For years I maintained that ice fishing was on the extreme end of a spectrum, the polar opposite of fly fishing. You fish up and down. You carry what you need on a sled. You don’t need to attempt stealth. You can eat a sandwich while fishing. Ice fishing is a lot of fun, and it is very different than fly fishing.
But it is trolling that is the opposite of fly fishing.
I was up at five and speeding across the lake at 5:30. Even though it was still the hottest part of summer, the cool mornings had begun to mark a change in the median temperature. The water was covered with fog and I was joyfully sipping from my coffee during the smooth patches of the ride.
We arrived in the center of the lake. The large body of water is made up of a number of tentacle-like segments that meet in a central hub. This is the deepest part of the lake, and the mouths of the many arms create variances in the depth. These channels and dropoffs are like shorelines for large segments of cooler water. The transition points also make perfect ambush spots for big, predatory fish like lake trout and landlocked salmon.
The salmon were our quarry.
My fishing companions were on a salmon quest. Proficient in catching virtually everything else in the lake, the landlocked salmon had eluded them. Large trout and heavy smallmouth bass had become common. Every gear purchase, every tackle shop conversation, every online search had become about salmon. And I was just along for the ride. Because I know little to nothing about landlocked salmon.
That isn’t entirely true. I’ve caught quite a few landlocked salmon. However they have all been caught in rivers, in the springtime. They have eagerly taken small dry flies and dead-drifted nymphs. Essentially, they have acted just like trout and I have fished for them just like trout. In their spawning or mock-spawning behavior, they run up into lake tributaries and become accessible to fly fishers. Most aren’t large, averaging around sixteen inches. They fight, though. Plus the seasonality of their availability makes chasing them a novel pursuit.
Of course, you can chase them in the summer. You just have to troll. Deep. After reaching the middle of the lake I was slowly jigging an orange spoon at the end of a heavy bait casting setup spooled with leadcore line. The line was colored differently every ten yards, and I counted six colors that had gone through the rod tip. That meant I was fishing with 60 yards – 180 feet of line. It seemed like a bit much, until I did the math (moving at 2mph and factoring drag, the lure was only getting down about 45 feet). Using the depth finder, we traced the lines symbolizing underwater ridges. I’d jig the rod gently towards the front of the boat, then allow the drag to sweep it all backwards before repeating.
An hour or so in, the line got heavier. It wasn’t a sharp take or a pulsing tug. The already heavy line just got heavier. Reeling commenced. I’m not sure what the gear ratio on the reel was, but it took quite a few rotations of my hand to get 180 feet back on the spool. A few times I thought the fish had come off. Lake trout-shaped pessimism was present on the boat. Once I hit the last color, I felt like I was actually fighting the fish – not just the line itself. It pulled and ran. Soon enough, the olive back was visible. We netted the fish and swung it aboard the boat.
Immediately the other guys assumed it was a big rainbow. It did have a greenish back, and they had caught a lot of rainbows. But this was not a rainbow. “Boys,” I pronounced, “its a salmon.”
Although not always individualistic, the fly fishing I often engage in involves me standing in a river by myself. I walk where I want, cast where I want, and contend with any challenges I face by myself. The fish I catch are my reward and the fish I don’t catch are my disappointment. On the boat, we were all working for a fish. Even though it was slow – slow trolling, slow jigging, slow fishing – everyone was working simultaneously and together. Some fly fishers, especially in the salt, have an experience very similar to deep trolling. For me, this was the opposite of my usual angling. Deep instead of shallow. Slow instead of fast. Moving instead of stationary. Corporate instead of individual.
There was corporate rejoicing over the boat’s first salmon. At over 22 inches, it was a strong, thick fish. There were photos and high fives and a general sense of relief. The experience might have been the opposite of what I was used to, but it wasn’t bad or wrong by any stretch of the imagination. It was worth trying, and it is worth doing again. Partially for the change of pace from fly fishing. Mostly for the scenery and the teamwork. It was a different kind of challenge, a different kind of fishing, a different kind of fun.