As any fisherman will tell you, no coho goes down without a spastically muscular fight. And no other salmon fights like a coho.
Braced against rollers in the slick pit of our salmon troller, we breathe in North America’s great temperate rainforest, misty and edging the grey seas of Chatham Strait where we fish. With rain beating rubber clothes, scales in hair, and blood in teeth we run the hydraulic spools that pull up writhing salmon on fathoms of steel line.