Columbia River Walleye
The Strange Story Of How Metric Momma
Just Missed Becoming The New World-Record Walleye
April 11, 2007
By Terry W. Sheely
Was that a world record 25.35313-pound walleye that was hooked, landed, weighed, videoed, and witlessly released into the choppy Columbia River on that blustery Northwest morning last April?
The three of us who were there think so. On the rod was The Dalles, Oregon fishing guide and Columbia River walleye specialist Ed Iman. Behind the video camera was Cabela’s Outfitter Journal Jason Morrow and me--the guy who swung the net.
As fishermen and metaphorists know the big ones get away, but how this possible world record inveigled a brand new out of the box digital scale to give history the slip is one strange and slightly twisted fishing story. Which seems, somehow, appropriate considering the spit-and-sputter that still seethes around the existing all-tackle walleye world record. Or records.
Our flirtation with the record book took place on April 11, 2007 a white-cap morning fit for chasing the super-sized walleye that are on the pre-spawn bite in Lake Umatilla, an impounded stretch of the mile-wide Columbia River between John Day and McNary dams. The lake is one of several hydro-dam impoundments on the Lower Mid-Columbia that form the Washington-Oregon border. These lakes have produced an exceptional number of trophy-size walleye including state records in both Washington and Oregon.
This morning though, we are fishing under the curse of the metric system, unaware, innocently and unwittingly jigging 5/8-ounce blade baits across volcanic rock straight into the mire of controversy that has muddied the world all-tackle walleye record for more than 25 years.
The Columbia River is big water and a big fish zone renowned for growing oversized walleyes. But it can be tough fishing; quality over quantity. Even great walleye fishermen don’t catch a lot of walleye in these boundary impoundments. The walleyes that they do catch, however, are often wall hangers.
And on this wind-swirled spring morning record-book fever is in the air. Less than two and a half months earlier Mike Hepper and partner Ron Humbyrd caught 9½ and 10½ pounders just upriver below the confluence of the Snake River, and later that morning set a newWashington State record when Hepper landed a 19.3 pounder. On the south side of the river, Arnold Berg caught the Oregon record, a sag-bellied 19.15 pound female. That the next world record is here is a fact, not speculation. Twice unofficial world record walleyes have been tangled in fish management test nets, measured and released.
“The Walleye Capital of the World” boasts a big sign in the little river-front town ofUmatilla, Oregon host of the annual Oregon Governor’s Cup Walleye Tournament.
Ed, Jason and I are here to film a television program, and hopefully, catch a few super walleyes. Professional fishing guide and Columbia River walleye guru Iman had a hunch that we might connect with a trophy-size walleye and as a precaution ordered a new battery-powered, digital fish scale pre-calibrated for accuracy.
We’d need it, judging by the controversy that still boils around the existing world-record contenders. Just how many pounds it will take to set a new world walleye record depends on which current world walleye record you believe in. There are two, both with a cadre of firm loyalists.
In 1960 a 25-pound walleye pulled from Old Hickory Lake in Tennessee was hailed as the all-tackle world record by the International Game Fish Association (IGFA). Jason Schratwieser, IGFA conservation director says his record-keeping organization continues to staunchly stand by that fish as the existing world record.
That’s not an opinion shared by Ted Dzialo of the National Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame and publisher of the, “Official World and USA State Freshwater Angling Records.” According to Dzialo, a “photometric analysis” of a photograph of the Tennessee record-holder, raised suspicions about the record walleye’s size. Analysts estimated the weight at 16 to 18 pounds not 25 pounds and said that for the walleye to weigh 25 pounds its girth would have had to be 30 percent larger than what the photo analysis showed.
IGFA, though, defends its Old Hickory record, and Tennessee defiantly claims the world-record.
But, with the “photometric analysis” poking holes of suspicion in the Old Hickory record, Dzialo dumped the Tennessee whopper from his record book and replaced it with Al Nelson’s 22-pound 11-ounce walleye caught from Arkansas’s Greer's Ferry Lake in 1982.
Both disputed records, though, are within a boneheaded factory flub-up of being knocked off their respective pedestals by the big-bellied Columbia River pre-spawner that Iman is locked into.
“Big fish, here,” he groans. I glance at the 7-foot Lamiglas rod bent, straining and pointing at a monstrous golden flash twisting and wrenching against the lure several feet below the boat. In the refraction of the river water the fish looks as wide as it is long. Iman’s rod bucks, line squirts off the spool and the fish dives powerfully and
disappears into the depths. Jason jumps for the camera, I jump for the net. Iman slowly, gently pumps her back. His eyes are wide, his mouth tight and his touch light. I dig in my toes, lean out and on the second pass Iman lifts her head, I
reach and black mesh closes around the giant walleye.
“In the net!”
“It’s a teener—a high, high teener,” Iman guesses. “Maybe bigger.”
The digital fish scales are ripped out of the packing box, turned on and attached to the fish’s lower lip. The read-out is a puzzling 11.5. “This fish has got to be bigger than 11.5,” Iman says and jiggles the scales. The read-out skitters up to 13 and falls back to 11.5. The guide shakes his head in disbelief, "I thought sure it was bigger, a lot bigger."
“Scales don’t lie.”
Usually not, anyway.
She’s a perfect wall hanger, fat, long and thick, every green and golden scale impeccably in place. Fins straight and crisp. Belly bulging with spawn.
High-fives, a back slap, and then Iman gently lowers the big female into the river, holds her until she stabilizes and when she slaps her broad tail at us he lets go. She angles down. “She’s going to make some great walleyes when she spawns,” somebody says.
It’s a great start to the day, but bad news is speeding at us from the other side of the river, riding in the livewell of walleye guide Robbie Roberts’ boat. Roberts is a friend of Iman’s from Pendleton, Oregon, and has a client with a whopper and no camera. “Can you photograph this 15 pounder for me,” the grinning guide asks, holding up a good-size walleye.
The three of us look at Robbie’s walleye and then at each other. “Are you sure that’s a 15,” Iman asks. “Yeah, I’m sure,” Roberts says, “I just weighed it on my fish lippers and they were right-on this morning. We got an 11 and then we got this one.” We photograph Robert’s fish, congratulate the client and silently let the boats drift apart.
No one speaks.
Finally, Jason says it. "That 15-pounder was a whole lot smaller than the 11.5 we released, a whole lot smaller!”
“If that fish was a verified 15---let me see those digital scales,” Jason says. He cups a hand to shade the digital read-out, looks at it, looks away, and then looks again. “This thing is set on kilograms,” he whispers, “no wonder that fish weighed light.”
“Kilograms?” Ed says, “Not pounds?”
Kilograms! Jason says.
"You change it, Ed?”
“Didn’t touch it. If it’s in kilograms, it came out of the box pre-set in kilograms.”
Scales do lie!
“What’s 11.5 kilograms in pounds,” somebody asks?
Ed flips open his cell phone, makes a call. Repeats the question. Listens. Hangs up.
“Mulitply kilos by 2.2 pounds,” he says.
“That’s 25.35313 pounds.”
Gawd
“What’s the world record?”
"Yeah,” Ed says, “Yeah.”
There's a loud quiet in our boat, a screaming loud quiet.
If we didn’t just release the new world record walleye, we came within a scale of it?
Released it without documenting it.
And worse, in the rush to release her alive we didn’t slow down long enough to grab a still photo. Jason has the only evidence on digitized video. “I can make prints off the video,” he says, “see if we can read the scales.”
Even if we can read the digital scale, and it later turns out that we can’t, the recording wouldn’t hold up as evidence in the wacky war of walleye records.
“It's alright,” Ed says, “it’s alright.”
He picks up his rod and drops the blade bait. “She’s still out there.”
Jason and I look at each other. Iman has just released the biggest walleye of his life, maybe the biggest walleye that anybody has ever hooked and landed, anywhere. The money fish, the endorsement fish, the TV fish, the magazine cover fish, the fish that would guarantee a guide’s career.
But he’s right, she’s gone, and it is alright.
She’s still out there. Spawning, fattening, growing bigger.
Watch out Tennessee and Arkansas, Metric Momma may be coming back.
By Terry W. Sheely
Was that a world record 25.35313-pound walleye that was hooked, landed, weighed, videoed, and witlessly released into the choppy Columbia River on that blustery Northwest morning last April?
The three of us who were there think so. On the rod was The Dalles, Oregon fishing guide and Columbia River walleye specialist Ed Iman. Behind the video camera was Cabela’s Outfitter Journal Jason Morrow and me--the guy who swung the net.
As fishermen and metaphorists know the big ones get away, but how this possible world record inveigled a brand new out of the box digital scale to give history the slip is one strange and slightly twisted fishing story. Which seems, somehow, appropriate considering the spit-and-sputter that still seethes around the existing all-tackle walleye world record. Or records.
Our flirtation with the record book took place on April 11, 2007 a white-cap morning fit for chasing the super-sized walleye that are on the pre-spawn bite in Lake Umatilla, an impounded stretch of the mile-wide Columbia River between John Day and McNary dams. The lake is one of several hydro-dam impoundments on the Lower Mid-Columbia that form the Washington-Oregon border. These lakes have produced an exceptional number of trophy-size walleye including state records in both Washington and Oregon.
This morning though, we are fishing under the curse of the metric system, unaware, innocently and unwittingly jigging 5/8-ounce blade baits across volcanic rock straight into the mire of controversy that has muddied the world all-tackle walleye record for more than 25 years.
The Columbia River is big water and a big fish zone renowned for growing oversized walleyes. But it can be tough fishing; quality over quantity. Even great walleye fishermen don’t catch a lot of walleye in these boundary impoundments. The walleyes that they do catch, however, are often wall hangers.
And on this wind-swirled spring morning record-book fever is in the air. Less than two and a half months earlier Mike Hepper and partner Ron Humbyrd caught 9½ and 10½ pounders just upriver below the confluence of the Snake River, and later that morning set a newWashington State record when Hepper landed a 19.3 pounder. On the south side of the river, Arnold Berg caught the Oregon record, a sag-bellied 19.15 pound female. That the next world record is here is a fact, not speculation. Twice unofficial world record walleyes have been tangled in fish management test nets, measured and released.
“The Walleye Capital of the World” boasts a big sign in the little river-front town ofUmatilla, Oregon host of the annual Oregon Governor’s Cup Walleye Tournament.
Ed, Jason and I are here to film a television program, and hopefully, catch a few super walleyes. Professional fishing guide and Columbia River walleye guru Iman had a hunch that we might connect with a trophy-size walleye and as a precaution ordered a new battery-powered, digital fish scale pre-calibrated for accuracy.
We’d need it, judging by the controversy that still boils around the existing world-record contenders. Just how many pounds it will take to set a new world walleye record depends on which current world walleye record you believe in. There are two, both with a cadre of firm loyalists.
In 1960 a 25-pound walleye pulled from Old Hickory Lake in Tennessee was hailed as the all-tackle world record by the International Game Fish Association (IGFA). Jason Schratwieser, IGFA conservation director says his record-keeping organization continues to staunchly stand by that fish as the existing world record.
That’s not an opinion shared by Ted Dzialo of the National Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame and publisher of the, “Official World and USA State Freshwater Angling Records.” According to Dzialo, a “photometric analysis” of a photograph of the Tennessee record-holder, raised suspicions about the record walleye’s size. Analysts estimated the weight at 16 to 18 pounds not 25 pounds and said that for the walleye to weigh 25 pounds its girth would have had to be 30 percent larger than what the photo analysis showed.
IGFA, though, defends its Old Hickory record, and Tennessee defiantly claims the world-record.
But, with the “photometric analysis” poking holes of suspicion in the Old Hickory record, Dzialo dumped the Tennessee whopper from his record book and replaced it with Al Nelson’s 22-pound 11-ounce walleye caught from Arkansas’s Greer's Ferry Lake in 1982.
Both disputed records, though, are within a boneheaded factory flub-up of being knocked off their respective pedestals by the big-bellied Columbia River pre-spawner that Iman is locked into.
“Big fish, here,” he groans. I glance at the 7-foot Lamiglas rod bent, straining and pointing at a monstrous golden flash twisting and wrenching against the lure several feet below the boat. In the refraction of the river water the fish looks as wide as it is long. Iman’s rod bucks, line squirts off the spool and the fish dives powerfully and
disappears into the depths. Jason jumps for the camera, I jump for the net. Iman slowly, gently pumps her back. His eyes are wide, his mouth tight and his touch light. I dig in my toes, lean out and on the second pass Iman lifts her head, I
reach and black mesh closes around the giant walleye.
“In the net!”
“It’s a teener—a high, high teener,” Iman guesses. “Maybe bigger.”
The digital fish scales are ripped out of the packing box, turned on and attached to the fish’s lower lip. The read-out is a puzzling 11.5. “This fish has got to be bigger than 11.5,” Iman says and jiggles the scales. The read-out skitters up to 13 and falls back to 11.5. The guide shakes his head in disbelief, "I thought sure it was bigger, a lot bigger."
“Scales don’t lie.”
Usually not, anyway.
She’s a perfect wall hanger, fat, long and thick, every green and golden scale impeccably in place. Fins straight and crisp. Belly bulging with spawn.
High-fives, a back slap, and then Iman gently lowers the big female into the river, holds her until she stabilizes and when she slaps her broad tail at us he lets go. She angles down. “She’s going to make some great walleyes when she spawns,” somebody says.
It’s a great start to the day, but bad news is speeding at us from the other side of the river, riding in the livewell of walleye guide Robbie Roberts’ boat. Roberts is a friend of Iman’s from Pendleton, Oregon, and has a client with a whopper and no camera. “Can you photograph this 15 pounder for me,” the grinning guide asks, holding up a good-size walleye.
The three of us look at Robbie’s walleye and then at each other. “Are you sure that’s a 15,” Iman asks. “Yeah, I’m sure,” Roberts says, “I just weighed it on my fish lippers and they were right-on this morning. We got an 11 and then we got this one.” We photograph Robert’s fish, congratulate the client and silently let the boats drift apart.
No one speaks.
Finally, Jason says it. "That 15-pounder was a whole lot smaller than the 11.5 we released, a whole lot smaller!”
“If that fish was a verified 15---let me see those digital scales,” Jason says. He cups a hand to shade the digital read-out, looks at it, looks away, and then looks again. “This thing is set on kilograms,” he whispers, “no wonder that fish weighed light.”
“Kilograms?” Ed says, “Not pounds?”
Kilograms! Jason says.
"You change it, Ed?”
“Didn’t touch it. If it’s in kilograms, it came out of the box pre-set in kilograms.”
Scales do lie!
“What’s 11.5 kilograms in pounds,” somebody asks?
Ed flips open his cell phone, makes a call. Repeats the question. Listens. Hangs up.
“Mulitply kilos by 2.2 pounds,” he says.
“That’s 25.35313 pounds.”
Gawd
“What’s the world record?”
"Yeah,” Ed says, “Yeah.”
There's a loud quiet in our boat, a screaming loud quiet.
If we didn’t just release the new world record walleye, we came within a scale of it?
Released it without documenting it.
And worse, in the rush to release her alive we didn’t slow down long enough to grab a still photo. Jason has the only evidence on digitized video. “I can make prints off the video,” he says, “see if we can read the scales.”
Even if we can read the digital scale, and it later turns out that we can’t, the recording wouldn’t hold up as evidence in the wacky war of walleye records.
“It's alright,” Ed says, “it’s alright.”
He picks up his rod and drops the blade bait. “She’s still out there.”
Jason and I look at each other. Iman has just released the biggest walleye of his life, maybe the biggest walleye that anybody has ever hooked and landed, anywhere. The money fish, the endorsement fish, the TV fish, the magazine cover fish, the fish that would guarantee a guide’s career.
But he’s right, she’s gone, and it is alright.
She’s still out there. Spawning, fattening, growing bigger.
Watch out Tennessee and Arkansas, Metric Momma may be coming back.
