Tidal Teeth - By Jim Casey
I told Paul, upon leaving Queen Charlotte Lodge for the first time, “I hope you internalize all the dreams you have helped come true.” We shook hands as our return helicopter came into view. I was leaving with a lifelong dream fulfilled as the next group arrived to chase their own.
I’m a builder and Carpenter by trade, which is why I find myself here every Spring to take a breath before the Summer sprint. There are many things a tape measure can help you find quickly. Most people know a tape can be a kind of crude slide rule when folded in half. It works when your mind won’t. Sometimes that’s after a child kept you up all night, and a concrete truck is on the way. Lately, my tape has helped me see another kind of center. When you pull out a tape to 75 inches and mark where you are today, a lifetime feels more finite.
In my childhood bedroom, I had a chart of the Inside Passage. My teenage mind was captivated by the land, adventure, and fish. I grew up just south of Vancouver, B.C., where Canadian radio came in clear.
My town, like so many on the West Coast, was the self-proclaimed “salmon capital of the world” and hopeful endpoint of the continental railroad. Coming from this place, it was my wish to find my way to the storied waters I read about. I wanted to know something of Roderick Hagg-Brown's beloved Campbell River. I wanted to test myself against the formidable tides of Cape Mudge. I wanted to see Nootka Sound, the place where Captain Cook harvested timber to refit his boats. The most far-out dream I could dream was to be here, in Haida Gwaii. Peering out the helicopter on the ride in, I started to wonder if one of these windswept beaches could be where the manhunt for Grant Hawin, chronicled in my favorite book, The Golden Spruce, began.
On the surface, a fishing trip is a recreation. But as anglers, it is our desire to know something deeper about our friends and the landscapes that inspire us. Something about the pace of trolling- the hum of the gear gives people a new perspective of time. Walk the beaches for very long, and you will find evidence. Growing up, my dad would tell me to keep a sharp eye out for “tidal teeth.” These, he explained, holding out a hand, are “the remains of a hundred-foot tree that now fits into the palm of your hand.” Decades of grinding across barnacle beaches on each tide change gnaw entire trees down to an essential memory that we can hold and pass on. When I think about fishing now, that's what I'm here to collect and share. I can’t remember every fish I caught, but I know how fishing made me feel.
The first day of our first trip to QCL is one of many precious “tidal teeth” that stand out in a lifetime of angling. It was an extraordinary collection of days when we woke with the morning tide, following swarming birds and intuition. Lael and I had been friends for some time, but had not done much saltwater salmon fishing together. We were usually Spey casting for steelhead and hanging out in campers, being consumed by the rainforest. Fishing First Class was foreign to us. As we settled into the fishing grounds and our boat, Lael could sense something was different about me in this space. Before his fishing career took shape, Lael worked as a Surgical Technician. His job was to anticipate the needs of some of the best surgeons in the world. I could tell his mind was churning as he studied my movements. I picked up a big, bright herring from the cooler and started preparing it the way a salty Nootka Sound lodge owner had shown me 20 years ago. “So you dock the tail fin at the top, so it will spin easily even when you are running down current. Make the miter steep and long if you want a wide roll, and take the angle off in both directions to tighten.”
Lael and I have rattled sabers and pushed each other to be better anglers for years, but he could see what I was about to confess in a Princess Bride kind of moment. “I’m not left-handed.” The rod doubled over, and I sprang into action. “I think this is a better fish, Lael.” The question was answered quickly. Moments later, the Chinook came crashing to the surface, showing a large silhouette with a tail fin projecting from the water. We each locked in on the task at hand. I kept two hands high on the cork as the fish pulled drag. Lael cleared gear and kept the fish off the back corner of the boat. The guide boats around us could tell something special was happening, and they gave us the stage. I had zero hesitation as I worked the fish toward the starboard gunwale. Watching Lael net a fish is like Denis Rodman rebounding. He puts everything into it. I just know that if he can’t make the grab, there isn't a person alive who would.
I've caught three Tyee in my life. One in Neah Bay, one in Campbell River, and one at QCL. Still, the size of a thirty-pound fish is striking. The depth and proportions inspire awe. Although thirty pounds isn’t uncommon in these waters, years ago I promised myself that if I ever caught another, I’d release it. I’m not naive to nature, and I’m not here to lecture anybody who chooses otherwise. A seal could have grabbed my fish the moment it kicked off, making my act of hope irrelevant. The released fish could have made it to a river where one-hundred-year floods scraped the spawning bed of every egg. Contradictions and absurdities are everywhere you look, but a Cowboy sticks to the code. You don’t count cash in a found wallet, or a man starts getting ideas about how well they would spend the money and how badly the other guy might have. Years ago, I returned a particularly fat wallet in King Salmon, Alaska. The relieved deckhand gave me a handsome finder's fee. Enough money to eat a steak dinner with my fishing buddy and ring the bell at the local bar. Incidentally, that was the future awaiting Lael and me as we pulled up our gear and made the magical run back to the Bell Ringer.
I’ve done so many DIY fishing trips over the years, only to find that what awaits me back at camp is a swarm of mosquitoes and two hours of packing fish on a tailgate. To be here is something entirely different. We are greeted by an attentive dock crew standing by. They have a hot towel to clean up before we step off the boat and back into civilization. Clipboard in hand, they start taking down requests for what the boat and tackle box need to make tomorrow, based on today's success.
Standing in the bell ringer, two seasoned guides approach, offering congratulations.
“We saw you at Green Point, that looked like a thick fish.” Says one
“ Yea, what did it tape out at?”
Says the other.
I have to admit, this was the first day in a year I didn’t have a tape measure on me, but I didn’t need it.
I pass around my phone, and with cracked hands, the guides take turns zooming in on the fish as if trying to identify rare art or a counterfeit bill. They leave smudges and scales on the screen. One guide looks closely at the fish's wrist and then examines my hands.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go ring the bell.”
I clanked the bell three times for all to hear. Sure, we were “self-guided.” I enjoyed our moment in the sun, but it was more like leaving a sushi restaurant where the staff posted, “Ring the bell if you had good service.” We stood on the shoulders of everybody who cares for the lodge. I wanted to make sure everyone could hear it.
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