The storm finally breaks, leaving the lake in silence. Low clouds cling to the steep mountainsides, as if pinned to the cliffs by the lonely pines. I paddle out on the glassy water with Jesse Coble and Chris Jones to target salmon migrating to their spawning grounds in the Stehekin River.
Most salmon hunters in these parts use power boats, making it easier to downrig the heavy weights needed to reach deep holding fish. The trick isn’t so easy from kayaks, especially models without rotors or pedal drive. But sometimes you just have to use what you got.
The silence is vast under the darkening storm clouds here at the sharp end of the twisted dagger that is Lake Chelan. We are thankful we picked this area deep in the heart of the North Cascades to hone our skills. The nearest boat launch is 30 miles away and we literally have the whole lake to ourselves.
Often said to resemble a Norwegian fjord, mountains climb both sides of the lake, clad in a mosaic of evergreens and fire-blackened forest. Fifty miles long and the third deepest lake in North America, Chelan’s crystal clear waters are host to myriad of fish species, including landlocked sockeye salmon known locally as Kokanee. Stocking programs release approximately 100,000 Cutthroat and 500,000 Kokanee fingerlings per year. The largest species of fish found in Lake Chelan are Chinook (king) salmon and lake trout (Mackinaw).
“Marking fish at 35 feet,” Jesse announces as he bends over his new Lowrance sonar. While Jesse is content to target Kokanee, he really came here for the Mackinaw. Both Jesse and Chris, an employee with the Washington State Fish and Wildlife Service, are experienced fly fisherman. They’re experts at teasing trout and elusive steelhead from their local streams with hand tied flies, but on Chelan they’re out of their depth. Literally. Mackinaw swim anywhere from 20 to 200 feet. We all know there is going to be some trial and error.
Chris draws first blood, bringing two jacks to his NuCanoe Frontier in quick succession. It’s a positive omen. Chris slides the young salmon back into the black water. With night quickly following retire to a dinner of pasta and cold beer. The bigger fish will have to wait.
Dawn rises to find us already trolling lines. The recent storm lingers in overhead clouds that break themselves apart on the mountain peaks, throwing rays of sunlight onto the blue water. We make slow, long circles around the base of the cliff south of our camp at Weaver Point. Jesse‘s friend Casey Cooper of Free Drifter Flies was kind enough to hook us up with a choice selection of lures, flies and tackle. We find that the preferred rig is a 4 to 8 ounce banana weight above a dodger and a wedding ring – a lot to spool out without a tangle. There’s a technique to it: paddle hard, get some speed up, keep paddling as you release the rig.
Chris’s voice echoes across the lake, “Got one!” He’s hauling on something big, and by the time I arrive he has the fish to the boat. I am impressed by both the Kokanee’s size and the jagged teeth set into the long jaw. Jesse is a distance away, still fuming after breaking off on a fighter. By now they have learned to set the hook with a couple strong paddle strokes instead of reaching for the rod.
We take some distraction later by cruising beneath the cliff sides, examining pictographs drawn on the granite by the lake’s native Chelan peoples. Thankfully, Jesse nets a couple jacks that afternoon. Any remnants of the storm from the day before are gone as a warm August wind blows down the mountain valley. Chris is all smiles later as we rig rods on the bank and prepare our craft for the next day. “My kids would love it up here,” he says, gazing past the towering pines. “The stars will be out in force tonight.”
Sunrise yields clearer skies and a promise of a hot day. I paddle drowsily, munching an energy bar. I’m still chewing when I hear Jesse’s excited curse and paddle splash. As I cruise over he he proudly displays a stout Kokanee for my camera. “I mounted a second set up to offset the pole of dragging a single downrigger,” he confesses.
It has been great to see Jesse‘s growth into the sport, from his flyfishing origins, to this unprecedented access the kayak gives him. “It’s freedom!” he says. “Just slide it down from the road to the water, no gas to buy and no big trailer. And I’m right where I want to be on the water.”
As the temps continue to rise, we decide to head back to camp to prepare our flyfishing equipment to target trout in the shallows. A slight breeze is moving the pines overhead as an aerial buzz fills the air. A bright orange float plane coasts into the docks across the bay at Stehekin. Accessible only by trail, boat or plane this isolated community stands against the flow of time with their off grid living, community gardens and log cabin schoolhouse. Stehekin also serves as one of the gateways into the North Cascades National Park. Hundreds of backpackers and tourists arrive by float plane or boat each week. The Lake Chelan Boat Company, also known as the Lady of the Lake, offers year-long ferry services to Stehekin and other points on the lake.
We chose to fish here not only for the scenic beauty, but also to escape the hordes of salmon fisherman crowding the mouths of all the major rivers flowing from the Cascades east into the Columbia River, the salmon superhighway of Washington state. Getting our kayaks this far up the lake wasn’t easy or cheap. Passage for the three of us and our boats was $400 on the ferry. Was it worth it? I’m thinking so. Our kayaks are still the only paddlecraft on the water. We see a few powerboats here and there, but it’s quite the commitment to motor up the length of Lake Chelan, so that keeps the numbers down.
Jesse paddles his Old Town Predator to the far bank and sets up shop on a small rock. He finally coaxes a fish to take a fly in less than 20 feet of water in the midday sun. There’s no one around to hear his whoops of joy.
That afternoon we head to the mouth of the Stehekin River; the boys are keen to stick with their fly rods. The water changes from clear to glacial white as we attain up the river. With the sun dropping slowly over the mountains, we pull against the current. Twenty minutes later we beach our boats on a gravel bar and send flies whipping over the gentle torrent. Bam! Chris’s rod bends as a trout leaps from the Stehekin River. It takes several minutes to revive the tuckered-out fish. “They don’t have a lot of energy to fight in this cold water,” he explains.
Darkness creeps in around our little camp. Oil sizzles in the skillet as Chris turns chunks of fish. Later, with our bellies full, Jesse and Chris debate the nuances of kayak fishing for salmon while my eyes drift the stars crowding the skies overhead. Being outdoors brings a certain catharsis to life; a suspension of the busy world in which we can escape into another, more natural environment bound by the long arc of the summer sun. I feel tired yet content as I crawl into my sleeping bag. But first I kill the 20 or so mosquitoes trapped inside my tent. Catharsis indeed.
Photos and story by Aaron Black-Schmidt
