We had followed the birds along a tide line for some time. They dipped and flared, obviously following baitfish but never congregating in one of those wonderful feeding frenzies that occur when predators below corner bait and force it to the surface. Our meandering course had taken us a number of miles north of Dundas Island, some 10 to 15 miles off the British Columbia mainland. Here, just south of the Alaska border, the weather was overcast with occasional showers - perfect for keeping the salmon up in the water column. Under the cloud cover to the east, the Coast Range was visible, as were a number of nearby small islands. The wind had become a light breeze, leaving only the gentle remnant Pacific swell to remind us that we were indeed on the ocean.

Suddenly a baitfish burst from the surface followed by a host of its brethren, all pursued by feeding salmon. Almost magically the few birds we had been following were joined by a mixed flock of their friends. Terns, gulls, murres, murrelets and diving ducks all joined in to partake of this developing bonanza. I gunned the outboard and then shut it down, allowing the skiff to coast within casting range. My photographer and wife readied her camera gear while I frantically dropped line on the deck. The Clouser landed at the edge of the bait ball and barely got wet before a hungry silver salmon snatched it.

This fish must have heard my disparaging comparison of salmon to bonefish from the previous evening and was determined to debunk it. It stayed on the surface, pushing a wake, and made the line sizzle as it ran. The fish was hooked off the bow and made that wonderful first run in a great semicircle toward the stern. As I swiveled to follow, my eye caught the face of our depth sounder. It read 960 feet. This was no shallow-water estuary fishing! We had wanted to meet the salmon in the ocean where they were still actively feeding, and we had.

Fulfilling a Challenge

This trip started with a meeting with the British Columbia Sport Fishing Institute in Vancouver. This group represents the regional sport-fishing industry and provides a wonderful place to obtain information and assistance for all things piscatorial. Over the past few years, a number of us have worked with the organization and various lodges to explore, refine and popularize fly-fishing in salt water for salmon. During that time the sport has grown significantly, and a number of lodges now offer excellent fly-fishing opportunities. Most of the best action occurs when the fish return close to their native rivers. Nothing wrong with that - it can be absolutely spectacular sport. But we wanted to find areas to catch fish before they began their spawning runs. If we were successful, it would lengthen the season and further encourage lodge owners to attract and support long-rodders.

Ocean-feeding salmon aren't hard to find. Beginning in May, conventional-gear anglers do well in southeast Alaska and British Columbia. For fly-fisherman, trying to locate salmon near the surface is the problem - an almost insurmountable one with chinook (king salmon). Fortunately, the other Pacific species are more obliging, especially the silvers (coho), which often swim near the surface and feed voraciously.

Tom Bird, the institute's executive director, suggested we take our quest to Haa Nee Naa, a lodge on Dundas Island in northern B.C. A call to owner Clayton Vanier revealed an enthusiastic fly-rodder who confirmed that his remote location was squarely in the path of salmon eventually headed to two of B.C.'s largest river systems, The Nass and Skeena. Additionally, the area around the island's north end was rich with baitfish and attracted and held great numbers of ocean-feeding salmon. The fact that his lodge offers a self-guided program (excellent guides are available if requested) sealed the deal.

Lodge Orientation

An early August morning found us parking the car at Vancouver's international airport and queuing up for our regional jet flight to Prince Ruppert. There, a shuttle driver took us to the nearby dock where a collection of transportation options awaited travelers. Ferries, water taxis and assorted aircraft all vied for position at the single pier. We drew an icon of north country travel, a Dehavilland Beaver. Six of us and all our gear squeezed into the cabin with considerable effort, and off we went.

Some 15 minutes later, Dundas Island materialized out of the mist. We turned north along the island's eastern shore, then over a secluded cove with a brightly painted floating lodge - our home for the next five days. The Beaver made a long lazy bank on final approach, touched down without a bump and slid up to the lodge dock as though on rails.

In most brochures, Northwest lodges often list the admonition, ''Don't blow your appetite on that crummy airline food. We'll have a hot lunch ready when you arrive.'' True to their word, the table was set, and after being shown to our rooms and given an opportunity to freshen up, we sat down to what was to be the first in an uninterrupted series of great meals. Sated, we relaxed while Vanier introduced staff, explained meal schedules and provided an overview of boats and motors, radios and electronics, and the area's geographic features.

The boats were custom-built to Vanier's specifications. Each includes electronics, all necessary marine accessories, safety gear and survival suits, if you wish to wear them. The latter always bring a smile to our faces. In 1970, we made our first trip to southeast Alaska, courtesy of Alaska Fish and Game. One day we went fishing for ocean salmon and were required to wear bright-orange survival suits. Our hosts explained that they would not do much good if an upset occurred but would make us easier to find, thus saving search money as the department was operating on a severely constrained budget. Today's survival suits are far more comfortable and make acceptable outerwear in most weather conditions.

The lodge facility itself is compact and efficient. The central area appears much like a nice home, with living, family, dining and kitchen areas all open and facing a spectacular view. Out back, the wet room offers a super selection of gear in sizes from children's to jumbo. Two small buildings on the dock store motors, electronics and fishing tackle. The fishing skiffs are tucked behind the facility, along with Vanier's 21-foot cuddy that he uses for longer-range halibut trips and as his personal fishing platform. With these details in the notebook, it was time to go fishing.

On the Water

The next morning found us setting up for another drift in the lee of a small island. Two silvers had punctuated a windy, wet early morning spent exploring and marveling at the abundant marine and bird life. As I prepared to cast, Elizabeth pointed out a lodge boat headed our way. If, like us, you are a bit ''long in the tooth,'' have elderly parents and offspring spread all over the country, a surprise visit from the lodge staff usually does not bode well. As the captain turned into the wind and pulled alongside our boat, though, he hollered out, ''Orange or blueberry?'' and held aloft two hot packs and a Thermos. A lodge tradition, as it turned out: hot chocolate or coffee and freshly baked muf-fins at midmorning. The remainder of the day was a bit slow, though the radio told us the others were doing well. We continued to explore. At one point we motored up a long inlet to check for early-arriving pink salmon at a stream mouth. No pinks showed up, and we decided not to go ashore and fish for the resident cutthroat we guessed were likely there.

The next morning we joined the others near a pair of small islands. The tide ran hard between them, funneling baitfish through the gap. Salmon hung out in the down-tide eddies, much as trout below the rapids, waiting to pounce. We cast our flies across the current and coaxed them back into the eddy, simulating a disoriented baitfish. The silvers were willing, and for a few hours someone was always hooked up. As the tide slowed, so did the bite. That meant lunchtime - all but forgotten during the nonstop excitement.

During the break, I asked Vanier about the availability of rockfish and lingcod. ''Didn't think anyone would volunteer for that one!'' he replied. ''Chef needs about 12 black rockfish for the table, so you just got the duty.'' Through our lives we all get assignments, most of them not terribly enjoyable, but this one I was eagar to accept.

''Just cast as you have been but give the fly at least a 20 count,'' Vanier instructed. ''That will get it down close enough to the reef for the rockfish to see it.'' On the first cast I felt weight, struck and pulled in the first of 20-odd black rockfish, all weighing between 3 and 8 pounds. These fish are stubborn fighters, especially on their first determined rush back down to their rocky homes. Occasionally a lingcod would smash the fly and take possession of it and the attached line.

The next day at lunch we all anchored up together to share the morning's experiences and watch a nearby whale perform. Bruce Robinson and I couldn't stop watching a cluster of seabirds that had come together over feeding salmon. Robinson asked Vanier if he followed birds to find salmon. Vanier replied that normally he didn't have the need, and the few times he did, the fish were gone by the time he got to where the birds were. Well, no one can tell a couple of experienced warm-water fly-fishermen what to do. We had to follow them, and it wasn't long before we were embroiled in the experience that opened this story.

As the week neared its end, the memories had piled up - whales, eagles, waterfowl, spectacular scenery, a little competition and silver salmon out of our ears. We were a happy and satisfied group.

Our last morning dawned clear. As I gazed out the window at the straits and snow-capped mountains, a sweet voice said, ''Why don't you go out while I pack- '' Boy, do I love that woman. Ten minutes later I was skimming across the water about a mile from the lodge. A slight disturbance to starboard caught my eye ? two dorsal fins slicing through the surface. I made a quick turn and killed the engine before that wonderful adrenaline rush took hold as I unleashed the fly and frantically stripped line.

Strip ... strip ... pause ... strip ... nothing. I lifted the line and damn if he wasn't following it. Right back at him, and he took! Five minutes later, I removed the fly from a 12-pound silver and sent him back to his cool depths. A second fish came soon after, and a pink salmon closed out my morning, all within sight of the lodge.

Just as we had hoped, we had found our silvers in the deep-blue sea, plus a whole lot more.