Spring catch & cook

WRITTEN BY DYLAN SAVAGEAU

The water barely moved, just a soft, steady lap against the aluminum hull of my 12-foot boat as the wind pushed across the mouth of the river. It wasn’t silence, exactly. It was that low, patient sound of water touching metal on a calm evening. The sound a fisherman thinks about while watching winter do its worst.

I kept the boat tight to the shoreline. A hundred yards out, the main lake was still locked in a steady sheet of ice, stretching from bank to horizon. From where I sat, it looked solid and unbroken, a white ceiling laid down over everything beyond the river’s reach. 

The only open water was here, where the current carved a dark lane into the lake and the water went deep blue, almost tar-black — the kind that swallows your fly line and makes you really pay attention.

I had two 9-foot fly rods out, both rigged with a sinking line. My 5-weight off one side of the boat and an 8-weight off the other, trolling just outside the seam, 5 to 7 feet down. Governor Aiken. Purple Smelt. Grey Ghost. The Supervisor. Old fly patterns that still earn their keep when the water’s cold and the smelt are moving.

Most of the mid-afternoon passed without much sign of life. Then, around five o’clock, a single rise ring opened near the seam. Not dramatic. Just a quiet circle widening in that dark water.

A little while later, a hit came clean on my 5-weight. For the first few seconds, that fish owned me.

The rod folded into a smooth arc and the tip pulsed with each head shake. A landlocked salmon doesn’t typically bulldog like a lake trout. It runs. Fast and hard. Line slipped tight through the guides before the drag fully found its voice.

Then it turned broadside as I was able to get settled, and I felt it. All muscle and current. The reel gave in and the drag began to have its work cut out for it. The boat rocked lightly beneath me as I fought the fish, and I was suddenly aware of how small 12 feet of aluminum feels in open water.

I kept the pressure steady and let it run when it wanted. The salmon cut toward the surface and came out of the water in a flash of chrome, throwing spray against a sky that still looked more like winter than spring. For a split second the line went slack and my stomach climbed into my throat. Then it landed and the rod bucked again. Phew. Still there.

Five pounds doesn’t sound massive until it’s tied to nothing more than a thin tippet and hope. Every surge feels amplified. No cushion besides the bend of the rod and your own hands adjusting pressure in real time.

When it finally circled under the boat, tired but not finished, I saw the broad silver side just below the surface. The net slid under it and my hands were shaking.

Earlier in the afternoon I’d lost a bigger salmon in the motor’s wake because I couldn’t get the boat to sit straight in the slight current and I hadn’t bothered to get the net ready in time. Always put your motor into neutral when fighting a fish while trolling, kids. That one earned its freedom. This time I wasn’t making the same mistake. 

I checked the tape. Twenty-three and three-quarters inches. Legal. Thick across the back. Just over 5 pounds.

I cut the gills and bled it immediately, and I headed back to my campsite. Cold water washed against me as I worked, and by the time I cleaned it, my fingers had gone stiff and numb. Thirty-six degree air and cold water don’t give you much grace. But when I finished gutting and filleting, it was worth it.

Deep orange. Dense. Clean.

I built the fire the way I was taught growing up. Birch bark and a few sticks of spruce to get it started, just enough flame to wake the coals. Then hardwood. Split maple I’d dried since fall.

There’s a rule about cooking over open flame that doesn’t get talked about enough. Softwoods will start your fire, but they shouldn’t finish it. Pine, fir, spruce, cedar — they burn hot and fast, and throw sap into the smoke. It turns thick and bitter and it will crawl straight into your food. Hardwood burns steady and clean, and will add a little flavor. If you’re going to keep a fish, the best thing you can do for yourself is clean and cook it properly.

When the coals settled into a red, breathing bed, I set the cast iron over them and let it heat. Moments later, I put a drop of water in which skittered and vanished. Butter went in first. It melted, foamed, then quieted down just before it thought about burning.

The fillets went skin side down. Salt, more than feels necessary. Pepper. A pinch of dill. Fish that fresh doesn’t need anything complicated.

Right about then the wind shifted.

Smoke always seems to have a sense of humor. I leaned left. It went left. I stepped back. It followed. Eyes watering, trying to look composed in front of absolutely no one. There’s something humbling about coughing over your own campfire while dinner sizzles along like it doesn’t need you at all.

Small waves folded into the shoreline in front of my camp site. Somewhere out past the edge of the open water, a loon called. Not eerie. Not lonely. Just clear and strong, like it had all the room in the world. I caught myself smiling at it. Good to know I wasn’t the only one out there working for a meal.

When the skin released on its own, I flipped the fillets. No forcing it. The deep orange had turned pale coral halfway up the sides. Steam lifted into the cold air, carrying the smells of butter and dill with it.

I pulled it before it over-seared.

The first bite was clean and lean. Not oily, not gamey. It didn’t coat your mouth. It filled it. A little sweetness. A faint mineral edge that only fresh cold water seems to give. The kind of flavor that makes you chew a bit slower without even realising.

I sat there eating with smoke still clinging to my wool jacket. The cast iron ticked as it cooled. The fire settled into coals. Out on the main lake, the ice still held from shore to horizon. But here where the river meets the lake, the season has opened just enough.

The lake gave something up that evening. I did my best to return the favor with care.