Outdoors | Here’s why I’ll never make it as a professional salmon fishing guide

Despite the enormous amount of enjoyment that I gain from fishing for salmon, being a guide is not in my DNA.

I might lend others gear and offer opinion, but angling companions are largely on their own. It works out better for both of us this way. They can take full credit for their catch and I am not burdened with any blame.

A serious challenge to this hands-off approach surfaced when a former college roommate phoned to ask if he and two buddies could join me for a day of fishing.

Why not? I thought.

My 20-ft Hewescraft can fish four rods, salmon were steamrolling into the Hanford Reach, and I had a few upriver brights on my punch card. Confident was my middle name.

“No pressure,” Gary wrote in a later email. “But we wouldn’t mind having some nice salmon filets to take home.” Two days later, he sent a picture of a dark-skinned, toothy Chinook salmon with the caption, “We’re expecting several of these, only bigger and brighter.”

I woke up the morning Gary and his friends were to show at the launch thinking about how to manage four rods. Forgiveness is rarely granted to the unprepared.

Sometimes your thoughts coalesce at the crack of dawn and other times they mill around like a frantic herd of sheep. That morning’s thoughts resembled the latter.

While Gary and his buddies acquired an extra hour of sleep, I retrieved my boat from the storage yard and checked the battery, gas gauge, sonar and drain plug.

I made sure lifejackets, an anchor, and a fire extinguisher were on board. Boat deemed seaworthy, I loaded net, rods, reels, downriggers and tackle boxes that contained an assortment of Wiggle Warts, Kwikfish, Mag Lips, Super Bait, Spin-n-Glos, spinners, jet divers and lead balls.

Bait, including sardines, tuna mix, herring and cured roe, was stashed in the 80-gallon cooler that serves as a bench seat when I run my trolling motor.

You can never have too much gear when it comes to salmon.

Bags of ice were placed in the cooler along with bottles of water and snacks for those who forgot their lunch and showed up thirsty. I couldn’t help think that spending this much time for others to catch a fish would get old fast.

The morning of my great guide adventure began with promise. We hooked a nice-sized salmon on the first drift. Unfortunately, it tangled with a downrigger line and broke off.

Soon after, a bright 10 pounder was brought safely to the net. When I motored upriver for a third pass, one downrigger arm swung free and dragged the entire setup – arm, mount, and reel – into the deep blue. Yup, $300 of gear gone in a blink of the eye.

As guide, I should have made sure the cannonball to the downrigger was secure before I throttled the motor. Yet, consumed by the responsibility of getting another fish for my “clients” (not to mention a trio of hefty backsides blocked my view), I winked out.

The remainder of the day passed without major mishap. Putting out a fourth rod for myself was never in the cards.

Instead, I focused on limiting the number of screwups and keeping the mood of my “clients” positive. “Maybe we’ll get one at the next place,” I reassured. “We’ve got plenty of other things to try.”

We fished up the Columbia River north of Richland, to Taylor Flats and Ringold with two more salmon landed and one lost over the course of the day. In between managing boat speed and position, I tried to keep gear in its proper place – something not on the agenda of my three companions.

Bottles of scent, empty beer and soda cans, sandwich wrappers and discarded rigs lay scattered where they had been tossed. Bait stains peppered the gunnels. My only spool of stretchy thread and a pair of needle-nose pliers disappeared in the mess.

There were brief moments when I sensed what it felt like to be a guide: selecting gear, baiting hooks, experiencing the comradely of a boatload of anglers, the satisfaction of helping someone catch a fish, processing catch by the light of the moon.

Then there was Gary’s thank you note.

“Actually, you would make a great guide – the patience of a saint dealing with three bumbling salmon newbies, easy, outgoing personality; and you know how to catch fish.”

Kind words, for sure, but not enough said to change my mind. I’ve decided that when it comes to fishing for salmon, I am self-centered.

Far fewer issues come up when I fish solo. Although the current one-salmon limit might lead an able “client” filling out their punch card with a smile, I’d rather put two rods out and pretend that I am guiding myself.