I didn't even know I had this monster, a three-inch perch, on the line.

January 8, 2016 - Friday

31 degrees/snow/calm winds

Pentoga Road

I'm not certain what's falling outside our windows this morning. It's not rain, but hardly falls into the category of snow. Let's just be content to call it glop... a couple inches of wet, sloppy, glop.

I skipped walking early Thursday morning so I might be out on the ice shortly after sunrise. It was slow going at first and took almost an hour to catch my first fish, a teeny perch. 

There are some days that one knows fishing is going to be lousy. Yesterday was one of them. I contented myself by sitting in the dark tent, thinking about the biggest fish I'd ever caught on hook and line.

Page Two

It was six or eight years ago. The day began as most did in Sitka, Alaska. I taught my early class, graded papers, conducted some correspondence, then hurriedly walked to the harbor, climbed aboard my boat, changed clothes, and motored a few miles out of town. 

I was going alone and honestly, other than fishing with Dad or one of my sons, have always preferred it that way. Solitary angling has it's advantages, the biggest presenting an opportunity to fall deep into one's thoughts uninterrupted.

Much like yesterday, I was daydreaming. It was hard not to daydream while fishing on calm seas in a postcard-like setting. Surrounded by snow capped mountains, humpback whales, sea otters, seals, and sea lions, fishing seemed somewhat secondary. 

I was jigging in forty feet of water, quite shallow by Sitka fishing standards, when I felt a bump, then another. I yanked and set the hook then felt something more like a bulldozer than a fish begin to peel the line from my reel.

For a quick moment, the sensation wound the clock back fifty years and reminded me of when I was a young boy, fishing for carp with Dad in the Kishwaukee River in northern Illinois. Another run of several hundred feet served as a reminder that I was battling a creature much bigger than any Midwestern carp. 

There was little doubt it was a large halibut, a fish that had eluded me for several years. I'd caught many smaller ones, "chickens" as they are referred to in Halibut Country, but not the monster I so coveted.

My chances of catching a large fish would have greatly increased using a glob of fish guts strung on a hook, but I was particular. I wanted to catch a  big halibut, a "barn door," using only a small jig attached to lighter-than-normal line. It was about a battle of skill, wits, and endurance, about participating in a contest where the prey was bigger and stronger and had a better than equal chance of winning the battle between fish and fisherman. 

One hour turned into two and soon, four had passed. The fish had pulled the boat over four-hundred feet of water and into fairly rough seas. I would gain several feet and he would regain the same. 

Strange what one thinks of during so long a time. Mostly I thought of Dad and delighted in the knowledge that he was with me, helping me, witnessing the action, in some fashion. I also thought of my four sons, all who grew up around the water and even as very young children, accompanied their dad fishing. I'd have let them join the battle just to say we did it together. It's what dads and sons do.

It took four hours of fighting to get the fish up to the boat and two attempts with a large gaff to finally pull him over the side.

I'd called my friend, Andy, towards the end of the battle and he motored out in a small skiff to serve as cheerleader. Though the boy offered to take over the rod and reel duties, I declined. This would be the biggest fish I'd ever have the opportunity to catch. I wanted to experience it all, sore shoulders, bruised belly, aching hands, and in the end, a victory over a fish that was bigger than me, caught in an equal playing field. 

236 lbs

Page Three

A tug on my ultra-light fishing rod interrupted my revelry on Thursday morning. I set the hook and after a brief struggle, reeled in a small bass, one that was undersized and out of season.



Two small northern were caught on tip ups during the morning hours, but with slow fishing and the need to do some household chores, I packed up the equipment and trudged back to the shore.

Four loads of laundry were done Thursday afternoon, enough to keep us in clean clothes for the foreseeable future. I also made a trip to town to do some banking. With all our millions safely tucked away into the vaults of Wells Fargo, I returned to Pentoga Road.

Sargie was home early last night and we had a wonderful and relaxing evening. The girl closes the Vision Center both tonight and tomorrow night before getting a reprieve on Sunday.

The northerns I caught over the past two days have been packed in snow. I need to clean them this morning and pack the pieces into jars in preparation for canning. 

I hope to spend some of this coming afternoon in the shop, first cleaning, then beginning one of several projects. I also want to make a spread sheet in preparation for searching the many seed catalogues that have poured in this past week. Though little is purchased from any, I enjoy looking at the pictures and reading about the different varieties, dreaming what each vegetable would look like growing in my garden. As a friend of mine once said, "Half the fun of going is getting there."

Dreaming of catching a giant halibut or of growing gargantuan vegetables, it makes no difference.

As we all know, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

I wonder what Ivy's thinking about?