11-10-2009, 10:02 PM
Millions of stars promised a beautiful fall day when the dawn would break hours ahead of us. The trucks headlights cut through the inky blackness, vigilant for cattle on the road.
Finally the dawn as we approached Hanksville. On we sped filled with anticipation. Just ahead, the Glen Canyon. The rocks turn a thousand shades of crimson. Blood red like cinnabar, the ore of mercury. A small stream, a frail reminder of ten million years of torrents that dug the deep canyon, meandered along the road. Cottonwood and willows had begun to shed their leaves leaving a carpet of gold along the bank for the mule deer and coyotes.
Then suddenly...Hite, where the
Colorado River surrenders to the dam 150 mile south and becomes Lake Powell. That first view is so beautiful it begs a new language...something capable of better description.
With the receding waters, the marina and most everything else is gone, save a unmanned fuel stop to provides gasoline and diesel to the traveler and boater alike. Everything else has been dismantled and moved away
We launched without incident. The waters are off color here where the Dirty Devil and the Colorado Rivers pour in thousands of tons of nutrient rich soil. The water is cooler at Hite and all life on the lake prospers. The small nutrients attract millions, perhaps billions of small shad which feed the food chain. Stripe bass, walleye, largemouth, smallmouths, crappie and other fish thrive on the shad.
We aspire for the grand slam of all five specie, but it is the pelagic heavy weights, the abundant stripe bass, that have brought us here. So prolific are they that there is no limit on the stripers. To many anglers these are the prize game fish, but there is so much feed for them now that they can be difficult to catch. We think that we can unravel the mystery of their behavior. Luck is skilled planning well executed and we are prepared.
The boat turns down river and we begin to troll moving south past sheer cliffs colored blood red that stand sentry over the lake. Satellites far above us feed the onboard gps data and we can control our speed exactly while the sonar searches below us for the echoes that represent fish. The screen turns nearly black with huge schools of shad. Below and above them are larger arches representing much bigger fish.
Deep diving plugs run two hundred feet behind us. At 3.5 knots we are trolling faster than we would for any other specie of fresh water game fish. The stripers are not feeding, they stay close to their prey until it is time to feed, but that time is not now and the fast moving lures represent, perhaps, a meal trying to escape.
We had hardly achieved the speed we thought necessary when an outside rod went off. The medium heavy graphite rod trailing 14 pound super braid bent deeply with the savagery of the strike. With four lines out, each working a different lure at a different depth, we could ill afford to stop the motor to fight the fish. The tangled lines would be a nightmare.
*
We continued on as the trolling reel’s drag protested at the forces of the fighting fish and the fast moving boat. Every face on boat broke into
. This is what we had come for.
With four and often five lines out, two long amidship in rod holders, two astern on the gunnels and one center above the big motor, we could fish at various depths with different lures of different hues until we could find the right and deadly combination. The first fish, a 3 1/2 pound striper came from twenty foot down in thirty eight feet of water in the main channel. As long as the trolling path is relatively straight there would be no tangling of lines, but often as a hooked big striper approached the boat it would exert its own will and cross all of the lines causing a frantic chaos.
The morning passed with striper after striper going into the live well. At the mouth of Farley Canyon we brought the lines in and stopped as we quandered over our next move. Ahead lie Striper City, legendary for its structure holding vast schools of striped bass. It is unmarked on the maps but we knew it location. We were in fish right where we were at so we turned back towards to Hite. With each fish a waypoint was entered on the gps and soon the map was littered with waypoint icons.
The VHF radio beseeched a response from another angler seeking a fishing report. We gave it willingly thinking they might not have been as successful as were were, but that was not the case. In addition to a boat full of stripers they had caught walleye, smallmouths and a beautiful 4 1/2 pound largemouth. When we finally sighted their boat, they came alongside to compare notes. We admired the big largemouth.
*
Included in the information they provided us was a description of a giant boil they fished the evening before. I thought they described the location as along the north wall at Hite. Since there is no north wall at Hite I was a little
, but shrugged it off believing if there was a boil anywhere near Hite we could see it. Around 4:30 we were back near the launch ramp with a boat full of fish. We scanned the water until it was almost dark without seeing anything resembling a boil. Only the diving of feeding grebes broke the surface of the water.
We filleted the fish by headlights and ended a long successful day.
It was shortly after 8 AM when we launched Sunday morning. We were satisfied with the knowledge that if we didn’t catch a single fish on our last day it had been a great trip with all of us catching many fish and each had big bags of delicious striper fillets to return home with. A chance encounter with another angler as we were launching informed us that there had been huge boils every evening for a week directly around Hite, but that the marauding schools of stripers had moved into North Wash directly across from the ramp. That explained why we hadn’t seen it the evening before, it was going on inside of the big wash. We would be prepared tonight
We decided to take a look inside of North Wash to see what we would be up against that evening. We dropped the lines in and started trolling. Almost immediately we started catching fish. A dozen or more fish were caught and then we decided to go into Farley in pursuit of somewhat less rambunctious specie.
We pulled up the fines and sped up the lake. Just before we reached Farley Canyon the alarm went off on my outboard. From the best we could ascertain I had blown an impeller and the motor was heating up. We decided rather than chance burning up the outboard we would go back the mile or so with the electric trolling motor, Casting along the bank as we went. It wasn’t exactly what we planned, but it was fishing.
The steep canyon walls were directly along side. We were twenty or so feet from the wall casting rapala’s, spinner baits and jigs dressed with plastic or gulp minnows. It didn’t take long to realize that working slowly along and casting lures to the scattered structure was going to pay off. We started catching walleye and crappie then a stripper then a smallmouth. It was great. If we had planned it it couldn’t be any better. The area around the south launch ramp contained numerous stripers that we added to the live well.*
The big motor hadn’t been used for several hours and the electric trolling motor’s batteries were getting weak. It was now 4:00PM and North Wash was only a short cruise across the bay. Should we go there in search of the evening boil or play it safe and not use the ailing motor? We decided to travel the 500 yards slowly and stop the motor if it set off the heat alarm.
As soon as we got into the bay we could see the stripers boiling all around the islands in the back. Trolling rods were stowed and we moved in with what little bit of power we had on the electric motor as not to spook the fish. The others started casting with Zara spooks, Rapala shad raps and rattle traps. They were slamming fish and I couldn’t even get a line out. I stood there in total amazement watching the whole bay come alive.
There were big fish slashing the bait fish everywhere. If it weren’t for the hollering of the guys in the boat as they fought fish, screaming, “fish on! No its a double! I’ve got one on too! Oh my God, it’s a triple! “ The sounds of frenzied predators destroying shad on the surface could have been heard blocks away! I was dumbfounded. The surface lures would hit the water and a small tsunami would erupt around it as the fish would attack the lure. If it missed it, the fish would keep coming as the lure was retrieved across the surface. It was absolute chaos as hundred and hundreds of apparently ravaged fish gorged themselves.
It lasted over an hour. Other boats had joined us in the big bay and all were enjoying the bounty. Then in the failing light of day .......it was over. The big live well was completely full. On the console were a half dozen lures totally destroyed. Hooks were bent and ripped from the split rings, the wire inside of some of the lures were ripped completely free of the plastic. One rod had only the bill of the lure attached to the line, the rest of the lure was gone embedded in the maw of a fish.
All of us were quiet as we returned to the ramp. I contemplated what I had just witnessed silently. My hands were raw from spiny fins, toothy mouths and hooks embedded in fingers and thumbs.
I had seen and fished boils before in the vast pacific off Mexico and Hawaii, but this was different. In the ocean there is only sky and water where the big sailfish and tuna corral the schools of sardinis. Here amongst the grandeur of the canyons the spectacle is as foreign as a rock band in a cathedral. It is in its own way a cathedral with Sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the lake are as beautiful as any fresco or stained glass.
I thought about the lake and the tremendous work that the Utah Dept. of Wildlife Resources chief aquatics biologist, Wayne Gustaveson and his crew had undertaken over two decades. Their efforts and vision turned Lake Powell’s fishery into what it today. His informative web site allows anglers from across the continent to gather together to share experiences and draw from a wealth of information. It is an extraordinary time to be alive.
The violence that racks Mexico, will perhaps, prevent me from ever fishing her coastal waters again. Before this evening it
dened me. It was like some part of me was gone. This weekend I realized that I had found something new. A place unique, filled with spectacular vistas and extraordinary fishing. Although I had been here many times,
this weekend I had really seen her for what she is, perhaps the greatest freshwater fishing water on earth. *
[signature]
Finally the dawn as we approached Hanksville. On we sped filled with anticipation. Just ahead, the Glen Canyon. The rocks turn a thousand shades of crimson. Blood red like cinnabar, the ore of mercury. A small stream, a frail reminder of ten million years of torrents that dug the deep canyon, meandered along the road. Cottonwood and willows had begun to shed their leaves leaving a carpet of gold along the bank for the mule deer and coyotes.
Then suddenly...Hite, where the
Colorado River surrenders to the dam 150 mile south and becomes Lake Powell. That first view is so beautiful it begs a new language...something capable of better description.With the receding waters, the marina and most everything else is gone, save a unmanned fuel stop to provides gasoline and diesel to the traveler and boater alike. Everything else has been dismantled and moved away
We launched without incident. The waters are off color here where the Dirty Devil and the Colorado Rivers pour in thousands of tons of nutrient rich soil. The water is cooler at Hite and all life on the lake prospers. The small nutrients attract millions, perhaps billions of small shad which feed the food chain. Stripe bass, walleye, largemouth, smallmouths, crappie and other fish thrive on the shad.
We aspire for the grand slam of all five specie, but it is the pelagic heavy weights, the abundant stripe bass, that have brought us here. So prolific are they that there is no limit on the stripers. To many anglers these are the prize game fish, but there is so much feed for them now that they can be difficult to catch. We think that we can unravel the mystery of their behavior. Luck is skilled planning well executed and we are prepared.
The boat turns down river and we begin to troll moving south past sheer cliffs colored blood red that stand sentry over the lake. Satellites far above us feed the onboard gps data and we can control our speed exactly while the sonar searches below us for the echoes that represent fish. The screen turns nearly black with huge schools of shad. Below and above them are larger arches representing much bigger fish.
Deep diving plugs run two hundred feet behind us. At 3.5 knots we are trolling faster than we would for any other specie of fresh water game fish. The stripers are not feeding, they stay close to their prey until it is time to feed, but that time is not now and the fast moving lures represent, perhaps, a meal trying to escape.
We had hardly achieved the speed we thought necessary when an outside rod went off. The medium heavy graphite rod trailing 14 pound super braid bent deeply with the savagery of the strike. With four lines out, each working a different lure at a different depth, we could ill afford to stop the motor to fight the fish. The tangled lines would be a nightmare.
*
We continued on as the trolling reel’s drag protested at the forces of the fighting fish and the fast moving boat. Every face on boat broke into
. This is what we had come for.With four and often five lines out, two long amidship in rod holders, two astern on the gunnels and one center above the big motor, we could fish at various depths with different lures of different hues until we could find the right and deadly combination. The first fish, a 3 1/2 pound striper came from twenty foot down in thirty eight feet of water in the main channel. As long as the trolling path is relatively straight there would be no tangling of lines, but often as a hooked big striper approached the boat it would exert its own will and cross all of the lines causing a frantic chaos.
The morning passed with striper after striper going into the live well. At the mouth of Farley Canyon we brought the lines in and stopped as we quandered over our next move. Ahead lie Striper City, legendary for its structure holding vast schools of striped bass. It is unmarked on the maps but we knew it location. We were in fish right where we were at so we turned back towards to Hite. With each fish a waypoint was entered on the gps and soon the map was littered with waypoint icons.
The VHF radio beseeched a response from another angler seeking a fishing report. We gave it willingly thinking they might not have been as successful as were were, but that was not the case. In addition to a boat full of stripers they had caught walleye, smallmouths and a beautiful 4 1/2 pound largemouth. When we finally sighted their boat, they came alongside to compare notes. We admired the big largemouth.
*
Included in the information they provided us was a description of a giant boil they fished the evening before. I thought they described the location as along the north wall at Hite. Since there is no north wall at Hite I was a little
, but shrugged it off believing if there was a boil anywhere near Hite we could see it. Around 4:30 we were back near the launch ramp with a boat full of fish. We scanned the water until it was almost dark without seeing anything resembling a boil. Only the diving of feeding grebes broke the surface of the water.We filleted the fish by headlights and ended a long successful day.
It was shortly after 8 AM when we launched Sunday morning. We were satisfied with the knowledge that if we didn’t catch a single fish on our last day it had been a great trip with all of us catching many fish and each had big bags of delicious striper fillets to return home with. A chance encounter with another angler as we were launching informed us that there had been huge boils every evening for a week directly around Hite, but that the marauding schools of stripers had moved into North Wash directly across from the ramp. That explained why we hadn’t seen it the evening before, it was going on inside of the big wash. We would be prepared tonight
We decided to take a look inside of North Wash to see what we would be up against that evening. We dropped the lines in and started trolling. Almost immediately we started catching fish. A dozen or more fish were caught and then we decided to go into Farley in pursuit of somewhat less rambunctious specie.
We pulled up the fines and sped up the lake. Just before we reached Farley Canyon the alarm went off on my outboard. From the best we could ascertain I had blown an impeller and the motor was heating up. We decided rather than chance burning up the outboard we would go back the mile or so with the electric trolling motor, Casting along the bank as we went. It wasn’t exactly what we planned, but it was fishing.
The steep canyon walls were directly along side. We were twenty or so feet from the wall casting rapala’s, spinner baits and jigs dressed with plastic or gulp minnows. It didn’t take long to realize that working slowly along and casting lures to the scattered structure was going to pay off. We started catching walleye and crappie then a stripper then a smallmouth. It was great. If we had planned it it couldn’t be any better. The area around the south launch ramp contained numerous stripers that we added to the live well.*
The big motor hadn’t been used for several hours and the electric trolling motor’s batteries were getting weak. It was now 4:00PM and North Wash was only a short cruise across the bay. Should we go there in search of the evening boil or play it safe and not use the ailing motor? We decided to travel the 500 yards slowly and stop the motor if it set off the heat alarm.
As soon as we got into the bay we could see the stripers boiling all around the islands in the back. Trolling rods were stowed and we moved in with what little bit of power we had on the electric motor as not to spook the fish. The others started casting with Zara spooks, Rapala shad raps and rattle traps. They were slamming fish and I couldn’t even get a line out. I stood there in total amazement watching the whole bay come alive.
There were big fish slashing the bait fish everywhere. If it weren’t for the hollering of the guys in the boat as they fought fish, screaming, “fish on! No its a double! I’ve got one on too! Oh my God, it’s a triple! “ The sounds of frenzied predators destroying shad on the surface could have been heard blocks away! I was dumbfounded. The surface lures would hit the water and a small tsunami would erupt around it as the fish would attack the lure. If it missed it, the fish would keep coming as the lure was retrieved across the surface. It was absolute chaos as hundred and hundreds of apparently ravaged fish gorged themselves.
It lasted over an hour. Other boats had joined us in the big bay and all were enjoying the bounty. Then in the failing light of day .......it was over. The big live well was completely full. On the console were a half dozen lures totally destroyed. Hooks were bent and ripped from the split rings, the wire inside of some of the lures were ripped completely free of the plastic. One rod had only the bill of the lure attached to the line, the rest of the lure was gone embedded in the maw of a fish.
All of us were quiet as we returned to the ramp. I contemplated what I had just witnessed silently. My hands were raw from spiny fins, toothy mouths and hooks embedded in fingers and thumbs.
I had seen and fished boils before in the vast pacific off Mexico and Hawaii, but this was different. In the ocean there is only sky and water where the big sailfish and tuna corral the schools of sardinis. Here amongst the grandeur of the canyons the spectacle is as foreign as a rock band in a cathedral. It is in its own way a cathedral with Sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the lake are as beautiful as any fresco or stained glass.
I thought about the lake and the tremendous work that the Utah Dept. of Wildlife Resources chief aquatics biologist, Wayne Gustaveson and his crew had undertaken over two decades. Their efforts and vision turned Lake Powell’s fishery into what it today. His informative web site allows anglers from across the continent to gather together to share experiences and draw from a wealth of information. It is an extraordinary time to be alive.
The violence that racks Mexico, will perhaps, prevent me from ever fishing her coastal waters again. Before this evening it
dened me. It was like some part of me was gone. This weekend I realized that I had found something new. A place unique, filled with spectacular vistas and extraordinary fishing. Although I had been here many times,this weekend I had really seen her for what she is, perhaps the greatest freshwater fishing water on earth. *
[signature]