boat

Walleyes Gone Wild: A Field & Stream Adventure

fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 05:10:00 -0400

I catch the first fish at Deadwood Portage. It's a nice 3-pounder that takes a curly-tailed jig bounced through a short, rocky rapid. The walleye flashes its signature gold-green flanks. Dinner fish, I think and thread it on a blue nylon stringer: metal tip through the bottom of the lip, then through the O-ring to snug it down. For just a moment I wonder about the satisfying act of putting a fish on a stringer. How many times have I done this without a single second of reflection about how fortunate I am to be able to catch, clean, cook, and eat my own fish? I slip the stringer into the water and the introspection goes down with it.

From here we have 4 more miles of river to paddle, another portage, and a stiff Class II rapid to run with fully loaded canoes. Already we've come far: Last night a train dropped us off in the middle of black-dark nowhere for a rough bivvy by the Canadian National Railway tracks. We slept off a 20-hour travel day until midmorning, then pushed the boats through Peterbell Marsh to the Missinaibi River, a languid, amber-colored waterway hemmed in with spiky grasses. Bleary-eyed and saddle sore before our first canoe stroke, we paddled north. Now we have more paddling ahead of us, wood to gather, a fire to build, fish to fry, and tents to pitch, and the sun is dropping fast. So far, I'm getting exactly what I'd hoped for.

River Runners
When most people think of walleye fishing, they think of big lakes, big outboards, downriggers, lead-core trolling lines, and crankbaits running so deep the fish need eyeballs the size of gumdrops.

But we had a different idea. My friend Peter DeJong and I knew that not all walleyes hang out in white-capped lakes. We figured there were wilderness fish far up in the northlands, walleyes that rarely saw a hook, never heard a motor, and shared waters with pike, moose, and sandhill cranes. DeJong is a big, burly, bearded Canadian, the kind of guy who wears wool plaid when it's 90 degrees and still uses a tumpline. Together, we hatched a big, burly, river trip in the voyageur style. We'd run whitewater rapids, cross empty lakes, hump our gear through bogs and woods, and fish our way through boreal Ontario. And we'd do it along one of the most historic fur-trading routes in the land of the maple leaf: the Missinaibi-Moose River corridor.

The shortest route between Lake Superior and James Bay, the Missinaibi pours through a 265-mile-long corridor of boreal forest and Canadian Shield rock. In deep time, nomadic bands of Algonquin-speaking natives paddled the river, marking passage with pictographs on exposed cliff faces. (Missinaibi translates to "pictured waters," after the reflections of these paintings.) Later, Ojibway and Cree plied the river. And from 1740 to 1880, it was a key trading route for trappers from the Hudson's Bay Co. and North West Co., both of which built trading posts along its banks.

It's empty country. The stretch of the river from Peterbell to Moose River is classified as "advanced, with difficult portages and remoteness." David Morin, whose company is one of a handful to outfit trips on the Missinaibi, says few of those who run the river also fish.

"They'll make a couple of casts one night and think that's all there is to it. It seems that hardcore paddlers just don't care about fishing. And hardcore fishermen aren't too interested in dealing with rapids."

But we were. DeJong and I wanted it all, every totem and clichÂ¿Â¿ of boreal Canada, all rolled into one week in the woods, with paddles and rods in hand. We added to our party photographer Dusan Smetana and Ontario native Lee Bremer, currently doing hard time in e Manhattan financial district. Soon enough, we stood by the CNR tracks in the dark and watched the train's lights slowly disappear in the distance.

The Tuke
For a day and a half we paddle, float, and fish through gorgeous stretches of river-long, languid pools where mergansers and river otters swim away at our approach. Because the Missinaibi is one of 39 waterways in the Canadian Heritage Rivers System, its banks are protected from logging and development. The result: hundreds of miles of shoreline where ancient trees tumble in water clean enough to drink. Once Smetana reels in a 4-pound walleye near the riverbank. Its flanks shimmer with color. He holds the fish up. "At home in Montana," he says, "the walleyes are silvery. A little dull. Nothing like this. Such a gorgeous fish."

We dredge the water for its kin. To get to the bottom of things, I'm tossing an Arctic Fox deep-running spinner and, alternatively, a standard-issue chartreuse leadhead jig. DeJong fires off a Shad Rap, and Smetana swears by his "magic lure," a Storm Hot 'N Tot in silver and blue that he picked up at the last minute at a Timmons, Ontario, Wal-Mart. Each time he ties into a fish he sings out in his Slovakian accent, sounding like an Old World peddler, "Lure for sale! Magic lure for sale!" He's onto something, and he knows it.

I, however, am not. Maybe it's my Southern nature, my inexperience with any bottom-dwelling fish other than a channel cat. But I'm having trouble with walleyes. Smetana takes a look at my retrieve and sidles over for some quick advice.

"Are you feeling the tuke?" he asks.

"The took?"

"No, no. The tuke." He sounds out the word; it rhymes with puke. "You must retrieve so slowly that you feel a little tuke. Not a took. It is as if a rock has eaten your lure. Except it is a walleye."

I give it a whirl. Casting across a current seam, I let the spinner fall to the bottom. I start the retrieve, slowly bump-bumping the lure across the boulders. I feel it drag across a ledge and then the line goes slack as uplifted currents boil off the river bottom, lifting the lure like a leaf in a whirlwind. It drops again, the line slightly taut as the spinner falls, and then tuke! I set the hook and the rod comes to life.

I know just enough about walleye fishing to know that there are a lot of ways to catch them that don't involve canoes and white-knuckled rapids runs and long days in wild country. But I'm pretty sure there are none better.

Incident at Greenhill
Our first significant challenge-other than finding fish-comes during our second day on the river. Greenhill Rapids is a Â¿Â¿-mile-long cauldron across the backbone of an esker, one of those weird rock formations created by the dragging fingers of a receding glacier. There's a dogleg turn in the middle and canoe-swamping pillow rocks all the way down. At low water it's too low, at high water it's crazy, and when the water is just right it is not to be taken lightly. We play it safe, portaging every bag, pack, and rod for a mile across hill and bog. Then Bremer and Smetana slip into the river. DeJong and I give them a half hour to make it through the rapids, then we push off. When I lick my lips, my tongue is dry as toast.

We run the big upper drops cleanly, bashing through high rollers, then eddy out behind a midstream boulder. From here on out there are drops, rocks, and souse holes aplenty, but a straightforward line through the melee beckons. "A walk in the park," DeJong figures, nervously, as we guzzle a quart of water and congratulate ourselves on a textbook start. That's when the wheels come off. I give the boat a strong forward stroke to reenter a hard current line but misjudge my downstream lean. The canoe responds by jerking violently to starboard. As I'm going over I get a glance at DeJong, high-bracing from the bow, but he knows the goose is cooked. In half a second we're both in the water, the boat between us, out of control.

For a couple of minutes it seems like no big deal. We roller-coaster for 300 yards, but then bigger boulders and nasty ledge drops appear. Our canoe lurches to a stop, pinned against a truck-size rock. The current washes me past the canoe as I make a desperate grab for a gunwale. Upstream, DeJong slips over a ledge and bobs to the surface. My OK sign lets him know I'm unhurt, and he returns it with a grin.

Just then he slams into a subsurface boulder. He hits it hard, the kind of hard in which bones end up on the outside of skin and rescue operations commence. His grin morphs instantly into an O of pain. He slides over a hump of foaming water and comes to an instant stop, his body downstream, right leg pointing upcurrent. The look on DeJong's face is as alarming as his posture, one foot trapped between rocks on the river bottom as the Missinaibi pours over his shoulders.

Twenty yards downstream, I can do nothing but watch as he struggles to right himself and keep his head above water. If he loses purchase and his free leg slips, the current will sweep him downstream and break his leg, if it isn't broken already. DeJong strains against the river current, at times completely submerged as he tries to twist out of the snare.

Suddenly he wrenches himself loose. Grimacing, he works across the river, and I gather a rescue rope in case he stumbles again. He makes it to the overturned canoe wild-eyed and panting, soaked and starting to chill. "I'm all right," he says. For a full minute neither of us speaks. "Strange way to catch a walleye, eh?" he says. We laugh the nervous laugh of a couple of guys who know they've dodged a bullet.

After we flip and bail the boat we grind down Greenhill's boulder garden with no technique whatsoever. Later that night, we camp below St. Peter Rapids. And after dinner we sit back from the campfire, bellies stuffed with fried fish eaten with our fingers-no side dishes and none desired.

"We came awfully close to ending our trip with a very expensive helicopter tour of Ontario," I say. "Not to mention a week of hospital food."

"It's scary how quickly things can turn bad," DeJong says. "Just when you think you've got it figured out..." His voice trails off, drowned out in the roar of the Missinaibi. Cedar smoke curls up toward a red sky, and we turn silent again, until the mosquitoes drive us into the tents.

The Tao of Walleyes
After Greenhill, we fall into a soothing rhythm. We sleep until 7 a.m., when the mosquitoes retreat back to the dark woods. Coffee and breakfast, a half hour of fishing the nearest rapids, then we pack the gear and boats and push off. And the days are long ones. Making camp by six gives us just enough time to fish out the two-hour sunsets. Then it's a race to get td. In half a second we're both in the water, the boat between us, out of control.

"We came awfully close to ending our trip with a very expensive helicopter tour of Ontario," I say. "Not to mention a week of hospital food."

Gear Test: New GPS Systems for Bass Fishing

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 30 May 2006 16:00:00 -0400

Have you ever wondered if you're fishing in the wrong spot? Then you know why GPS maps are such hot items with today's pros. These electronic marvels use detailed contour lake maps to tell you exactly where you are in relation to the structure you're fishing-and even to the fish you're after.

Many GPS maps also function as LCG depthfinders. Using both, you can pinpoint biting fish or productive structure, mark that location as a waypoint, and come back to it anytime. Here's what to look for:

DISPLAY: Color is far superior to black-and-white because it clearly differentiates land, water, contour lines, and other features. Get color, even if it means buying a smaller unit.

SIZE: This is the single most influential factor in price. Though significantly more expensive, a bigger display is better because it's easier to read. Go as big as you can afford to.

RESOLUTION: Most makers list the number of vertical and horizontal pixels. But the true measure of sharpness is pixels per square inch. Good resolution is most critical on small units.

MAPS: Some models have built-in contour lake maps, but most need plug-in map cards or downloadable maps, sold separately. All of the units here will help you catch more fish.

TIP: Click on an image below to enlarge it

Navman Tracker 5380
(800-628-4487; navman.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 3.8 inches
PIXELS: 320V x 240H (about 10,500 per square inch)
BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: No
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCE: C-Map
PRICE: $400
COMMENTS: This full-featured unit needs little space and has a great price for color. The display is small but very sharp and functional. It's a good, affordable choice if you already have a depthfinder.

Humminbird 595C
(800-633-1468; humminbird.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 5 inches
PIXELS: 320V x 240H (about 6,100 per square inch) BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: Yes
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCE: Navionics
PRICE: $550
COMMENTS: This compact, combination GPS map and LCG depthfinder has a unique quick-mounting system that'll save you fishing time. The transducer comes with a temperature probe.

Eagle FishElite 642c IGPS
(800-324-1354; www.eaglegps.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 5 inches
PIXELS: 640V x 480H (about 25,000 per square inch)
BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: Yes
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCES: Lowrance FreedomMap, Fishing Hot Spots Elite, LakeMaster Pro Maps, NauticPat USA, Navionics
PRICE: $600
COMMENTS: Six color modes let you adapt to light conditions. A surface temperature gauge is included.

Raymarine RC435i GPS Chartplotter
(800-539-5539; raymarine.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 6 inches
PIXELS: 320V x 240H (about 4,250 per square inch)
BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: No
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCE: Navionics
PRICE: $1,055
COMMENTS: "Point and shoot" navigation lets you click on any waypoinnt, and the unit will direct you to it. A SmartRoute feature automatically builds routes and waypoints from previous tracks.

Lowrance LCX-26C HD
(800-324-1356; lowrance.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 7 inches
PIXELS: 480V x 640H (about 15,000 per square inch)
BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: Yes
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCE: Lowrance FreedomMap, Fishing Hot Spots Elite, LakeMaster Pro Maps, NauticPat USA, Navionics
PRICE: $1,650
COMMENTS: The 20GB hard drive is loaded with charts of U.S. coastal areas and over 2,100 inland waters.

Garmin GPSMAP 3210
(800-800-1020; garmin.com)
DISPLAY SIZE: 10.4 inches
PIXELS: 640V x 480H (about 5,900 per square inch)
BUILT-IN DEPTHFINDER: No
COMPATIBLE MAP SOURCE: Garmin Inland Lakes
PRICE: $2,667
COMMENTS: The large color display is easy to read, even in direct sunlight. The unit has extremely fast redraw and response rates and is available with numerous optional features.

Gear Review: New Trolling Motors

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 30 May 2006 16:00:00 -0400

In the domain of trolling motors, where brands have come and gone, only Minn Kota and MotorGuide remain. They've prevailed with more powerful motors that maneuver large boats with multiple batteries and run longer because of greater electric efficiency. Features are smarter than ever, including hands- and foot-free navigation based on compass headings or depth-reading technology. We tested four units that stand above the others; one of these should be right for the fishing you do.

Click on an image to enlarge

Minn Kota Engine-Mount
FEATURES Quiet oomph from the back of the boat-that's the ticket with these new motors that bolt to the main engine's cavitation plate and ride out of the water when on plane. They're excellent for trolling shallow water or pulling spinner rigs below 1 mph. They provide power from the stern to augment the thrust when you maneuver with a bow-mount in current, and have strength to spare.
MODELS Available in 12-, 24-, and 36-volt models, with single or dual props, for a range of thrust from 55 to 202 pounds. $550Â¿Â¿Â¿$1,450 for freshwater units; $600Â¿Â¿Â¿$1,500 for salt; www.minnkotamotors.com
HITS You adjust trolling speed with a rheostat, so it's possible to dial in increments of .1 mph.
MISSES Don't expect to go backward, as pulling water past the shaft of the big engine saps strength.

Minn Kota PowerDrive Bow-Mount
FEATURES AutoPilot automatically steers your craft in the direction you select, adjusting for wind, waves, and current. (A wireless remote is optional.) Combine a PowerDrive with a gas motor on the transom and you can control speed to tenths of a mile per hour.
MODELS Includes 12- and 24-volt versions, with shaft lengths of 48 to 60 inches. Power levels range from 40 to 80 pounds of thrust. $340Â¿Â¿Â¿$1,050; www.minnkotamotors.com
HITS Set the AutoPilot and you can fish without attention to the foot pedal.
MISSES Electronic steering is somewhat slow to respond when a river rips.

MotorGuide Transom-Mount
FEATURES This freshwater series is ideal for moderate watercraft. These electrics are more reliable than ever and have better seals to protect against moisture. Internal communication is digital, to monitor amp draw and heat.
MODELS A collection of 12- and 24-volt motors provides a range of thrust from 30 to 82 pounds. The bigger electric has variable speeds and an extension handle. $100Â¿Â¿Â¿$400; motorguide.com
HITS To back-troll, you can turn the motor around so it operates in forward mode when it's pointed in reverse.
MISSES It's trickier to steer when you're pushing a boat from the transom.

MotorGuide PTSv Bow-Mount
FEATURES Set a PTSv to follow a contour, or steer it manually with a foot pedal. When you want to navigate a precise depth, this motor lets you do it hands-free, using five transducers in the lower unit. Catch something? Return to the scene by punching the 180 feature, which allows you to backtrack.
MODELS There are models that can power bass boats measuring up to 22 feet. $1,600Â¿Â¿Â¿$1,800; motorguide.com
HITS The 36-volt model has a power curve, so it can blast a 20-foot boat at 5 mph or just creep along.
MISSES The Bottom Track mode has some difficulty over flat lake bottoms.

Slide Show: This Week's Tips from Jerome B. Robinson

fieldandstream-editor — Sat, 20 May 2006 07:00:00 -0400

Slide Show: This Week's Tips from Jerome B. Robinson

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 16 May 2006 07:00:00 -0400

Best of 2005: Jerry's Tips

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 17 Jan 2006 04:15:00 -0500

[BRACKET "1"] Get Your Socks On--February 2005
Wet, sandy feet are a nuisance to outdoorsmen--difficult to wipe dry and nearly impossible to pull socks over. A liberal sprinkling of baby powder, however, will absorb moisture instantly and allow you to brush the sand off. Socks are easier to pull on over powdered feet, and dry feet are essential for fungus prevention.

[BRACKET "2"]Bring In Distant Turkeys--March 2005
When a distant gobbler answers your call, move silently in his direction before he starts moving toward you. Try to get within 200 yards of the bird before calling again. Gobblers are more likeley to come all the way to a hunter who is inside that range. If you continue calling froma long distance, the turkey's answers will likely attract a live hen that will cut him off before he reaches you.

[BRACKET "3"]Organize Your Mess Kit--April 2005
When camping, tie a many-pocketed carpenter's apron at eye level on a tree trunk within reach of your cooking site. Fill the pockets with cooking utensils and a pair of long-handled pliers for handling hot pots and pans. The apron pockets provide a means of organizing utensils so you will always know where they are and have them close at hand when you need them.

[BRACKET "4"]Release Your Anchor Quickly--May 2005
It can be difficult to land large fish from a boat anchored in strong current if you can't slip anchor quickly. To make a quick-release system, tie a loop in the anchor line and attach a buoy or plastic jug to the loop, which you will place around the bow anchor cleat. When you hook up, slip it off the cleat and toss it overboard. After you've landed the fish, retrieve the anchor and buoy.

[BRACKET "5"]Make A Double-Sided Worm Can--June 2005
Instead fo digging down to the bottom of your bait can to find worms, replace the metal end of the can with another plastic lid in which you've punched a dozen tiny airholes. When the worms burrow down to the bottom, simply turn the can over and open the other end. The worms will always be on top and easy to see.

[BRACKET "6"]Release Fish Stress-Free--July 2005
Unhooking a wriggling fish becomes much easier when you hold the fish on its back with one hand gently cupping its dorsal fin. All fish immediately relax and lie still when held in this position, allowing you to remove the hook without having to squeeze, thereby causing less stress and injury. Always remember to wet your hands before handling any fish.

[BRACKET "7"]Stay Focused On Stand--July 2005
To help pass the time when you're spending long hours in a deer stand, take along a few ounces of birdseed. Scatter the seed on a nearby log or other bare area within a few yards of your stand. Birds, chipmunks, and squirrels are sure to discover the horde and will give you hours of entertainment, and their presence will keep you alert and remind you to stay still.

[BRACKET "8"]Camouflage Your Tree Stand--August 2005
Branches that you remove to clear a climbing path and shooting lanes at your tree stand should not be left on the ground. They may draw unwanted attention from people who might sit in your stand. Instead, drag them away from the vicinity, or lash some to the trunk above the stand to break up its outline and camouflage your silhouette as you hunt.

[BRACKET "9"]Protect Your Trailer Lights--September 2005
To prevent shorting, rig your trailer's wiring so that no junctions or terminals are ever submerged. Elevate lights on upright poles bolted to the frame. Don't join the wires in a Y-formation on the trailer body. Instead, run separate wires from each taillight all the way to the vehicle plug. For extra protection, use outdoor extension cord rather than standard electrical wire.

[BRACKET "10"]Train Your Dog To Hold Point--October 2005
Practice staunching a bird dog on point by pushing his shoulders and hind end toward the bird he's pointing. He will resist the pressure and push back against your hand, stiffening his point. Over time he will think it was his idea to remain steady. As your dog absorbs the lesson, gradually delay flushing so that he learns to enjoy the anticipation of keeping the bird in place.

[BRACKET "11"]Lubricate Your Grill--November 2005
You can use a raw potato to prevent wild game steaks or fresh fish fillets from sticking to the survace of your barbeque grill. Slice the potato in half, then, when the grill is hot, rub the cut side back and forth lengthwise along the grate. You'll hear a hissing sound as starch from the potato coats the metal with a natural non-stick compound.

[BRACKET "12"]Rig Tangle-Free Decoys--December/January 2005-06
Set your decoys with a trawl line to avoid frustrating tangles. To make one, tie four or five overhand loops 2 to 3 feet apart in the middle of some camo-colored cord. Tie a loop for an anchor at each end. Rig your deocy bases with snap fasteners. To use, anchor one end, snap deocys to the loops as you pay out the line, then anchor the far end. Stagger lines to create an irregular pattern.

Adventure: Flyfishing Gone Mad

fieldandstream-editor — Sat, 17 Dec 2005 04:20:00 -0500

I was the bag man, there to stuff burlap sacks with body parts. We were in a dim alley behind a San Diego fish market. Conway Bowman's feet dangled over the edge of a Dumpster as he tossed tuna carcasses over the rim.

"Oh, bitchin'. Check these out," Bowman said as he slid to the ground and handed me two albacore bellies, the Dom Perignon of chum. We threw them in the sacks, nodded at two puzzled onlookers, and headed toward the Dana Landing Marina, where we would launch our chase for shortfin mako sharks on the fly.

Shortfin makos have been the focus of fishing lore for generations. They frequently occupied the tales of Ernest Hemingway and Zane Grey (including a piece by Grey in the April 1936 issue of FIELD & STREAM). But Bowman's angle pushes the edge of reason. It goes like this: Motor anywhere from 5 to 30 miles off the Southern California coast in a 24-foot open hull boat until the ocean floor drops away into canyons over a thousand feet deep. There, you ride the swells above schooling baitfish, mackerel, and tuna to chum, tease, and hook a predator as large as yourself on a 14-weight fly rod.

Imagine tying your fly line around the waist of NFL wide receiver Terrell Owens and hanging on as he runs a deep route. These sharks swim three times faster than T.O. sprints-up to 60 mph-and could easily hurdle the goal's crossbar.

Several weeks earlier, Bowman and his protÂ¿Â¿gÂ¿Â¿, Capt. Dave Trimble, had invited me and a couple of pals to spend a week fishing the new-moon tides. It would be the flyfishing equivalent of a Warren Miller extreme skiing movie-crashing on Bowman's floor, on the boats early, fishing hard all day, licking our wounds at night, and getting up to do it again. After some convincing, photographer Bill Decker agreed to tag along in a chase boat. The 58-year-old surfer and board fisherman was not fazed by the sharks; his reservations were about the flyfishing, "a sissy sport," as he liked to call it.

Once the team was assembled, we loaded the boats with our gear and chum stash and idled away from Mission Bay. I was nervous. You always feel anticipation as you head out on the water, but your worries are limited to Will I make the casts, Did I apply enough sunscreen or, at the worst, I hope I don't puke. On a mako trip, you worry that you might not come back whole. What sets these sharks apart from anything else you catch with a fly rod is that they can kill you. Before the trip, a friend had e-mailed me a story about a Delaware charter captain who died when his hand got tangled in a wire leader and the mako on the other end ripped him overboard like a rag doll.

Makos are apex predators, torpedo shaped and all muscle, with layered rows of razorlike teeth. Although they have not earned the notoriety of bull sharks or great whites because they typically cruise deeper offshore waters, makos can be just as nasty. They're vicious even before birth; they cannibalistically devour their weaker siblings in utero. They have also been known to attack boats, and if one jumps in the boat with you, it can unleash a world of hurt. As a rule of thumb, when a mako jumps in, you jump out and hope he doesn't have friends nearby. [NEXT "Shark Park"]

Shark Park
The hull bounced hard on the water as we rode toward a GPS point named "Top of the Nine." We carried no guns, no gaffs, no means to subdue the mako. The best we could hope for was a draw. When the angler pulled the shark close to the boat, Bowman or Trimble would grab the leader and slide an improvised long-handled release tool into its mouth to pop the fly. Then you'd start over. For these guys, it was all a big game.

After half an hour, Bowman killed the motor and tied the burlap chum sacks to the side of the boat. We rigged wire leaders to gaudy red and orange flies. Thirteen miles offshore, I could barely see the silhouette of Pointoma. "Keep your eyes open," Bowman warned. Everything was hushed, save the steady breeze and swells lifting and slapping against the hull. "We have a good chance of seeing a big shark."

The truth is that "a big shark" out here is still young. The California Bight, where the ocean indents the coast off of San Diego, is one of three major mako breeding grounds in the world. (The other two are off New Zealand and Madagascar.) Recently pupped makos will hang around this area for two years before ranging out to sea.

It's a nursery, brimming with juvenile fish. The average mako cruising into a slick is about 80 pounds, but adults occasionally show up. A grown female can weigh over 1,300 pounds, and mature males can reach 500 pounds or more. Still, both captains say they rarely see sharks this size, and when they do, they don't cast at them-usually.

"There is a threshold for flyfishing, and sometimes you need to check your ego and just watch the fish swim by," Trimble said. "The pictures you see of huge makos caught off the east coast, that's a totally different business. They're caught with bait and balloons on heavy tackle. And fishermen kill the sharks to land them. Here, hooking, landing, and releasing a 150-pound mako on a fly rod is enough to kick your ass. And we can do that five or six times-which is like catching five or six tarpon-in a morning."

For the record, Bowman claims the biggest mako he has landed on the fly was in the 275- to 300-pound range. Trimble and a client once hooked and nearly landed a mako they figured to be around 500 pounds. I had set a lofty goal of catching one in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. As it turned out, I only had to wait about an hour for my opportunity. [NEXT "Game Time"]

Game Time
Ever since Bowman had dropped the chum bags in the water, Jeremy Hyatt had been craning his neck over the side, waiting for action. Hyatt is classic Colorado-a trout guide, rock climber, and whitewater kayaker-and we had brought him and Colorado fly shop owner Dan Hydinger along to get a comparative thrill reading when the sharks showed up. Now, as the first fin cut the water, Hyatt was pointing and howling wildly.

There is no rhyme or reason for when and how makos appear. Sometimes, on the ride offshore in the early morning, when the seas are calm and the wind is light, you might see one cruising under flocks of birds, or around kelp patties. Once you've set up a chum line, it might take five minutes or two hours for one to show. Or it might not happen at all.

If you use a surf-casting rod to throw a mackerel-head teaser around the boat, out of nowhere, a mouth may pop up and grab it. But most often, the mako arrives on its own terms, when you aren't expecting it. You may be laughing, talking, or eating lunch. Then, as you lean over to fling away a pickle slice from your sandwich, a 6-footer glides by within an arm's reach.

It's like hunting big game from a tree stand. You go from a semihypnotic trance to sheer internal chaos in under two seconds. One instant, you're barely awake, and the next, your heart is in your throat. That's how it happened with this first mako.

"He's a gorilla. One-eighty, maybe 200," Bowman shouted as Hyatt and I scrambled around the deck. "I'm going to get him fired up." He dangled a mackerel head in front of the shark and ripped it away just before the shark lunged, banged the boat, and then circled out into the slick. Bowman dragged the teaser through the chum line again, like a bullfighter with a cape, then once more, from another direction. With each pass, the fish got more pissed off.

I threw a fly into the mayhem and gave the line a sharp tug to pull it taut. The shark spun an angry arc looking for the teaser but found my fly instead. He bit down and swam toward the boat. Not wanting to set the hook while the mako was headed in my direction, I gave him slack line as he spit the fly. No problem. Sharks are used to eating things that poke them in the mouth. Within a minute, he was back.

Another cast, another strip, another bite. This time he turned away from the boat, and I set the hook with three hard jerks. In seconds the shark had unspooled the fly line, then ripped backing off the reel so fast that the powder residue on the gel-spun material looked like yellow smoke piping through the line guides. As I braced the rod butt into my thigh, I accidentally bumped my hand against the whirring reel. It cut my right thumb as if I had brushed against a band saw.

The shark jumped twice, cartwheeling over the waves. Then, for 30 minutes, I cranked the rod down toward the surface, strained and lifted, then cranked again, gaining sacred inches of line and occasionally licking the blood off my thumb. Eventually, we cheated and motored up on the fish to gather 200-plus yards of backing and fly line. Decker, shouting from the chase boat, said he wanted photos. I wanted this battle to end, one way or the other. When we were finally close enough for Bowman to grab the wire, the mako thrashed his head, snapped at Bowman's arm, and stretched his jaws so wide we could have dropped a 5-gallon bucket inside his mouth.

"That fish was 200," Bowman said as the shark finned away and we wiped the sweat off our faces. I flexed my left hand open and shut to coax blood flow back into my forearm. I was toast. [NEXT "You First"]

You First
We spent the next several days working the same drill-Hyatt, Hydinger, and I trading turns hooking and fighting makos, and Decker firing away with the shutter, barking "Get closer!" as sharks leaped around the boats. After a while, we even got a bit comfortable with the routine. But that didn't last.

One night, late in the week, we found ourselves rolling through La Jolla in Trimble's classic ragtop Cadillac Eldorado. He drove with the seat half reclined, his left arm resting on top of the steering wheel. At that angle, I got a good look at the detailed tattoo of a mako chasing yellowfins on his forearm.

"Is Decker serious about the kayak?" he asked Bowman. "Yeah, he says he wants to get pictures of us fighting a mako from one," Bowman said. I figured they were joking.

Sure enough, at 6:30 the next morning, Decker sauntered down the dock with a blue sea kayak balanced on his head. Two hours later, we were back on "Top of the Nine," bobbing in silence, when the first mako, maybe an 80-pounder, came barreling up the oily slick.

We traded glances as Decker dropped the kayak in the water. For a long moment, there were no volunteers. Then Bowman handed Hydinger the teaser rod, picked up the paddle and a fly rod, and jumped in. I was running the chase boat, feeling as n my direction, I gave him slack line as he spit the fly. No problem. Sharks are used to eating things that poke them in the mouth. Within a minute, he was back.

Another cast, another strip, another bite. This time he turned away from the boat, and I set the hook with three hard jerks. In seconds the shark had unspooled the fly line, then ripped backing off the reel so fast that the powder residue on the gel-spun material looked like yellow smoke piping through the line guides. As I braced the rod butt into my thigh, I accidentally bumped my hand against the whirring reel. It cut my right thumb as if I had brushed against a band saw.

The shark jumped twice, cartwheeling over the waves. Then, for 30 minutes, I cranked the rod down toward the surface, strained and lifted, then cranked again, gaining sacred inches of line and occasionally licking the blood off my thumb. Eventually, we cheated and motored up on the fish to gather 200-plus yards of backing and fly line. Decker, shouting from the chase boat, said he wanted photos. I wanted this battle to end, one way or the other. When we were finally close enough for Bowman to grab the wire, the mako thrashed his head, snapped at Bowman's arm, and stretched his jaws so wide we could have dropped a 5-gallon bucket inside his mouth.

"That fish was 200," Bowman said as the shark finned away and we wiped the sweat off our faces. I flexed my left hand open and shut to coax blood flow back into my forearm. I was toast. [NEXT "You First"]

You First
We spent the next several days working the same drill-Hyatt, Hydinger, and I trading turns hooking and fighting makos, and Decker firing away with the shutter, barking "Get closer!" as sharks leaped around the boats. After a while, we even got a bit comfortable with the routine. But that didn't last.

One night, late in the week, we found ourselves rolling through La Jolla in Trimble's classic ragtop Cadillac Eldorado. He drove with the seat half reclined, his left arm resting on top of the steering wheel. At that angle, I got a good look at the detailed tattoo of a mako chasing yellowfins on his forearm.

"Is Decker serious about the kayak?" he asked Bowman. "Yeah, he says he wants to get pictures of us fighting a mako from one," Bowman said. I figured they were joking.

Sure enough, at 6:30 the next morning, Decker sauntered down the dock with a blue sea kayak balanced on his head. Two hours later, we were back on "Top of the Nine," bobbing in silence, when the first mako, maybe an 80-pounder, came barreling up the oily slick.

We traded glances as Decker dropped the kayak in the water. For a long moment, there were no volunteers. Then Bowman handed Hydinger the teaser rod, picked up the paddle and a fly rod, and jumped in. I was running the chase boat, feeling as