Cabezon: Stories from Cape Kiwanda and the Forgotten Coast

The Oregon Coast is a unique place. Spared from the rampant development that's plagued many other attractive oceanfront venues worldwide, its rugged, desolate beauty has remained relatively untouched throughout time. Vast stretches of remote coastline are scattered with small towns precariously sheltered from the ocean's fury. Aside from the brief summertime bustle, the atmosphere is gloomy and sleepy. The notoriously bad weather shrouds these towns in rain, fog, and wind for a significant portion of the year. The winters can be brutal, taking lives every year and confining many of its residents indoors until spring arrives. The ever-present risk of a monstrous tsunami decimating the region at any moment adds an uneasy undertone to the already treacherous coastline, one known for swallowing tourists and mariners alike even on its best days. The meandering, wooded coastal mountain pass serves as a physical and metaphorical barrier between the coast and Oregon's more densely populated areas. The windswept region is frequently ignored and forgotten when one evokes imagery of the "West Coast," and many outside of Oregon know nothing about it. For many, it's a 363 mile blank spot on the map of the world. For me, it stands as a place of beauty, mystique, and distinct formative experiences that shaped my worldview on ecology, fisheries, and our relationship with the environment.

The fishing off the Oregon coast is seldom discussed outside of Oregon fishing circles. "West coast fishing" is usually synonymous with Southern California fishes such as Yellowtail and Calico Bass. The Oregon Coast's remoteness, foul weather, and danger deter the masses of anglers that California locales such as San Diego bring. The species variety is also admittedly poor when compared to southern regions, limited primarily to Salmon, Lingcod, Cabezon, Rockfishes, Surfperch, and Albacore Tuna. However, the relative lack of pressure makes for easier and more productive fishing for the species that are available. There are also excellent shellfish foraging opportunities, from the famous Dungeness Crab to the wide assortment of bivalves found in the beaches and bays. My earliest saltwater fishing experiences took place here, enduring relentless rain and crashing waves in the pursuit of the coast's oddball lineup of fishes.

The (few) readers of this blog "back in the day" might remember my quest to crack the elusive Cabezon. For those who don't, I had spent many years trying to catch one of these unusual giant Sculpin. I finally got one back in 2016. It wasn't a particularly awe-inspiring story; my dad and I went out to Pacific City's Cape Kiwanda to fill the freezer on a sunny August day. It was one of those rare days off the Oregon Coast with a completely flat ocean. No sneaker waves, no small craft advisory, no marine forecast websites filled with the color red and double-digit numbers. Days like this where it seems almost too good to be true often coincide with poor fishing. However, this was not the case. The rockfish were biting as per usual, and there was some good quality to them. Black Rockfish aren't like most of their bottom-hugging cousins; they feed throughout the entire water column, frequently busting bait on the surface where they can be caught using topwater artificials. They remind me more of the Southern California Calico Bass, except even more aggressive. They weren't in that frenzied of a state today, but were nevetheless biting aggressively on shrimp flies, squid imitations, and swimbaits. A Gray Whale taking refuge near the Cape stopped by to say hello.

After catching a limit of Black Rockfish and losing a few rigs, I dropped down a large 8" purple leadhead in the hopes of running into something bigger. Something bigger arrived, and it was the large Cabezon I had spent years looking for. I gaffed it and brought it aboard, ecstatic that one had finally showed up on my line. Even though I have since caught many more Cabezon, none have exceeded that one in size and spectacle. An entire, legal-size Dungeness Crab was in its stomach (well past the point of edibility), and I could fit two fists into its gaping maw. Although it remains one of my most memorable catches off the Oregon Coast, nowadays I regret having kept it. It wasn't the best eating fish, outperformed by the smaller rockfish in flavor and texture. There were a few worms in the meat that needed to be picked out. It was a large, old fish; one that would have been better suited spending its remaining days eating crabs and making more Cabezon in the murky, inky depths of the forgotten coast.

Salmon are the romance fish of the Northwest, particularly given their tragic story in Oregon. Most of the saltwater fishes of Oregon are craggy, prehistoric-looking fish that spend most of the time milling around the same surge-battered rockpile. Salmon are not only objectively beautiful and instantly recognizable, but have the most unique life cycle and provide immense ecological, economic, and cultural importance. They traverse vast stretches of ocean and river in their lifetimes, enduring difficult, exhausting lives in the hopes of eventually returning to their natal streams to spawn. Their sporting qualities are unsurpassed amongst nearshore Oregon fishes, and are known for their speed, acrobatics, and dynamism. Oregon's Columbia River system once boasted the world's greatest Pacific Salmon runs, supporting the economies of entire towns with their sheer abundance.

However, the Salmon's status as Oregon's most iconic fish has been marred by harsh reminders of humanity's capacity to destroy. Relentless damming, deforestation, and overfishing turned the most resilient and abundant Salmon stocks in the world to a shadow of their former glory. The hapless Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife's futile efforts to manage and fairly allocate what's left of Oregon's Salmon have turned the fishery into a hotbed of political turmoil. Commercial and tribal gill netting still occurs, to the anger of recreational rod-and-reel fishers who see tighter regulations each year. Although recreational fisheries have a minimal impact when compared to destructive, nonselective gillnetting practices, they nevertheless are often the first to experience restricted opportunities and closures. In desperate need of funding, steep license fees, tags, and endorsements are mandated by ODFW and increase on a regular basis. Seasons are short and fleeting, resulting in swarms of anglers eager to partake in what's left of the fishery. Most of my Oregon salmon experiences have been nothing short of combat fishing. I hate fishing in dense crowds where it feels like the fishermen outnumber the fish, but this is often the case with Pacific Northwest Salmon.

Meager improvements in run strength are dwarfed by historical stock assessments. The largest and most destructive of the dams are here to stay. Meager fish ladders are often the only option for the anadromous Salmon to return to their natal streams to spawn. In the Columbia River, the future of an ecosystem depends on a narrow choke point that fish must locate to succesfully cross large impasses like the Bonneville Dam. Instead of being able to disperse amongst the vast river, the entire future of Oregon's largest run is forced to stack up in a vulnerable, conspicuous purgatory. Large numbers of Sea lions are attracted by this easy food source, eliminating salmon in epidemic proportions. Population control initiatives have recently been introduced by ODFW, but resistance from well-meaning but misinformed members of the public who can't bear the thought of cute Sea Lions being euthanized has hindered progress. It's a sad story with no easy solution in the foreseeable future. Granted, Sea Lions are natural predators of Salmon. However, the dams have given them an unfair advantage and previous decades of salmon degradation have amplified the impacts of Sea Lion predation. It seems to get worse with each passing year, and I can't remember the last time I didn't see the words "poor returns" featured in an article about Oregon Salmon populations. Many believe that the Pacific Northwest's iconic salmon runs will never return to their previous state, and its not difficult to see why. Although hope springs eternal in the hearts of fishermen (particularly salmon fishermen), Oregon salmon fishing often feels as if it's in its dying days.

Although my earliest Salmon fishing took place in the crowded jet sled madness of the Columbia River, my most resonant Oregon salmon experience also occurred off the rugged shores of Cape Kiwanda. An unusually poor morning of rockfish jigging was interrupted by a beautiful Coho Salmon that made the hasty and poor decision to eat a bright red swimbait. Although it was a great fish that turned the morning from slow to memorable in an instant, once again I was served with a bleak reminder of the sad state of Oregon's Salmon. Despite their incomparable strength and fight, Salmon are notoriously fragile fish that don't fare well with handling or stress. They fight themselves to exhaustion, unwilling or unable to conserve their strength when faced with an obstacle impeding their journey. When fishing in rivers, they can be carefully cradled in one's lap or released underwater while keeping the current flowing through their gills. In the ocean, they can be difficult to land in choppy conditions without damaging the animal. Ocean Salmon regulations can be complicated, with different seasons for hatchery and wild fish. It can be difficult to distinguish a hatchery-born Salmon from a native fish boatside in the time it takes to keep the hook in its mouth. It's an unfortunately common practice to "net first, ask questions later" to avoid the risk of losing a keeper at the boat. I didn't have a net with me, and as much as I disapprove of this practice I likely would have used it in the heat of the moment. Instead, I grabbed the Salmon by the tail and lifted it into the kayak.

The Coho was badly hooked beneath the gill, and blood was steadily streaming from its lower jaw by the time I pried the large swimbait hook from its mouth. I was able to closely examine the fish and noticed it still had its adipose fin. The fish was a wild, native fish. Wild fish were out of season at the time and it needed to be released. Although it weakly staggered away, I doubt it survived. It was an incidental catch that couldn't be predicted or expected, but nevertheless shouldn't have been sent back just to sink to the bottom and die. The irony of being forced to waste a catch due to fisheries regulations that are supposed to conserve a species is difficult to ignore. While nothing truly goes to waste in the ocean, it nevertheless felt wrong to have squandered the life of a dying breed of fish. It was even more harrowing to think of the innumerable more wasted at the hands of damming, poor environmental conditions, gillnets, and Sea Lions being where they shouldn't. Since then, I've largely avoided Oregon salmon fishing. I had long been turned off by the crowds, often tough fishing, and restrictions, but accidentally killing one in the shadow of the Cape turned me off for good. I still remained an avid Salmon fishermen, but primarily while guiding in Alaska's remote waters. The lack of pressure, restrictions, and politics coupled with the greater abundance of fish suited me better. I have endless respect for those who continue to target Salmon year after year in Oregon. It's not easy.

Above: My first ever Salmon with the late Bob Toman, a legendary Pacific Northwest Salmon guide. His innovative techniques have been used all around the globe and remain the methods of choice for thousands of anglers every year. Fishing with him is what inspired me to start guiding myself.

As humans continue to exploit the oceans, fisheries regulatory bodies are often inconclusive governing mechanisms for preservation. While many of America's fisheries are well-managed and have improved markedly over the years, it is often simply not enough. Some populations appear to beyond the point of saving, not without complete moratoriums that may result in consequences of their own. Closing a fishery entirely may be the most effective -and in some cases only- option to save a species from extirpation, but many wildlife agencies depend on the funding from license sales that may vanish if popular sportfish can no longer be targeted. I'm not going to pretend I know the solution. However, I do find it interesting that many species and ecosystems inadvertently find their own solutions. Many species of fish -from native trout in the West to saltwater bass in Southern California- have inspired widespread catch and release ethos amongst anglers enthusiastic about targeting and preserving them. Other species, such as the local Yellowtail of La Jolla, have become elusive through their sporadic, constantly changing movements and feeding behavior. Not only have they adopted lifestyles difficult for many anglers to figure out, but their fast growth, early sexual maturity, and wide range allows them to quickly replace those that are lost.

The fish of the Oregon Coast often seem predisposed for population decline. The numerous bottomfish species are mostly slow-growers that reside in predictable areas, while salmon populations are dependent on the success of a long upstream migration through rivers marred by manmade obstacles. However, the saving grace of the Oregon Coast's wildlife may lie in the ecosystem itself. Unlike the placid, sunny waters of SoCal that facilitate almost year-round access, Oregon's notoriously dangerous ocean conditions serve as a deterrant for a significant portion of the year. Navigable harbors are limited, and much of the coast is lightly pressured and seldom fished on a regular basis. Those that do fish the coast religiously are few and far between, especially when compared to the masses of recreational boaters in more forgiving regions. Even other Northwest locales such as the Puget Sound in Washington have fared far worse in the face of overfishing than the Oregon Coast, with perennial fishing opportunities in the Sound few and far between. I'd put money on easy access and protected waters as major contributing factors to the fact that flatfish and perch are the only species that can legally be targeted year round in many of Washington's numerous marine zones. "Easy access" and "protected" are seldom associated with the Oregon Coast. The rain, fog, wind, sleet, swells, and icy waters that deter many from even venturing out to sea in my home state may be the savior of its fisheries. Only time will tell.