The taking of a fresh run salmon

Some years ago, as part of an Open University introductory exercise, I wrote an account of what it was like to catch a large salmon. The exercise was set to enable my tutor to assess my writing ability. His comment was "You can write a story, but I'm no fisherman." It also convinced him that my writing was not academic.

That piece of work is not available and I feel that my stories which I hope are still not academic, and which are largely memories, would not be complete without a record of the taking of one of the very big fish that I was fortunate enough to catch. It is written in the hope that even non-fishermen will find it readable. Fishermen will know all about the emotions I shall try to describe.

The events that are detailed here took place some years ago when I had become fairly efficient at using the technique of worming, but had only once previously landed a fish of twenty pounds or more. This occasion was on a dull, overcast day in May. The water was higher than normal for the time of year, but was dropping. It was coloured, but when wading up to knee level my boots were just visible.

I was fishing a stretch of water on the River Teme known as "The Slabs". It consists of about one hundred yards of flatfish rock stretching almost from bank to bank, but leaving a much deeper channel on the western side where the main current flows. The best technique for fishing this stretch is to stand on the rock slab in comparatively shallow water and cast slightly upstream into the current flowing past. This has the effect of letting the worms sink and as they go past, line is paid out so that the bait goes running down, just off the bottom, at the speed of the current. Should there be a fish there, it would, one hopes, grab the worms thus halting the progress of the line downstream. This had happened once or twice but I thought it was some minor snag stopping the easy flow down the river. The worms had soon resumed their progress and nothing else had happened.

I decided to go off and try another spot, but later came back for a final cast or two down the original stretch of water. The worms stopped again the first time down, and I stood and waited hopefully. Then I felt the very characteristic slight twitching of the line and was sure it was a fish. At this stage (which can take several minutes) optimism and disbelief compete alternately and wishful thinking can easily override common sense. However, in this case I was very confident. The twitches continued interspersed by seemingly interminable periods of total inactivity. Slowly they got very much more positive and finally there was an enormous tug. Had I not been ready my rod would have been pulled from my grasp. After another few seconds there was another huge tug and then all hell broke loose. The fish jumped, but only just above the water. There was great upheaval with water splashing everywhere; the only certain thing was that the fish had set off downstream very fast indeed. My reel was making a noise I had never heard quite so loud before. The expression "screaming reel" is quite correct and the strain on its mechanism, on the rod and other tackle is enormous.

Immediately thoughts went to the knots, the age of the line, the condition of the hook and disbelief that a rod could bend so far and not break. All this flashed through my mind in a fraction of a second and in the meantime the fish had slowed. It was about thirty yards below me and I tried tentatively to exert some pressure to wind line back on to the reel. I might just as well have tried to shift part of the rock slab for all the effect I produced. The fish then made an enormous leap. It came high out of the water and I saw for the first time that I had hooked a monster. A leap was the most dangerous move the fish could make since the sudden strain on the line as a fish crashes back into the water has broken many lines with a higher breaking strain than the ten pound ones that I use.

The danger of a leap is countered by letting the line go slack at the crucial moment and very quickly reimposing the pressure as soon as the fish is water-borne again. Luckily they do not have the strength to do much leaping, especially the very big ones, but when they do they step up the angler's pulse rate rather alarmingly. This fish did one more leap and then rested for a moment or two, much to my relief.

This was the chance to readjust my stance, check equipment so far as possible, and make sure the gaff was ready to hand for when the time came to land the fish. A gaff is no longer allowed but in those days I always used one rather than a net. I believe it to be a quicker and more humane method of landing a fish because it can be killed in seconds once it is out of the water.

My fish was showing signs of coming to life again. If it ran further away from me there would be the likelihood that the line proper would all be used up and the backing which was rather older would come into play. I could already see the backing line through the coils on the reel. Fortunately the fish decided to run back to its original pool. When a fish runs towards the fisherman the great danger is in not being able to wind in fast enough, leaving slack line trailing in the water. It is all too easy to get the line round a rock or a tree stump which would bring the battle to an ignominious end. However my winding speed and the efficiency of the reel were just about up to the job. The fish swam very fast upstream past me with the line reasonably tight as it went. It then began to circle the pool just in front of me starting with circles of wide diameter and swimming past quite close each time round. I could still not see the fish because the water was too coloured and it was keeping deep. However, it was a reasonably satisfactory situation as I could keep sufficient pressure to tire it and wait for its next move.

By this time I had been playing the fish for about fifteen minutes, although it felt like an hour. It was showing no sign of tiring and any attempt to get it nearer was quite useless. After a few minutes of circling the fish started head shaking. This feels like the end of everything, although in fact I have never lost one to that tactic. In this case the fish went deep almost opposite me and seemed to be standing on its head on the bottom violently shaking its head. The effect on the hands and on the rod was extraordinary. The rod shook up and down and from side to side. It was like holding a pneumatic drill, and lasted long enough for my hands and arms to feel thoroughly battered. Luckily the fish could not keep it up for long and it was soon back to circling.

By now I had been playing the fish for half an hour and while it was all going on I had been working my way gradually back to the bank. I did finally step out of the water to the greater safety of the grass-covered bank. It is not always possible to net or gaff a fish from the bank but it is always better and safer if it can be achieved. Keeping a large fish on the gaff, even for a few steps backward is a tricky operation. Nowadays a net is obligatory and once the fish is inside it, it is slightly safer but a twenty pounder can all too easily leap out even from a big salmon net.

Mercifully I now had my feet firmly on the grass bank The water was about a foot below the point where I was standing and the fish was still circling with occasional stronger pulls upstream. I now noticed that the circles were getting smaller, only slightly so, but enough to raise hopes that the battle was turning my way. This thought had no sooner occurred to me, than the fish decided to show that there was a long way to go yet. It took off again downstream almost as fast as during its initial run. It went just about as far but not quite so fast. When I tried to get some line back on the reel I did manage a turn or two of the handle but I felt it was tempting fate by adding to the strain on the tackle. It seemed best to wait and just take in a yard or two when possible. This is achieved by using the technique of pumping. With the rod held steady the fish is carefully pulled a yard or two nearer. The line gained is wound on the reel by lowering the rod and keeping up the tension as the line is taken in. By this process the fisherman keeps as much control as possible, never letting the line go slack. With a very large fish only just beginning to tire a few pumps is the most that can be achieved at one time. The fish usually pulls those yards out again but it has lost a little of its energy.

After pumping and loosing for some time I became conscious of a greater gain on each occasion and finally I had the fish back in front of me. Although it had taken about three-quarters of an hour to reach this stage and I was feeling rather tired, (so was the fish) everything began to happen faster. The fish struggled to get into the highly oxygenated water in the main current on the far side. I had to let it go at first but was soon able to pull it back from a few yards downstream, and it settled again in the pool opposite to my stand. I then noticed that from time to time it turned on its side. That point in playing a fish does mark the beginning of the end. However, until the fish is on the grass it is one of the most dangerous periods. It is altogether too easy to underestimate the enormous power still available to it.

Now came the most testing time of all. To make the judgement that the time has come to bring the fish to gaff or net is not easy. If it becomes clear that a mistake has been made it is usually possible to persuade the fish to make another circle, but obviously every extra second that it remains in the water is a risk. It can always escape while in the water, but not when on the bank. Once committed to landing, a fierce pull with the gaff would drive it into the fish and with the same movement lift it onto the bank behind and away from the water. Then a bang on the head with a priest and all would be over.

I made the decision and all went well. The gaff went in neatly below the dorsal fin. The only difficulty arose because I had underestimated the additional weight of the fish when lifted out of the water. I needed two hands and had to drop the rod but as the fish was now held by the gaff it was not a serious situation. I heaved it with both hands onto the grass behind me but then, as is often the case, it came to life in a very violent way. I forced one hand through its gills and held it up so that its violent thrashing only disturbed the air and could not propel it towards the water. As soon as it was still, one solid blow with the priest and it lay quietly on the grass at my feet. It weighed twenty two pounds and was as fresh-run a salmon as can ever be on our water. A beautiful silvery-blue colour with the stubs of sea lice still present behind the gill covers. It had taken just over an hour from the first moment I felt its interest in the worms to when it lay at my feet.

The fish was dead, but I felt if I did not lie down immediately I would be too. I lay beside it for about ten minutes, keeping one hand on my fish, of course, just in case.

The next problem was how to get it back to the car. To carry twenty two pounds of fish together with my rod and other equipment was not easy in my worn out condition. I managed it with several rests on the way, hoping to meet some other club members for help and, of course, to admire my beautiful fish.

It is always quite astonishing how quickly word gets round, and later several people turned up to view the monster lying in state on the kitchen table. After it had spent the night being turned every three or four hours to distribute evenly the important juices throughout the flesh I cut it up into several two-pound steaks. It was enough to supply my family and all those who had admired it. I really cannot wait to take another one when the law allows me to do so.

Dennis Woodcock 

Tedney April 2000