Fishin Legends
Everyone has a Legend to tell. Come on a Fraser Legends Charter and write your adventure. You may get posted here.
Kid Meets Dinosaur,
by Seth Mendoza, age 11
Before I had gone Sturgeon fishing I thought that the fish would be small like a rock cod. Well was I wrong. Apparently sturgeons can grow up to 16 feet in length, and the heaviest sturgeon ever recorded in the Fraser River was weighed as 623 kg or about 1,370 lbs! I thought I was just going on a little fishing trip to tag some Sturgeons with Mr. Krahn. Instead we ended up catching one that was at least 8 feet on our first cast! It was so large that it took my Dad and Mr. Krahn almost one hour of alternating with the rod so we could reel it in and I said, “I don’t want that in the boat!” So we towed it to shore where we got help from two men who were on the beach. This picture shows our tamed sturgeon all tired out.
We learned from Mr. Krahn how to safely tag, measure, and release our eight footer. First, he scanned the fish for any tags and to our surprise it didn’t have one yet. So, he cleaned a microchip tag with alcohol and injected it into the fish. We didn’t have a measuring tape so we used a string and the length of a fishing rod to measure the length and girth. (Afterwards, Mr. Krahn measured the string accurately and it was 250.1 cm or 8 feet two inches long) After we released the sturgeon back to the river Mr. Krahn declared us no longer Sturgeon Virgins. (Whatever that means?)
Because of the hard work fighting these dinosaurs I felt very tired at lunch time. We ate some food and drank some juice; but just as we were eating, a second fish had interrupted our meal by tugging on the rods to eat the bait (of stinky roe wrapped in “someone’s” old stocking!) for lunch!
Because of the hard work fighting these dinosaurs I felt very tired at lunch time. We ate some food and drank some juice; but just as we were eating, a second fish had interrupted our meal by tugging on the rods to eat the bait (of stinky roe wrapped in “someone’s” old stocking!) for lunch!
This is one of Mr. Krahn’s tricks of the trade. He freezes the bait so that when he puts the roe in the stockings and places it in the water it thaws out and the smell flows out with the current.
We were fighting this fish with an adrenalin rush; we took turns fighting it but none of us could bring it to the surface. Mr. Krahn suggested that it was stuck on something and couldn’t get out. But when we had finally brought the line up the fish had taken not only the bait but the hook as well! I finally realized that fishing with sturgeons isn’t as easy as fishing for rock cod.
We were fighting this fish with an adrenalin rush; we took turns fighting it but none of us could bring it to the surface. Mr. Krahn suggested that it was stuck on something and couldn’t get out. But when we had finally brought the line up the fish had taken not only the bait but the hook as well! I finally realized that fishing with sturgeons isn’t as easy as fishing for rock cod.
Revenge of the Sturgeon!
(you could be next!)
(you could be next!)
Fighting Dinosaurs - Sturgeon 101
by Peter K. Krahn,
Fraser Legends Fishing, Owner and Guide
The sun is just cutting through the fog and my eyes are straining from the glare as the first rays cut through the pillars on the bridge ahead, ricochet off the water and sear my pupils. Where are my sunglasses!!! The boat is slicing through the glass surface and the spray droplets form a rainbow that hangs in the air just off my port side. Twenty minutes later my favourite spot looms in the distance and I center it like a rifle sight between the two prongs of my river anchor nestled on the front bow. A minute later I pull back on the throttle and the bow settles down into the brown current. I lock it in neutral, jettison the anchor and feel the chain and rope rattle and the claws sink 70 feet into the murky water and plunge into the sandy bottom. The current pulls the rope taught, and the back of the boat gives a slight jerk to the right and the anchor holds. I am here, on the edge of the hole which slopes down another 30 feet!
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The spool of 100 pound test line sings off the big game PENN 113H reel and the 24 ounce weight hits the surface of the Fraser River with a splash some 50 feet away from the boat. The line continues to spin off the reel with a light burning on my thumb as I press down to control the spool as the weight descends 80 feet to the bottom. The line is pulled away by the current until there is a dull thud as the weight hits the sandy-gravel river bottom. The vibration of the bump is transmitted up the line, through the ultra-stiff PENN Graphite Slammer big game rod into my fingers. I flick the main drag lever to lock, push the micro drag to clicker mode and turn the crank four or five times to pull the weight away from the bait. I wrap my fingers with the line and tug away from the reel to test the reels resistance and make sure the star drag setting is not too tight. The rod is set down into the Scotty, big game locking rod holder and the quick release clamp on the holder is closed. Mentally I go over the whole procedure. Everything looks set.
Now is the time to sit back and enjoy the mighty Fraser. I reach for my thermos and slowly unscrew the metal top and pour some steaming sweet tea into the stainless steel cup. As I do this, the muddy water swirls around the back of the boat creating little vortexes while tugging relentlessly at the claw anchor and line that holds it fast to the sandy gravel bottom. I settle back into my chair sinking back as the air escapes from the cushion with a soft whoosh and listen as the river makes that strange sizzling sound that seems to come from everywhere and no where in particular. The late September breeze is cool, but the bright sun is warm on my face and in the distance a V of Canada Geese provides background melody. Everything is perfect, or so I think.
Pink salmon have infused the Fraser in their millions and splashes of spawning frenzy can be seen along the shoreline. The eagles in the trees, the gulls along the shoreline and mink among the brambles are not the only ones that have gathered here for the feast….Deep down in the murky brown water microscopic particles of protein and fat are wafting from the bait ball carefully tied to the size 6.0 Gamakatsu Octopus hook and secured with a 72 lb abbraision resistant leader. At least I hope it is abraision resistant!
What I am waiting for has no skeleton, only five rows of potentially razor sharp scutes that run the center spine and sides from head to tail. Billions of litres of brown water flood by the hook. Somewhere in the distance downstream four delicate but efficient biological sensors carefully developed before the last ice age brush the river bottom. A snout underlain circular sensors detects the molecules wafting in the current.
Pink salmon have infused the Fraser in their millions and splashes of spawning frenzy can be seen along the shoreline. The eagles in the trees, the gulls along the shoreline and mink among the brambles are not the only ones that have gathered here for the feast….Deep down in the murky brown water microscopic particles of protein and fat are wafting from the bait ball carefully tied to the size 6.0 Gamakatsu Octopus hook and secured with a 72 lb abbraision resistant leader. At least I hope it is abraision resistant!
What I am waiting for has no skeleton, only five rows of potentially razor sharp scutes that run the center spine and sides from head to tail. Billions of litres of brown water flood by the hook. Somewhere in the distance downstream four delicate but efficient biological sensors carefully developed before the last ice age brush the river bottom. A snout underlain circular sensors detects the molecules wafting in the current.
Four dangling tentacles at the end of a sensor impregnated nose react to the scent and an electric pulse generated at sensitive nerve fibres transmits from neuron to neuron to send a signal to a brain that lies within a creature that has long existed before man ever laid eyes on these waters. Powerful muscles underlying a grey and white skin studded with sharp bony hooks ripple with electrical charges to send a pulse of energy into a sickle shaped tail that is over two feet across. “Leviathan”, “Acipenser transmontanus”, the Great White Sturgeon has picked up the scent.
In my boat I kick back in my seat, letting my fleece hood warm my neck while the sun warms my face. The cares of the week are washing away with the current and my thoughts drift and I begin to focus on the tiny dark circle formed by the eye at the tip of my rod. The late moon is still suspended in the crisp blue autumn sky and fits perfectly inside the circle of the eye. All is quiet and I place a finger on the taught line which vibrates from the pull of the current, an insurance to detect the faintest pull. Nothing. Underneath, un-seen in the murky depths, a shark like shape pulses the sickle shaped tail and guided by its ultra senses approaches towards my bait.
Fifteen or maybe 20 minutes have ticked by and my concentration wanders when the tip of the rod quickly dips down barely an inch and ejects the encircled moon only to bob right back up again. My feet come down off the gunnel and I sit forward. My eyes are focused on the tip while my hands search to place the steel thermos cup back into its holder. The tip dips again, this time two sharper but testing pulls. I reach for the rod and release it from the holder, one hand cranks the handle to tighten the line as the tip lowers. I’ll need as much leverage as possible to set the hook. The rod is silent.
In my boat I kick back in my seat, letting my fleece hood warm my neck while the sun warms my face. The cares of the week are washing away with the current and my thoughts drift and I begin to focus on the tiny dark circle formed by the eye at the tip of my rod. The late moon is still suspended in the crisp blue autumn sky and fits perfectly inside the circle of the eye. All is quiet and I place a finger on the taught line which vibrates from the pull of the current, an insurance to detect the faintest pull. Nothing. Underneath, un-seen in the murky depths, a shark like shape pulses the sickle shaped tail and guided by its ultra senses approaches towards my bait.
Fifteen or maybe 20 minutes have ticked by and my concentration wanders when the tip of the rod quickly dips down barely an inch and ejects the encircled moon only to bob right back up again. My feet come down off the gunnel and I sit forward. My eyes are focused on the tip while my hands search to place the steel thermos cup back into its holder. The tip dips again, this time two sharper but testing pulls. I reach for the rod and release it from the holder, one hand cranks the handle to tighten the line as the tip lowers. I’ll need as much leverage as possible to set the hook. The rod is silent.
Five minutes then eight minutes go by but the rod remains quiet in my hand. Then three sharp pulls and the rod dips four or five inches. I am fully awake now. Three more jerks and then a steady downward pull and I slam back hard! The tip bends into an arch, nothing moves and there is the sickening feeling that I have rammed the hook into a log. There is no give. I give it a second and third hard pull and there is no relief when suddenly there is a pulse that bows the rod tip down to the waters surface and makes me feel that I am holding onto the tail of an enraged Brahma bull. The rod continues to arch down towards and into the water, straining my arms and the reel drag makes its first few clicks and then the drum begins to spin making that screaming sound that makes every fisherman’s heart leap.
Yellow line rips off the reel and sears through the eye tip down into the murky water, there is no stopping it. I know there are 300 yards on the spool and I hope it is enough.
Yellow line rips off the reel and sears through the eye tip down into the murky water, there is no stopping it. I know there are 300 yards on the spool and I hope it is enough.
On and on the reel screams and with two hands holding tight and my back arched, feet firmly planted the butt of the rod sinks into my gut, pounding and pushing it’s way in as pressure on the line grows. There is no stopping this fish! There is no stopping this fish!!!
Suddenly the line begins to race to the surface, zipping away from the boat as it slices with a hissing sound through the water. One hundred meters away the surface of the river bulges and then erupts as an angered beast flings itself into the air. My minds eye clicks a visual shutter in slow motion, the twisting body, giant head, gaping suction mouth that could suck in a mans arm are clearly visible. As if in dream state I can see the white scutes that run along the sides and down the back bone. Water sprays in a wide arc from the head as almost 9 feet of body escapes the pull of gravity and pulsates from side to side only to land in a thunderous splash back into the foamy brown depths. The partners in my boat and others nearby are either picking their jaws back off the decks or cheering and clapping and pointing.
The beast falls back away from me and the pull is like being tied to the end of a rope while someone tosses a hundred pound sack of potatoes overboard. I lunge under the strain but manage to bring up a foot against the gunnel to stop my pitching forward. Leviathan has issued the challenge and I don’t know if I can hold up to it. My partner laughs out loud and calls out how much money he is betting that the fish will win. I am determined to take his money!!!
With merciless grinding power the enraged fish pulls against line. I can feel the hooked scutes on the side of its body scraping over and over against the line. Each scrape potentially severing a fibre in the line and bringing this beast closer to freedom. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, fifty five minutes and it seems all the energy in my arms has been sapped and the tendons in my back stretched to their breaking point. Using its long body, powerful tail and the rivers current to full advantage the fish relents and then retreats in dozens of arm wrenching reel ripping rushes. It has lived in these waters for 80, perhaps a hundred years and it knows how to fight.
With merciless grinding power the enraged fish pulls against line. I can feel the hooked scutes on the side of its body scraping over and over against the line. Each scrape potentially severing a fibre in the line and bringing this beast closer to freedom. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, fifty five minutes and it seems all the energy in my arms has been sapped and the tendons in my back stretched to their breaking point. Using its long body, powerful tail and the rivers current to full advantage the fish relents and then retreats in dozens of arm wrenching reel ripping rushes. It has lived in these waters for 80, perhaps a hundred years and it knows how to fight.
Line reeled in is quickly lost as rush after rush turns into a dogged tug of war! An hour passes and both combatants are showing signs of fatigue. My partner laughs at my red face and comments that the blood vessels on the side of my neck are about to burst. He wants to know if he should use CPR to revive me if I have a heart attack. I just snarl back that I will be taking his money from him!
Eventually the line is regained and the beast is pulled closer to the boat. Suddenly a burst of bubbles rises to the surface followed by a second and then a third. A large head and torso that you could barely get your arms around breaks the surface. My partner has pulled anchor and deftly begins to guide the boat and the leviathan towards the muddy shore. This one is too big to bring into the boat.
Eventually the line is regained and the beast is pulled closer to the boat. Suddenly a burst of bubbles rises to the surface followed by a second and then a third. A large head and torso that you could barely get your arms around breaks the surface. My partner has pulled anchor and deftly begins to guide the boat and the leviathan towards the muddy shore. This one is too big to bring into the boat.
The bow hits the sandy shore and my partner leaps over the gunnel, grabs the anchor and plunges the claws into the sand and then takes the rod. I almost stagger over the side, retake the rod and guide the fish into the shallows. Walking into the water, I get my first real glimpse of my worthy challenger.
Four of us look in awe, while I am still trying to catch my breath. My biceps are still on fire and I hope I can gently lift the beast for a quick photo op. Carefully we set up while one of the tourists on shore agrees to grab my camera and snap the smiles.
This fish will live to fight another day, but today we are going to scan it for a biometric micro-chip, measure and record girth and length, and examine it for injuries and lesions caused by such things as nets, ropes or impacts with boats, or parasites. I’m part of the Fraser River White Sturgeon Conservation tagging team, and yes this is a tough volunteer job, but someone has to do it!
Time to go Home?
by Peter K. Krahn,
Fraser Legends Fishing, Owner and Guide.
by Peter K. Krahn,
Fraser Legends Fishing, Owner and Guide.
"How long we bin out here?"
"I dunno, maybe 6 hours, why?"
"Just Wonderin. You had any bites?"
"Nope. You?"
"Nope."
"Think we should head home?"
"Why? You in a hurry?"
"Nope"
"Me neither"
"Think we should actually bait our hooks?"
"Nope, might induce too much stress"
"Then I'll just keep fishin."
"I dunno, maybe 6 hours, why?"
"Just Wonderin. You had any bites?"
"Nope. You?"
"Nope."
"Think we should head home?"
"Why? You in a hurry?"
"Nope"
"Me neither"
"Think we should actually bait our hooks?"
"Nope, might induce too much stress"
"Then I'll just keep fishin."
