Dusk meets dawn in the height of the Alaskan summer. This phenomenon invites long hours of wakefulness, which often tend to foolhardiness, but, on graced occasions, legends result.
The meager success of my first attempt to floss for red salmon demanded a rematch.
On that maiden voyage, I helped my compatriots land a few fish, and I personally hooked two. All of us lost many potential winners to broken lines, foul-hooking, and general naïvete with respect to the art of flossing. As a group, eleven salmon is not a bad day. Personally, two is better than none, but it rather firmly requires a reinvigorated effort. The influx of salmon was so dramatic this year that the daily limit had been raised from its customary three per person to an unusually high nine per person per day.
An invitation to a wedding near the river would double as my own private invitation to go fishing again. The wedding site was on the Kenai river, two hours south of Anchorage, and not far from the recently discovered fishing hole. The precise location of this pescatory mine shall remain vague in keeping with the 6th commandment of the 10 given to anglers. (It is not to be overlooked that “angler” and “angel” have much in common, not only with letters in the English language, but also with closeness to God. Note Peter, John, their brothers, and the like, as well as the general metaphor supplied for gathering people into the kingdom.)
I left Anchorage at 00:39, the wee hours of Saturday morning, and headed to Wal-Mart to pick up a spare tube for my bike tire, in case I got a flat on the 8-mile round trip that would be involved in my excursion. As it turns out, Wal-Mart in Anchorage was no longer observing 24-hour business, nor was any other store in town. I would have to risk the flat tire, and all that would entail. Only after harvesting my catch would I realize what a show-stopper a flat tire would be.
Packing for this trip was a doozy. I needed all the gear to go fishing, biking, camping, and, that’s right, everything necessary to get gussied up for a wedding. The van had its modifications for my bed, a cooler, a sizable wedding gift, a camo duffel surprisingly packed not with fishing gear, but with fine attire for a similarly sacred occasion, and a bicycle. I don’t have a rack for the bike, so it goes in the van with everything else.
The drive south was strategic. By leaving at an obscure hour, I intended to avoid the masses of other fishers who would be creating major traffic jams along the 103 mile trip. I was also blessed with a low but consistent level of sunlight. The enchanted luminescence granted to the fierce Alaskan landscape in these odd summer hours eludes capture by camera, yet it makes an indelible impression upon the memory of any who have chance to behold it. I sipped coffee and snacked along the way, grateful for the absence of traffic and the uneventful arrival at my planned parking area.
The meager success of my first attempt to floss for red salmon demanded a rematch.
On that maiden voyage, I helped my compatriots land a few fish, and I personally hooked two. All of us lost many potential winners to broken lines, foul-hooking, and general naïvete with respect to the art of flossing. As a group, eleven salmon is not a bad day. Personally, two is better than none, but it rather firmly requires a reinvigorated effort. The influx of salmon was so dramatic this year that the daily limit had been raised from its customary three per person to an unusually high nine per person per day.
An invitation to a wedding near the river would double as my own private invitation to go fishing again. The wedding site was on the Kenai river, two hours south of Anchorage, and not far from the recently discovered fishing hole. The precise location of this pescatory mine shall remain vague in keeping with the 6th commandment of the 10 given to anglers. (It is not to be overlooked that “angler” and “angel” have much in common, not only with letters in the English language, but also with closeness to God. Note Peter, John, their brothers, and the like, as well as the general metaphor supplied for gathering people into the kingdom.)
I left Anchorage at 00:39, the wee hours of Saturday morning, and headed to Wal-Mart to pick up a spare tube for my bike tire, in case I got a flat on the 8-mile round trip that would be involved in my excursion. As it turns out, Wal-Mart in Anchorage was no longer observing 24-hour business, nor was any other store in town. I would have to risk the flat tire, and all that would entail. Only after harvesting my catch would I realize what a show-stopper a flat tire would be.
Packing for this trip was a doozy. I needed all the gear to go fishing, biking, camping, and, that’s right, everything necessary to get gussied up for a wedding. The van had its modifications for my bed, a cooler, a sizable wedding gift, a camo duffel surprisingly packed not with fishing gear, but with fine attire for a similarly sacred occasion, and a bicycle. I don’t have a rack for the bike, so it goes in the van with everything else.
The drive south was strategic. By leaving at an obscure hour, I intended to avoid the masses of other fishers who would be creating major traffic jams along the 103 mile trip. I was also blessed with a low but consistent level of sunlight. The enchanted luminescence granted to the fierce Alaskan landscape in these odd summer hours eludes capture by camera, yet it makes an indelible impression upon the memory of any who have chance to behold it. I sipped coffee and snacked along the way, grateful for the absence of traffic and the uneventful arrival at my planned parking area.
It is not to be overlooked that "angler" and "angel" have much in common...
I loaded my backpack, donned my chest waders, stuck my rod and net on the backpack, and took off on the bike. About 3 miles from the river, a brightly-colored flier was posted. HIGH BEAR ACTIVITY- June 29th. Since it was about 2:30 AM on July 1st, I considered June 29th as “yesterday,” which is right recent in my book. Since the fishing spot was known to others, I expected a fair group of people would serve as fair deterrent for bears. The first two miles as you approach the river are uphill, and the last mile is downhill- a joy on a bike at the end. When the trail gets too narrow for bikes, you lock it to a tree and hike the rest of the way. When I came upon the site where we lock up our bikes, I was nonplussed to see the nakedness of the trees.
Was I the only person here? Where’s the safety in numbers if no one else is at the river? I had been advised by some folks in the past to hold bear spray at the ready; carrying bear spray on your hip is a losing proposition, they say. By the time you unholster it, you’ll just be handing it to the bear to use as seasoning for your backside, which he is preparing to sample for flavor shortly. I took this admonition to heart and unholstered my bear spray, which is a particularly effective type made by Sturm, Ruger & Co., designed to send a 300 grain Buffalo Bore projectile at about 1,260 fps towards your furry sparring partner. With rod in right hand and Showstoppin’ Spray in the other, I began the hike towards the river.
Unfortunately for me, I had looked up the fishing predictions ahead of my trip. The number of salmon up the river was lower than it had been a week ago, and it was considered a poor day for fishing due to the high UV factor expected and the low water level. Since the wedding was this day, I was going to fish because I was here, not because it was a golden day. Now, though, seeing the total absence of other fishers, I started to get that sneaking suspicion that everyone knew something I didn’t.
As I approached the river, I saw that some lazy fishermen had failed to follow the prescribed etiquette of chunking your fish remains and throwing them into deep water. We tend to filet at the river so we don’t have to carry the whole fish out, but the spine, head, guts, etc, is to be broken up and chucked into fast moving parts of the river. These lazy slobs hadn’t chunked their fish carcasses at all, and they’d left them right on the bank. “Foul play you goobers,” I mumbled to myself as I picked up a carcass to chuck it in the river. Then another. Then it hit me.
I knew who these lazy fishermen were, and they were notoriously inconsiderate.
I knew who these lazy fishermen were, and they were notoriously inconsiderate. Bruins. I finished cleaning up their breakfast like an exasperated mother who’s late for work- and who’s carrying a .44 mag.
I carried on to my spot- a dazzling location where you can see the salmon catching an eddy to rest from their push upstream. I got the fly and weights on my line, and got busy casting. Par for the course, my line would often get snagged on rocks at the bottom, or even on a tree branch on the opposite side of the river when I overcast. I couldn’t pull it loose, and the river is too deep there to cross. I had to wedge my rod under my backpack, walk downstream to find a wider place, and cross there. As I bushwhacked back upstream towards the snaggle, I used a Cool Hand Luke phrase to announce my presence to Smokey the Bear and his family, surely lying in wait for such a time as this. “Comin’ thru here, Boss,” I said repeatedly in a firm tone, Ruger bear spray at the ready. When I untangled my line, I looked down into the river and could see the salmon right at my feet. A plan began formulating in my mind. This was going to be the spot. Not from the far side. Right here. I’d fish right on top of them. When I got my line loose, I didn’t want to throw it in the water where it could get all kinds of tangled in the rocks, so I looked for a clear place to set it on shore where I could cleanly reel it in, once I regained the other bank. I bushwhacked back downstream to the crossing and entered the river.
The vigorous current required all of my concentration and balance not to get swept downstream or to slip on a moss-covered river rock. Arriving at the other shore, I grabbed my gear, downed a Gatorade, and crossed again to fish from the other side (if that’s not a Biblical concept then Zipporah’s not an emergency mohel).
The games began. I began making contact with fish. Some slipped the hook and escaped; some were so strong they broke the line; some were hooked in the side or tail and had to be set loose, and one beauty was such a fighter that he leapt from the water continuously, bucking like a Cheyenne stallion, eventually taking my line for a 200 yard trip downriver. A fighter like that has to be a healthy fish, so I wanted to keep him for sure. If I reel too hard and over-tighten my line, he can break it, so playing it out is key. This was too much play, though, and now he had the river at his advantage. He didn’t even have to swim. He had thousands of gallons of water pulling him away from me, and I couldn’t overcome it. Eventually, he popped free of the hook in some debris and I reeled in an empty but intact line. Around 7:15 AM or so, I finally got a good hook on one and got it to shore. Then another shortly after. After nearly 3 hours in the water, I finally had something, and I was thankful. I was also deeply glad to have the river to myself- no other fishermen, no bears in Cabela’s hats.
About 9 AM, that changed. A group of guys from out of state who appeared to be with a guiding service showed up. They made quite a ruckus and they crowded in on the bank opposite me, casting over each other and even over me. The advantage, however, was that their presence on the other bank pushed the fish back towards me, and I began to light it up. I hooked and landed a third fish. This encouraged them, because it told them fish were in the water. Then I caught a fourth. And another that I foul-hooked and had to put back. Then a fifth. Now they were getting confused. “What’s he doing over there?! How come we’re not catching anything?!”
I caught a sixth, and a guy called out- “have you limited out yet?” I suppose he wanted me to leave so he could have my spot. “No, sir,” I replied, trying to let him down easy. “About halfway there.” One of the gents crossed the river and was fishing directly downstream of me. As soon as I cast my line back in the water from capturing my sixth fish, I hooked a seventh. “Jim! Do what he’s doing! Do that! What’s the hold up over there?!” they cried.
I got the seventh on my stringer and a conundrum arose. It was 10:24, and I needed to leave at 10:30 AM to have time to clean the fish, bike out, pack the van, clean my fish-fouled self, get dressed and drive to the wedding. When gilling one of the fish, I had pulled up on the gill, not down, and blood had sprayed an artistically geometric pattern up the left chest of my shirt, onto my neck and face. Maybe not the best look for supporting a happy couple on their special day.
But seven fish. And the limit is nine. And the fishing was getting hot. I had taken three hours to catch the first two, and now, in about the last hour or so, I had caught 5 more. I only needed two to hit the limit. My line was a snaggled mess from hand pulling in the last fish. There was so much tension on the line, but I could not land him and hold the reel, so I actually fished the line bare-handed, which allows it to twist a lot. I needed to cast out my line just to get the twirls out of it. I sent it into the river and nailed a fish. The men in the other party were losing their minds. Most of them had touched nothing, and the one gent who was able to hook some had lost most of them. They were befuddled. I would have been, too, but the hard morning hours had taught me a few things about length of leader, where to cast to avoid hidden rocks, and how hard to pull when drawing a line across the current. Plus, their presence was shoving the fish towards me, and I needn’t tell them that.
I fished in my eighth and decided not to look at my watch. It didn’t matter. I was so close. What would I tell my fishing buddies? “Sorry boys. I was on the edge of greatness, and I gave up because I thought I might be late to a wedding.” You should be late to your own wedding if you’re about to limit out on sockeye salmon.
I made a couple of casts and caught nothing. Then I’d hit one or another and it would be a weak contact, so they’d squirm loose and escape. Come on! Two was good, I’d thought earlier. Three was better. Eight was great, but nine, nine was heroic, herculean; I’ve been to other weddings, who’d miss me at this one? Boom. Hit. Fish. I set the hook, but this was a fighter. It lept and spun in the air, back into the center river. Up, down, out to the middle, and back in towards shore. I couldn’t let this one play out like the 200-yarder earlier. Firstly, I learned my lesson- that didn’t get me a fish. Secondly, with other folks around, it’s bad form to play your fish across the whole river up and down, getting in the way of everyone else’s fishing. I didn’t want to overtighten my drag, because I’d broken a line on a good fighter like that before. So I seized the line with my bare hand, that way I could hold him from going down stream, but use the sensitivity of my hand to play out just a little bit of line if I felt it was about to break. I was still holding the rod, and just playing the line directly above the reel. The line tensed, and the rod warped violently under this monster salmon’s aggression. I played him a bit of freedom, then caught him up short when he relaxed.
I pumped the rod to pull him towards shore, but he gave as good as he got and fought back to the middle where the raging current would fight for him. I moved into the river and backed upstream to pull him without using the reel, which he could obviously overpower. The line strained in my hand, but I could feel just when to relax before the breaking point. My rod is literally the infamous Ugly Stick, and they’re praised for their durability, but everything wanted to give in this fight, except the fish. I’d pump the rod, pull him bare handed, reel madly when he got close to shore, but all fleeting gains, lost in a moment with one demonstrative flash from this mighty swimmer. At one point I stood on shore, leaning mightily on the rod, holding the line taught with my bare hand, thinking, “I just need to tire him out,” but feeling my arm slowly losing sensation and filling with lactic acid. He was thinking the same about me. It was becoming questionable who was going to give. We were at a standstill. I couldn’t fight him in, and he wasn’t going any further in the river. Did he know he was the last one? Did he know he was what stood between me and glory or defeat, greatness or mediocrity? Did he know about the wedding for Pete’s sake? Fish or cut bait the saying goes. I decided I’d fight him in as hard as I could. If the line broke, I’d tie on new gear and go for another one. The standstill wasn’t a solution. I wasn’t going home. It was time to get another fish on shore. I gripped the line with my bare hand, pumped, then reeled, pumped and reeled and kept the tension on so hard that he’d have to break the line or give. He wasn’t giving, as it turned out, and he began a frenzied dash around the river. In the fight, he actually got into the pool I’d built for my fish on stringer, and he was in amongst the dead fish. Was he admitting defeat? Was he offering himself up as a sacrifice to my determination? Or was he just worn down to the point of delirium? He got wrapped around my stringer, which meant I no longer had direct tension on the hook in his mouth. It could come loose; he could be free. I dove towards him and grabbed wildly at the loose line curling up between us. I pounced and grabbed him, the line, something. I whacked him in the head to stun him and got a grip on his gills and mouth. Mine now. I saw the hook- still firmly embedded in his mouth. I took a few steps to quickly end his misery and added him to the stringer. Was this it? Was it nine? Had I miscounted? All present and accounted for, captain! What a mighty battle to close the deal.
I turned to one of the gents in the invading group. “Sir, if you care to have this spot, I’m done with it,” I said. He moved in and inquired, “What do I do?” I gave him the most detailed instructions, where to cast, how long to wait, when to pull hard on the line, where to let it drift before popping the line out. He followed my guidance devoutly and nailed a fish. He was shocked and excited and didn’t know what to do. His pro-guide was way down river and out of reach to help. Landing them on shore is quite a challenge (see above). I netted the fish for this gent, and he kindly yielded the spot to another fellow in their party. I got busy honing my filet knife. Then I heard one of the guys say the time.
“Did you say 11:00?” I choked out, trying to hide the urgency in my tone.
“Yep. 11:07,” he informed.
“Ampersand, hashtag, dollar sign, percentage symbol!” I intoned to myself. “I have got to get out of here.”
Although I dreaded the thought, I was going to have to pack these fish out whole. There was simply no time to filet them. I moved upriver to get out of the main fishing traffic, tried to filet a couple and made a brutal mess of the fish because of my hurried state and severely fatigued hands. It was decided. I would cram the 7 whole fish and four hacked up filets in the pack with my gear and hoof it back to the bike. These fish weigh between six and ten pounds a piece, and the filets are more than half the total body weight. Converatively, I had 49 pounds of fish to haul out. The Neoprene waders would make me sweat like a harlot in an ecclesiastical gathering, but if I removed them, they’d be added to the weight on my back. I also had the weight of my fishing gear, snacks, first aid kit, and that remarkably heavy Ruger bear spray. I drank all the Gatorade my stomach could handle, mainly to redistribute the weight, but also to sugar up for what promised to be a brutal slog. Well, slogging wasn’t an option; I had to get moving. From the river to the bike was all uphill, and then the first mile of the bike ride was uphill. But if I could make that- it’s all downhill from there, no cliché, three miles of coasting downhill- if my bike tires were intact.
My puny pack bulged under the weight of the fish and gear, and the shoulder straps threatened to break until I got the waist belt buckled. I began the fastest version of a trudge that I could muster. After 367 days of rain and snow, the sun had come out. How nice, you’d think, except I began to perspire at such a rate that the salmon could have found ample current in my streams of sweat to get confused from the main river.
I began losing steam as the uphill hike to the bike wore on, and I began strategizing what gear I could stash in the woods and gather on a return trip. When that would be, I had no idea. I hadn’t slept since Thursday, and it was now pushing noon on Saturday. I didn’t want to come back after the wedding. I wanted to sleep after the wedding. Plus, dropping gear would be a time-consuming process. Push-on.
I got to the bike, unlocked it from the tree, and realized there wasn’t a square inch of space left in the pack to put the bike lock. I crammed it aggressively in the canvas water bottle holder I had strapped on the seat of the bike. With my rod and landing net in my left hand, and the oppressive pack on my back, I had a doozy of a time getting momentum on the bike, and the first uphill mile was a frustrating combination of wobbling across the trail like an alcoholic skipper playing slalom with icebergs and pushing the bike by hand while banging my shins on the pedals.
At the crest of the hill, I realized the danger of zipping downhill with all the extra weight and the compromised maneuverability of having rod and net in hand. I decided I would get those two items on the backpack somehow and absorb the pain of the marginal added weight. I squeezed them in between a series of external straps, mounted up, and let the fun begin. I began ripping down the hill, using techniques learned in the Boy Scouts for keeping my weight behind the center, so sudden stops wouldn’t throw me over the handlebars. A few stiff bumps tossed the heaving pack high on my pack, and wildly challenged my determination not to pitch forward, but crisis was averted each time. With my courtesy bell, I dinged furiously at the sight of any pedestrians and announced “on your left!” as I whipped down the trail. At last, I made it to the road, and when I found a good spot, I ditched the pack and fishing gear where I could come back and pick them up with the van. I wanted the weight off my spine, and I wanted to be able to achieve top biking speed on the road. Blessedly, no cars came, and I made it swiftly to the van. I stripped off the suffocating neoprene waders and drove back to the drop spot. I loaded up the fish in the cooler, iced them, and then faced the exciting prospect of jumping in the glacial river with a bar of soap to prep for the wedding.
Last fall, I’d attended a wedding at the same spot, and I’d had breakfast the following morning at a place called Buckets. I had a nagging, hazy memory that they offered pay showers. With a name like Buckets, maybe so. I called them up, and said, “Do you have pay showers?”
I was shut down quickly. “No- we’re a sports bar.”
“Maybe I have you confused with someone else,” I pined, fishing for help.
“Wash N Dry has showers,” the waitress explained, taking the bait. “Just a quarter mile past us.”
Righteous. I called Wash N Dry to confirm. An aptly named location, since you don’t just do your laundry there. As one may surmise, many things may be washed and dried here, including oneself. I arrived at the Wash N Dry where, for the low price of $7.69 you can have a shower at your leisure, or for $9.65 you can have a shower AND they will issue you a bath towel, hand towel, and wash cloth. There’s no timer on the shower, and the water is warm. What a deal. God bless the Wash N Dry in Soldotna, AK.
The shower may not have had a timer, but I sure did. I arrived at 1:50 PM, and I was supposed to be at the wedding at 2:30. “Barnacles,” I groaned. Never a spare moment.
Well, I got spiffed up. The transformation in that shower stall rivals anything Clark Kent ever did in a phone booth. If the washer women of Soldotna weren’t so demure and bucolic, I’m sure they would have volunteered to accompany me to the wedding, perhaps hoping the parson would offer a two for one deal that day.
Squeaky clean, I galloped old Astro down the road to the hitching post (nuptial pun intended), and placed the wedding gift in a breezy location where I hoped any traces of salmon scent would be erased in the wind.
A good time was had by all, and I left around 7:00 PM, planning to drive about halfway back to Anchorage before stopping at a well-known rest area for sleep. Only 12 miles in, I decided I’d had enough. I pulled off the highway in a nice paved lot designed for this purpose, crawled into my bed in the back of the van and slept happily over top of my fish and beside my bike till 8:30 AM.
In the morning, I got biscuits and gravy, eggs and bacon, and, predictably, a few cups of coffee at the BlueBird Café. I added more ice to the fish and drove on to church in Anchorage. The fish have now been processed, vacuum packed and frozen or in the fridge for immediate use. You’d better believe I had a nice filet before sitting down to write this. My fishing spot may be proprietary, but my salmon recipe is available to the public.
I carried on to my spot- a dazzling location where you can see the salmon catching an eddy to rest from their push upstream. I got the fly and weights on my line, and got busy casting. Par for the course, my line would often get snagged on rocks at the bottom, or even on a tree branch on the opposite side of the river when I overcast. I couldn’t pull it loose, and the river is too deep there to cross. I had to wedge my rod under my backpack, walk downstream to find a wider place, and cross there. As I bushwhacked back upstream towards the snaggle, I used a Cool Hand Luke phrase to announce my presence to Smokey the Bear and his family, surely lying in wait for such a time as this. “Comin’ thru here, Boss,” I said repeatedly in a firm tone, Ruger bear spray at the ready. When I untangled my line, I looked down into the river and could see the salmon right at my feet. A plan began formulating in my mind. This was going to be the spot. Not from the far side. Right here. I’d fish right on top of them. When I got my line loose, I didn’t want to throw it in the water where it could get all kinds of tangled in the rocks, so I looked for a clear place to set it on shore where I could cleanly reel it in, once I regained the other bank. I bushwhacked back downstream to the crossing and entered the river.
The vigorous current required all of my concentration and balance not to get swept downstream or to slip on a moss-covered river rock. Arriving at the other shore, I grabbed my gear, downed a Gatorade, and crossed again to fish from the other side (if that’s not a Biblical concept then Zipporah’s not an emergency mohel).
The games began. I began making contact with fish. Some slipped the hook and escaped; some were so strong they broke the line; some were hooked in the side or tail and had to be set loose, and one beauty was such a fighter that he leapt from the water continuously, bucking like a Cheyenne stallion, eventually taking my line for a 200 yard trip downriver. A fighter like that has to be a healthy fish, so I wanted to keep him for sure. If I reel too hard and over-tighten my line, he can break it, so playing it out is key. This was too much play, though, and now he had the river at his advantage. He didn’t even have to swim. He had thousands of gallons of water pulling him away from me, and I couldn’t overcome it. Eventually, he popped free of the hook in some debris and I reeled in an empty but intact line. Around 7:15 AM or so, I finally got a good hook on one and got it to shore. Then another shortly after. After nearly 3 hours in the water, I finally had something, and I was thankful. I was also deeply glad to have the river to myself- no other fishermen, no bears in Cabela’s hats.
About 9 AM, that changed. A group of guys from out of state who appeared to be with a guiding service showed up. They made quite a ruckus and they crowded in on the bank opposite me, casting over each other and even over me. The advantage, however, was that their presence on the other bank pushed the fish back towards me, and I began to light it up. I hooked and landed a third fish. This encouraged them, because it told them fish were in the water. Then I caught a fourth. And another that I foul-hooked and had to put back. Then a fifth. Now they were getting confused. “What’s he doing over there?! How come we’re not catching anything?!”
I caught a sixth, and a guy called out- “have you limited out yet?” I suppose he wanted me to leave so he could have my spot. “No, sir,” I replied, trying to let him down easy. “About halfway there.” One of the gents crossed the river and was fishing directly downstream of me. As soon as I cast my line back in the water from capturing my sixth fish, I hooked a seventh. “Jim! Do what he’s doing! Do that! What’s the hold up over there?!” they cried.
I got the seventh on my stringer and a conundrum arose. It was 10:24, and I needed to leave at 10:30 AM to have time to clean the fish, bike out, pack the van, clean my fish-fouled self, get dressed and drive to the wedding. When gilling one of the fish, I had pulled up on the gill, not down, and blood had sprayed an artistically geometric pattern up the left chest of my shirt, onto my neck and face. Maybe not the best look for supporting a happy couple on their special day.
But seven fish. And the limit is nine. And the fishing was getting hot. I had taken three hours to catch the first two, and now, in about the last hour or so, I had caught 5 more. I only needed two to hit the limit. My line was a snaggled mess from hand pulling in the last fish. There was so much tension on the line, but I could not land him and hold the reel, so I actually fished the line bare-handed, which allows it to twist a lot. I needed to cast out my line just to get the twirls out of it. I sent it into the river and nailed a fish. The men in the other party were losing their minds. Most of them had touched nothing, and the one gent who was able to hook some had lost most of them. They were befuddled. I would have been, too, but the hard morning hours had taught me a few things about length of leader, where to cast to avoid hidden rocks, and how hard to pull when drawing a line across the current. Plus, their presence was shoving the fish towards me, and I needn’t tell them that.
I fished in my eighth and decided not to look at my watch. It didn’t matter. I was so close. What would I tell my fishing buddies? “Sorry boys. I was on the edge of greatness, and I gave up because I thought I might be late to a wedding.” You should be late to your own wedding if you’re about to limit out on sockeye salmon.
I made a couple of casts and caught nothing. Then I’d hit one or another and it would be a weak contact, so they’d squirm loose and escape. Come on! Two was good, I’d thought earlier. Three was better. Eight was great, but nine, nine was heroic, herculean; I’ve been to other weddings, who’d miss me at this one? Boom. Hit. Fish. I set the hook, but this was a fighter. It lept and spun in the air, back into the center river. Up, down, out to the middle, and back in towards shore. I couldn’t let this one play out like the 200-yarder earlier. Firstly, I learned my lesson- that didn’t get me a fish. Secondly, with other folks around, it’s bad form to play your fish across the whole river up and down, getting in the way of everyone else’s fishing. I didn’t want to overtighten my drag, because I’d broken a line on a good fighter like that before. So I seized the line with my bare hand, that way I could hold him from going down stream, but use the sensitivity of my hand to play out just a little bit of line if I felt it was about to break. I was still holding the rod, and just playing the line directly above the reel. The line tensed, and the rod warped violently under this monster salmon’s aggression. I played him a bit of freedom, then caught him up short when he relaxed.
I pumped the rod to pull him towards shore, but he gave as good as he got and fought back to the middle where the raging current would fight for him. I moved into the river and backed upstream to pull him without using the reel, which he could obviously overpower. The line strained in my hand, but I could feel just when to relax before the breaking point. My rod is literally the infamous Ugly Stick, and they’re praised for their durability, but everything wanted to give in this fight, except the fish. I’d pump the rod, pull him bare handed, reel madly when he got close to shore, but all fleeting gains, lost in a moment with one demonstrative flash from this mighty swimmer. At one point I stood on shore, leaning mightily on the rod, holding the line taught with my bare hand, thinking, “I just need to tire him out,” but feeling my arm slowly losing sensation and filling with lactic acid. He was thinking the same about me. It was becoming questionable who was going to give. We were at a standstill. I couldn’t fight him in, and he wasn’t going any further in the river. Did he know he was the last one? Did he know he was what stood between me and glory or defeat, greatness or mediocrity? Did he know about the wedding for Pete’s sake? Fish or cut bait the saying goes. I decided I’d fight him in as hard as I could. If the line broke, I’d tie on new gear and go for another one. The standstill wasn’t a solution. I wasn’t going home. It was time to get another fish on shore. I gripped the line with my bare hand, pumped, then reeled, pumped and reeled and kept the tension on so hard that he’d have to break the line or give. He wasn’t giving, as it turned out, and he began a frenzied dash around the river. In the fight, he actually got into the pool I’d built for my fish on stringer, and he was in amongst the dead fish. Was he admitting defeat? Was he offering himself up as a sacrifice to my determination? Or was he just worn down to the point of delirium? He got wrapped around my stringer, which meant I no longer had direct tension on the hook in his mouth. It could come loose; he could be free. I dove towards him and grabbed wildly at the loose line curling up between us. I pounced and grabbed him, the line, something. I whacked him in the head to stun him and got a grip on his gills and mouth. Mine now. I saw the hook- still firmly embedded in his mouth. I took a few steps to quickly end his misery and added him to the stringer. Was this it? Was it nine? Had I miscounted? All present and accounted for, captain! What a mighty battle to close the deal.
I turned to one of the gents in the invading group. “Sir, if you care to have this spot, I’m done with it,” I said. He moved in and inquired, “What do I do?” I gave him the most detailed instructions, where to cast, how long to wait, when to pull hard on the line, where to let it drift before popping the line out. He followed my guidance devoutly and nailed a fish. He was shocked and excited and didn’t know what to do. His pro-guide was way down river and out of reach to help. Landing them on shore is quite a challenge (see above). I netted the fish for this gent, and he kindly yielded the spot to another fellow in their party. I got busy honing my filet knife. Then I heard one of the guys say the time.
“Did you say 11:00?” I choked out, trying to hide the urgency in my tone.
“Yep. 11:07,” he informed.
“Ampersand, hashtag, dollar sign, percentage symbol!” I intoned to myself. “I have got to get out of here.”
Although I dreaded the thought, I was going to have to pack these fish out whole. There was simply no time to filet them. I moved upriver to get out of the main fishing traffic, tried to filet a couple and made a brutal mess of the fish because of my hurried state and severely fatigued hands. It was decided. I would cram the 7 whole fish and four hacked up filets in the pack with my gear and hoof it back to the bike. These fish weigh between six and ten pounds a piece, and the filets are more than half the total body weight. Converatively, I had 49 pounds of fish to haul out. The Neoprene waders would make me sweat like a harlot in an ecclesiastical gathering, but if I removed them, they’d be added to the weight on my back. I also had the weight of my fishing gear, snacks, first aid kit, and that remarkably heavy Ruger bear spray. I drank all the Gatorade my stomach could handle, mainly to redistribute the weight, but also to sugar up for what promised to be a brutal slog. Well, slogging wasn’t an option; I had to get moving. From the river to the bike was all uphill, and then the first mile of the bike ride was uphill. But if I could make that- it’s all downhill from there, no cliché, three miles of coasting downhill- if my bike tires were intact.
My puny pack bulged under the weight of the fish and gear, and the shoulder straps threatened to break until I got the waist belt buckled. I began the fastest version of a trudge that I could muster. After 367 days of rain and snow, the sun had come out. How nice, you’d think, except I began to perspire at such a rate that the salmon could have found ample current in my streams of sweat to get confused from the main river.
I began losing steam as the uphill hike to the bike wore on, and I began strategizing what gear I could stash in the woods and gather on a return trip. When that would be, I had no idea. I hadn’t slept since Thursday, and it was now pushing noon on Saturday. I didn’t want to come back after the wedding. I wanted to sleep after the wedding. Plus, dropping gear would be a time-consuming process. Push-on.
I got to the bike, unlocked it from the tree, and realized there wasn’t a square inch of space left in the pack to put the bike lock. I crammed it aggressively in the canvas water bottle holder I had strapped on the seat of the bike. With my rod and landing net in my left hand, and the oppressive pack on my back, I had a doozy of a time getting momentum on the bike, and the first uphill mile was a frustrating combination of wobbling across the trail like an alcoholic skipper playing slalom with icebergs and pushing the bike by hand while banging my shins on the pedals.
At the crest of the hill, I realized the danger of zipping downhill with all the extra weight and the compromised maneuverability of having rod and net in hand. I decided I would get those two items on the backpack somehow and absorb the pain of the marginal added weight. I squeezed them in between a series of external straps, mounted up, and let the fun begin. I began ripping down the hill, using techniques learned in the Boy Scouts for keeping my weight behind the center, so sudden stops wouldn’t throw me over the handlebars. A few stiff bumps tossed the heaving pack high on my pack, and wildly challenged my determination not to pitch forward, but crisis was averted each time. With my courtesy bell, I dinged furiously at the sight of any pedestrians and announced “on your left!” as I whipped down the trail. At last, I made it to the road, and when I found a good spot, I ditched the pack and fishing gear where I could come back and pick them up with the van. I wanted the weight off my spine, and I wanted to be able to achieve top biking speed on the road. Blessedly, no cars came, and I made it swiftly to the van. I stripped off the suffocating neoprene waders and drove back to the drop spot. I loaded up the fish in the cooler, iced them, and then faced the exciting prospect of jumping in the glacial river with a bar of soap to prep for the wedding.
Last fall, I’d attended a wedding at the same spot, and I’d had breakfast the following morning at a place called Buckets. I had a nagging, hazy memory that they offered pay showers. With a name like Buckets, maybe so. I called them up, and said, “Do you have pay showers?”
I was shut down quickly. “No- we’re a sports bar.”
“Maybe I have you confused with someone else,” I pined, fishing for help.
“Wash N Dry has showers,” the waitress explained, taking the bait. “Just a quarter mile past us.”
Righteous. I called Wash N Dry to confirm. An aptly named location, since you don’t just do your laundry there. As one may surmise, many things may be washed and dried here, including oneself. I arrived at the Wash N Dry where, for the low price of $7.69 you can have a shower at your leisure, or for $9.65 you can have a shower AND they will issue you a bath towel, hand towel, and wash cloth. There’s no timer on the shower, and the water is warm. What a deal. God bless the Wash N Dry in Soldotna, AK.
The shower may not have had a timer, but I sure did. I arrived at 1:50 PM, and I was supposed to be at the wedding at 2:30. “Barnacles,” I groaned. Never a spare moment.
Well, I got spiffed up. The transformation in that shower stall rivals anything Clark Kent ever did in a phone booth. If the washer women of Soldotna weren’t so demure and bucolic, I’m sure they would have volunteered to accompany me to the wedding, perhaps hoping the parson would offer a two for one deal that day.
Squeaky clean, I galloped old Astro down the road to the hitching post (nuptial pun intended), and placed the wedding gift in a breezy location where I hoped any traces of salmon scent would be erased in the wind.
A good time was had by all, and I left around 7:00 PM, planning to drive about halfway back to Anchorage before stopping at a well-known rest area for sleep. Only 12 miles in, I decided I’d had enough. I pulled off the highway in a nice paved lot designed for this purpose, crawled into my bed in the back of the van and slept happily over top of my fish and beside my bike till 8:30 AM.
In the morning, I got biscuits and gravy, eggs and bacon, and, predictably, a few cups of coffee at the BlueBird Café. I added more ice to the fish and drove on to church in Anchorage. The fish have now been processed, vacuum packed and frozen or in the fridge for immediate use. You’d better believe I had a nice filet before sitting down to write this. My fishing spot may be proprietary, but my salmon recipe is available to the public.