The last time i stepped aboard a 1955 De Havilland turbo Otter float plane i swore they'd have to drag me kicking and screaming back into Canada again. It was late in September many years ago, during the heart of a particularly catastrophic blow that chased us from our floating wilderness resort in a squadron of bush planes, just as the savage eye of yet another late season storm bore down upon us.
I was the last to leave the lodge, having safely evacuated all of the other guests and staff, and as i struggled to climb aboard the plane the pilot and i watched the lodge docks break loose and smash to pieces against the breakers pounding what remained of the once substantial operation. I cursed our poor luck and hoped like hell that we were going to make it back to Prince Rupert alive. Judging by the ashen look on my pilots face, and the fact that he was struggling into his seat belt - bush pilots NEVER wear them - the odds were not looking good.
Normally seaplanes like a nice tranquil surface from which to take off, but peering out from the copilots seat i could locate no such vision of tranquility. Breaking seas and torrential rain howled at us from within the normally serene cove that usually served to protect the floating resort. Not so on this particular day. Expert maneuvering was required to get us airborne and on more than one occasion i thought FOR SURE we were going to ditch as fifty knot winds tossed our little craft about, literally slamming us from every direction of the compass. At one point a particularly savage gust caused us to careen towards the surface of the ocean, i remember watching the altimeter spiral out of control before instinctively shutting my eyes and bracing for impact. I don't scare easily, but during this flight i was chitting my pants.
Thanks to the superhuman ability of my pilot that day we somehow survived the flight home, though we did crash land upon our eventual white-knuckled arrival back in Rupert. Both of us survived, but the old De Havilland sure took a beating as we skittered and jackhammered during the landing before crashing into the dock.
We evacuated the plane as she began to take on water and made it to the relative safety of the float plane base where a small army of wild-eyed guests and staff jumped to the rescue and helped to save the plane before it sank beneath the frigid waves for good.
It was one hell of a flight in a decrepit old bush plane, and the first day of my life that thoughts of Mexico began to seriously take hold.
I naturally thought of this story as SteveD, Matt, and i boarded our 1955 De Havilland turbo Otter from the Flying Beaver float plane base in Vancouver, BC en route to Tofino on Vancouver Island for a few days of salmon and halibut fishing last week. While i didn't share this experience with the boys, opting to keep such harrowing anecdotes to myself for the time being, i couldn't help but wonder if the plane i went down in so many years ago was the very same aircraft that was now sputtering to life and gearing up for the trip to Tofino. There are, after all, only so many of these dinosaurs still flying up there, and i can guarantee you that over the course of fifty or more years of flying history each and every one of these planes has a few stories like those to tell.
What the hell, i thought, no guts, no glory - there's some goddamn epic salmon fishing out there somewhere to be had. The pilot made the sign of the cross, pushed the throttle up, the piston engine roared to life and off we went.
Thankfully, the weather was much better last weekend. More like Mexico than the Canada i remembered anyway. Brilliant blue, cloudless skies and nary a puff of wind. If it weren't for the black bears and bald eagles we could have been flying over the Maldives instead of Vancouver Island. But flying through sheer mountainous fjords we were indeed, compass pinged on Tofino, and the epic salmon bite we'd been hearing about since we put this trip together during the early days of last week.
Sometimes last minute fishing trips don't work out exactly as you'd hastily planned. But thankfully for our crew of motley pirates this was one of those adventures where the stars aligned perfectly, the weather cooperated, and the fish went on the chew in a BIG way.
We arrived in Tofino and quickly checked into my in-laws oceanfront cabin (
http://www.oceandream.ca/ ), grabbed our gear and headed for my buddy Jay's guiding outfit (
http://www.tofinofishing.com/ ), got squared away with our licenses, and hit the water as fast as humanely possible. I can count the days that i've fished salmon and halibut in shorts and flip flops on one hand and this was luckily one of them. Flat calm seas, bright sunshine, and not five minutes into the fishing - chrome bright ocean fresh wild BC salmon leaping astern and peeling line. God bless British Columbia in the summertime!!! I repeat - IN THE SUMMERTIME!!!
The first afternoon went a loooong way to convincing me i should dig my Grady White out of storage and splash her for the summers once again. We caught so many fish i lost count, made beer bongs with the innumerable bull kelp bulbs floating around, and drank strong Canadian beer until the late hour of the day and our growling bellies chased us dock-side once again. It was a PERFECT afternoon in one of the most beautiful locations in the world - when the sun is out.
Later that "night", a loose term in the land of the midnight sun, we feasted on fresh seafood and copious amounts of rum, celebrating our good fortune and the promise of two long days of fishing still to come.
The next two days of fishing provided the kind of diversity and action that drives people to leave Mexico, board shaky, aging flying dinosaurs, and dive head first into the deep Canadian wilderness with reckless abandon. In short - WE SLAYED THEM. What they lacked in gargantuan size they made up for in sheer numbers and diversity of species. If it swam in those arctic northern waters - we caught it! Chinook and coho salmon, halibut, lingcod, cabezon, and a myriad of rockfish species too numerous to list.
Canadian style knuckle busters and ultra-light tackle more suited for panfish made the plethora of feisty species a challenge to say the least. We predominately stuck to trolling for the salmon with Tomic plugs, an old favorite of mine, but SteveD was on fire on more than one occasion with the jigs, tackling some very respectable Chinook on the iron both Saturday and Sunday.
When all was said and done we had well over fifty chinook, a smattering of coho, and too many groundfish to count. We released more than we retained and still wound up with over three hundred pounds of fish to take back to the States with us.
If the phenomenal fishing, all you can eat dungeness crab feasts, superb scenery, and remarkable hospitality wasn't enough, than the life-long memories we created this past weekend between our crew certainly was. Thanks to SteveD and Matt for another epic chapter in a loooooong line of adventures that have taken us from Panama to Mexico, Costa Rica and the good ol' US, and now Canada and Beyond! Muchas, muchas gracias amigos!
Special thanks to Jay at Clayoquot Ventures, Verne and Gisele Bruhwiler, and all of the many fish who nailed our hooks with reckless abandon.
Kudos to my son Kalum who at nine years old took two second place finishes in respective categories in the annual Tofino Skateboard Comp, my daughter Soleille who braved the gnarly mountainous roads with me before this fishing trip took place to get her horse Tango out to the house in Tofino, and my beautiful Catherine whom, above all else, still lets me go fishing.
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Originally Posted by lilharcher
fine effort Bogi 
