where schools of fish frequently gathered. It was the peak of the chinook run, and they filled the pool. They were using their large, athletic bodies to bully other species out of the prime holding water, and any coho present were relegated to the edges. I knew they would be stressed, and my chances of catching one were slim, but I was eager at the beginning of a new season and didn’t care.
How to tie a classic Rolled Muddler
JAMES CARTER & ALAN PENNER
Holding station, a shoal of fall coho.
JUSTIN KENNEDY
I don’t recall how long I fished that afternoon — several hours, perhaps — but I do remember that no coho were caught. Yet, as I walked an old river channel back to my truck, I was not disappointed. Six times a chinook had moved from the compact school to calmly take my fly, and five times I brought one to hand. There was joy on the banks of the pool that day, and I was not the only angler made childlike by the act of catching.
Fishing for coho has pulled me from shelter and warmth into the waterways of my home province for most of my life. Along the way, I have caught a few, but the greatest return of all has come from participating in their existence and watching as they give their lives away.
Six times a chinook had moved from the compact school to calmly take my fly
James’ coho tricks
Don’t rush in
TYRONE BUCKLE
There’s something special about chasing coho first thing in the morning. The river is quiet, there’s barely enough light to see what you’re doing, and you know those fish could be moving right in front of you.
One thing I’ve learned is not to be in a rush to get in the water. It’s tempting to walk up to a good-looking run and immediately start wading out, but early in the morning, those coho can be sitting incredibly close to shore. So, hang back, keep things quiet, and start by covering the water right in front of you.
Once you’ve worked that close water, slowly start extending your casts and covering more of the run. Think of it as fishing your way out rather than wading your way in.
Fly choice can be interesting too. You can throw something with a little presence when the fish are aggressive, but if they’ve been pressured or aren’t cooperating, don’t hesitate to go small. Sometimes, a tiny, sparse fly with just a touch of flash is all it takes. Set that alarm a little earlier, grab a coffee and enjoy those first quiet hours on the river.
IN THIS SERIES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pacific Rivers Outfitting Company
Pacific Rivers Outfitting Company manager Willie (left) and sales associate and guide James (middle) are based at the store in Chilliwack (British Columbia), while Alan, a local science and PE teacher — and equally fanatical steelhead fisher — runs a series of evening fly-tying courses at the shop.
