George and I hammered the Chinook salmon

My late twin brother, George Richey, leads a big king to net.

Years ago we had an early cool snap, a cold rain fell, and suddenly the Betsie River was awash with fresh-run Chinook salmon. Everywhere one looked were fish moving upstream, their backs creasing the surface.

Brother George and I were fishing two small holes 30 yards apart, and he was casting a wet fly while I was pitching a copper No. 2 Mepps Anglia spinner. It was midweek, and we seemed to have the river to ourselves.

George hooked a fish on a pattern he devised for dark-water, and it was called The Crick. It was basically a black fly with a bit of color, and he was bouncing it along bottom when it stopped and the line switched sideways. There is nothing delicate about setting the hook on a big river salmon. It is a happening!

Hooking two big kings was a special treat for us.

I could hear him grunt as he muscled back to pound the hook home. I took two turns on the reel handle, and a king salmon tried mightily to wrench the rod out of my hands. I urged him into a fighting mood with a hard double hook-set, and there we stood, 20 yards apart, the Richey twins, each one tight to an angry king salmon.

My fish started downstream, and jumped almost into his back pocket, and George spun around, glared at the fish heading out into midstream as his fish ran upstream away from the splash. His fish jumped out in front of me, and we both had to get moving to avoid tangling our lines.

He shuffled upstream while I moved down, and we had the two fish separated by 20 yards when his big king swapped ends, and headed downstream behind me as I scrapped with my fish in the deep hole. I stepped backwards, stepping over his line, and then we stood there, our backs almost touching, as we tried to beat up on those fish.

"Having fun yet?" he asked, knowing I was.

"Nothing better than a 25-pound king trying to rip the rod from your hands," I replied. "Waited a year to do this again."

The silence of the moment was hushed by splashing fish, and then George's fish headed upstream, and our two fish were as close together as we were, and both were struggling upstream, fighting the river current and our heavy rod pressure.

Fighting both salmon, with each going its own way, was a hoot.

"Could get a bit tricky soon," he noted. "If both of them come down together, it will be interesting to see if we can get out of the way while keeping them separated."

The Chinook salmon apparently read his mind or heard his voice, and like two submarines heading for two troop ships, here they came. One fish stayed deep and mine was near the surface, and I pulled from one side to upset his travel pattern. George and I always seemed to read each other's mind, and he did the same except he pulled in the opposite direction.

The fish hit the air, both in half-hearted jumps, and it was as if we were in a ballet on water. We reacted in unison without discussing it, and his move and mine complemented the other. The kings, reacting in a somewhat predictable manner, responded in kind. This was a battle of two twin men, working on two adult Chinook salmon of equal size, and it couldn't have been choreographed any better.

My fish cut between me and shore, spinning me around as it charged downstream. George's fish peeled around him in midstream, and now both fish were wallowing on the surface.

My fish was just half-a-shade lighter in coloration than his but it played out faster on the spinning tackle. I led the fish to shore, grabbed it by the caudal peduncle (the wrist-like narrowing just ahead of the tail), lifted it out, reached for my long-nose pliers, and twisted the treble free and released the fish.

Tailing a big Chinook salmon is easy if you know how and hang on.

I grabbed my camera and began clicking photos of George as he landed his 25-pounder. There was a bit of color in the background, and he held his fish aloft for two or three photos.

He bent over, released the fish with the dignity it deserved after putting up a valiant fight, and we were off looking for another adventure.
Those were the days when George and I lived our lives to the fullest, guided fishermen, and traveled Michigan's rivers together as we did everything else ... together, and as a team.

Today I was on the Betsie River again, and my thoughts of George were wonderful as I looked for fish below the old Homestead Dam. I found a few fish but they weren't hitting. The river water is still warm, and oddly enough, there were no people where I was at.

I cast to several fish but the fish were really spooky. One cast, and they would head into a timber-lined hole. The last thing they seemed interested in was flies or spinner, but it was a good day for remembering my twin brother.

I still think of him daily after almost eight years since his premature death, and although we hunted together as well, it was on those early salmon and steelhead trips that we became almost welded together, inseparable as two peas in a pod. I miss him, and just remembered this story today as I tried to recreate that day, and it's one of my favorites.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Beating up on the salmon

Hundreds of coho salmon were holding in the clear current of the Platte River near Honor, Mich., and as guide Mark Rinckey and I looked around, we never saw another fishermen.

Anglers were conspicuous by their  absence. He handed me a jar of spawnbags, and take my choice. The jar contained pink spawnbags and yellow ones.

"Take your pick," he said. "Yesterday's guide trip produced lots of salmon on the yellow bags. Pick your favorite."

Pink or yellow-mesh spawnbags work best.

So my choice was pink, and I hooked a two-pound jack coho (a precocious two-year-old fish) on the first cast. The fish fought the limber rod and four-pound line before coming to the net.

"These silvery youngsters are really good to eat," he said, unhooking the fish and placing it on the string. "We're catching a mixed bag of Chinook salmon, cohos and the occasional steelhead. The best of the steelhead fishing will begin in about 10-14 days as the salmon run ends.

"For now, it's mostly salmon. Once in a while we catch some adult 9-10-pound cohos, and they are pretty wild.

We were using lightweight 10-foot rods, the four-pound mono and a No. 8 hook with spawnbags. Two or three small splitshot are crimped to the line about 18-24 inches above the baited hook.

I baited up again, and sticking with what worked before, threaded a pink spawnbag on the line. It took several casts before an adult coho picked up the bait rolling along bottom, and as a tap was felt on the line, the hook was set.

An adult male ripped off on a 20 yard run, jumped once, turned and ran back downstream, switched directions again, and headed back upsteam. He wallowed on the surface, and unexpectedly the hook pulled free.

Hard hits and short runs are the rule right now.

"I haven't had a strike on yellow," he said, "pink seems to be the color. I'll keep trying it because I know it works."

I was into another jack coho, and this guy was two pounds of high-stepping dynamite and fought like a fish three times his size. One thing is true about river guide Mark Rinckey of Honor: it's possible to get ahead of him, but look out when he  works things out.

We never compete against each other when we fish on a busman's holiday -- a day when he doesn't have a trip -- but the man is a magnet for fish. He promptly hooked a big adult male coho, fought it hard for 10 minutes, and then it burrowed into a beaver house along the bank, crocheted the line through a maze of small alder sticks and broke off.

"I lost a coho and Chinook salmon to the beaver house yesterday, and if a big fish wants to go there, it's hard to stop them on four-pound line. Many of the adult fish are still silvery from Lake Michigan. The trick, if possible, is keep the fish away from debris in the water."

He then hooked another jack, fought it to a standstill, netted it, and added it to the stringer. I then hooked another good fish, and lost it after a five-minute struggle as it rolled in the line and broke free.

Seven fish for four hours, and several lost fish, is common.

Time passed as we went through one dry spell after getting hits and failing to hook up. The salmon were cooperating, but were hitting light. The soft takers were hard to hook well.

The sun was well up in the sky, shining bright and full on the water, and the wind died for a spell. Action slowed until the wind picked up slightly, riffled the water, and the salmon began hitting again.

We fished hard for about four hours, and landed seven salmon including one of about eight pounds. The jacks averaged from two to three pounds, and we danced with the fish during the morning. Eventually, as with many things in life, all good things must come to an end.

Dances with salmon can be a pleasant interlude for river fishermen before the fall steelhead runs pick up in a couple of weeks. Until them, anyone looking to book a guided salmon trip on the Betsie or Platte rivers, can call Mark Rinckey at (231) 325-6901. He also is booking steelhead trips for late-September, October and November.

Light line, nice fish and autumn color go together like bacon, eggs and toast. Some dates are still available, and anglers are advised to call soon to arrange a great fishing trip.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors