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www.natgreeneflyfishers.org Email: info@natgreeneflyfishers.org
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Alaska!A series of four articles describing a trip taken by Nat Greene members Jim Brady and Dick Feulner to an Alaskan fishing lodge in August, 2006. All were written by Jim Brady (jfbrady@bellsouth.net) Jump to:
Part 1 of 4: Alaskan Combat FishingDick and I scheduled a free day in Anchorage before the flight to the lodge. This allowed us to get adjusted to the time zone a bit and explore the area. We thankfully didn’t use the day to make up for a delayed or cancelled flight, the main reason we booked some extra time. In the fashion of true fly fishermen, our first task was to explore the local fly shop, McAfee’s. We were pleasantly surprised at the moderate prices. I picked up a pair of fingertip-less fishing gloves in addition to my license. I assumed that being prepared for cold weather would ward it off and, as time would prove, I was mostly successful. The clerk at McAfee’s had a pulse, I think. I didn’t press my thumb against his wrist so I can’t definitively state his heart was beating but he moved slower than a snail. After I told him we would like to buy our licenses, he stared at the computer screen for what seemed liked ten minutes. Maybe the Alaskan state web site moved like a glacier and he was just following suit. Anyway, we got our licenses squared away and he pulled out a map from Anchorage north to Fairbanks detailing the highway that leads to Denali. He circled several streams where salmon were being caught. We had several targets to choose from. Dick is an excellent driver and likes to drive so I am content being the navigator. It took about an hour to reach Willow Creek. He instinctively hit the brakes and we ran to the bridge to scan the river below. Large chum salmon, decked out in their bizarre, irregular red and green stripes, swam lazily in the clear water. We needed no further provocation to suit up. But after an hour, Dick had not connected and I had one strike. Whatever we were doing wrong, we were doing a lot of it. I was using the traditional cast across stream, let the fly swing and retrieve when the line straightens out below. The fish were having none of it. I finally caught a female pink salmon and we broke for lunch. We decided over lunch to go to the mouth of Willow Creek where it dumped into the Susitna River to try for silvers. This spot was a state recreation area and it seemed everyone within miles knew the silver salmon were in. We found fishermen nearly shoulder-to-shoulder heaving large spinners and salmon eggs. Some fishermen were actually playing fish and we passed a cleaning station, complete with a pile of entrails. This scene had not come to mind when I thought about fishing in Alaska. It was more like Opening Day in New Jersey. I saw one fisherman declare his intention to cast and everyone close to him ducked. Dick and I shook our heads and we crossed to an island in search of an isolated spot. I found a small hole against the bank hemmed in by brush piles sticking through the surface on the upper, lower, and river sides. It figures fish would be holed up in there. I caught a few pinks on a Sparkle Shrimp, a bright pink thing supposedly mimicking a shrimp. The fish didn’t argue with it but the brush claimed a bunch of flies. I called Dick over to take a shot at the hole while I searched for another spot. He really went to town on those fish. Pinks, silvers, and some chums paused in the hole on their way upstream. Dick landed about ten pinks on the shrimp fly and had a silver come four feet out of the water, almost hitting him in the chest. He too lost a lot of flies. He gave me another shot at the hole after my unsuccessful wanderings brought me back. I hooked one or two before switching to a sink tip line so I could lose flies really fast. I finally quit becoming concerned about running my supplies down before the fishing got serious. We slipped-sided away in the thick Alaskan mud back-tracking our steps downstream. A clear view of the horde now revealed people were indeed shoulder-to-shoulder. In addition to being crowded, now it looked dangerous. But a glance at their stringers showed most people had a silver or two in tow. We trudged back to our car smelling freshly grilled salmon. Some fish didn’t even make it out of the parking lot! The on-again off-again drizzle that followed us all day gave way to a magnificent rainbow on our departure from Willow Creek. This was at once a beautiful and hopeful sign of things to come. For tomorrow we would leave civilization behind and fly into the bush. Part 2 of 4: We Fly Into the BushOur departure from the seaplane base was set for 10:00 so we set out for the airport before 8:00. The Anchorage airport has a spilt personality. It can handle planes landing on the tarmac or water. Two small lakes, Lake Hood and Lake Spenard, were combined to create a seaplane “runway” perpendicular to its terrestrial counterpart. The lakes are surrounded by two concentric asphalt ribbons, one for cars and the other for planes. Dick and I were blindly searching for Regal Air, the air service used by the lodge. We finally found someone strolling out of a hanger and asked for directions. She pointed out that Regal Air was on the far side of the lake from our present location and would we please stop driving on the runway?! At least she was nice about it. We thanked her and steered out of harm’s way. We arrived at our destination, Dick discharged me and the bags and headed back to the rental agency. This operation was not your mother’s airline. The ‘terminal’ consisted of a single-wide house trailer with a small deck serving as the front porch. Moose antlers hung over the entrance. Open doors revealed a small workshop next to the break room, a soda machine. The restroom (bright yellow porta-poddy) was around to the left. Several blue and tan floatplanes rested in their berths adjacent to small, wooden docks. The dock entrance was demarcated by a freight scale used to weigh all cargo before loading. The larger tan plane was a Dehavilan Beaver, the standard Alaskan bush plane. It could carry 1700 lbs, and, yes, the weight of the passengers is included. We were to fly in a smaller Cessna 209 with a capacity of 1200 lbs. Surrounding Regal’s setup were hundreds of other planes, mostly privately owned aircraft. Some had wheels, some rested on pontoons. A few handyman specials lacked significant parts, like wings. One had the telltale crinkled signs of a rough landing; you had to be good with sheet metal to salvage this baby. A red and white redneck job sat on blocks – all that was lacking was the front lawn. Some planes looked new but most were veterans of many years in the air. All were colorfully painted and I wondered if the bright colors were a deliberate aid to finding the plane in the event of a crash. I peeked inside one plane to get a look at the interior. The back seat was a canvas sling behind which the cargo was stowed. Two front seats were separate but identical flight control stations. Each had a small yoke and a set of pedals. Drawing the yoke towards the pilot pulled up the nose of the plane. Pushing a pedal caused the plane to veer left or right. The air/fuel mix was adjusted by a knob similar to an old automotive choke. The dash was crammed with gauges including a GPS screen. I made a mental note of where the fuel and altitude gauges were located. The top of the dash board was fixed to the cockpit frame by two aluminum bars retrofitted to the firewall. Only the firewall separated the engine block from the gauges and the passenger compartment. Dick returned and we met Dave, a co-owner of the lodge. He had been in town on business for a week and was returning with a load of groceries. An assistant helped our pilot Chuck load the plane and distribute the weight. Chuck was an experienced pilot and longtime friend of Dave. I felt we were in safe, capable hands. As we climbed into the plane, Dick paused in Chuck’s seat, asking “Is this OK?” I quickly replied “In your dreams” but Chuck corrected me saying “That’s no dream, it’s a nightmare!” Everyone laughed and Dick slid over to the co-pilot’s seat. Chuck turned the engine over and we slid from our berth into the lake. We crawled along in a no-wake zone past an unimpressed Alaskan loon. Suddenly Chuck swung us hard to the right and pulled back on the yoke. The engine roared to life and the pontoons were quickly airborne. We turned to starboard a second time and rose skyward on a parallel track with a 747 leaving the tarmac. That plane veered off to the left while we proceeded due north over the Knik Arm of Cook Inlet, the airport’s natural northern boundary. The first land we flew over was low, swampy ground dominated by pothole lakes and meandering rivers and streams. Unnaturally long, straight lanes of open ground crisscrossed the landscape. These clearings were laid out by energy companies in the 1960’s for conducting seismographic studies in search of oil and gas. That the lanes were still clear 40 years later was mute testimony to the slow growth of the forests in the northern latitudes. The engine noise was deafening, far too loud to maintain a conversation, so each of us became lost in our own thoughts. The Cessna cruised at only 1000 feet so you had a great view of the ground below. We looked for wildlife and naturally animals were seen only from the other side of the plane. We passed over the Susitna River, the largest drainage in the area and the highway used by thousands of salmon to reach their natal waters. It was hard to believe fish could survive in that opaque, gray water; the gray color was due to suspended particles of rock: fine, dust-like by-products of glaciers’ grinding movement. I followed the changes in plant life from low scrub to patches of fir trees as the ground rose and became drier. Just as the first low hills and rock formations came into view, Chuck swung us into a hard left turn and I found myself looking straight down into the Skwenta River. Our landing site was just upstream and he needed to know it was clear. Sure enough, a yellow plane was tied to the right bank along with several boats. That left the center of the river for us. We completed a full circle to our left and Chuck brought us down onto the river. We taxied briefly to the left bank and settled in a quiet eddy. Chuck climbed out and tossed an anchor to stabilize our position. It was like tying up a boat! Our guide pulled up alongside in an aluminum skiff and quickly transferred our cargo. Chuck backed the plane from the shore and departed as quickly as we appeared. Our guide Aren had good news for us, saying the river was full of fish. Maybe, for once in my life, ‘I shoulda' been here this week!’ He fired up the outboard and the four of us headed upriver. The floodplain of the Skwenta was up to a mile across, marked by gravel bars sculpted by the sinuous river and dotted with driftwood deposited by former flows. Our destination was the junction with the Talachulitna River. The “Tal” was a clear-water river, truly “a fisherman’s dream” as the lodge’s brochure put it. After so many miles of turbulent, gray water coursing like a flood of wet cement, the Tal was almost culture shock: a clear, spring-fed river allowing full view of the fish. A long gravel bar spilt the Tal’s mouth into two parts. Aren ran the boat close to the far bank on the right side of the river to avoid disturbing fishermen working the left channel. I began to appreciate his respect for other fishermen when my attention was abruptly yanked away. The right bank at the mouth is constantly being eroded back causing the bankside foliage to topple into the river. The resulting deadfall served to provide holding water for the salmon. More precisely, there were hundreds of salmon gently finning in and among the deadwood. And they were huge! I could hardly believe my eyes. It was like the Discovery Channel except it was real. Aren had said the river was full of fish and he was right. I couldn’t wait to throw a fly at them.
Part 3 of 4: Fishing the TalachulitnaWe finally arrived at our destination and beached the boat on a rocky shore, apparently in the middle of nowhere. Dave and Aren tossed the baggage into a cart pulled by an all-terrain vehicle. Aren fired up the ATV and went on ahead. Dick and Dave disappeared down the trail into a forest of large ferns. I photographed the ferns and brought up the rear. We eventually broke out into a clearing boarded by hand-hewn log buildings. The main lodge, a modest structure, was to our right and our digs were across the compound. Our front door was decorated with moose antlers. After a brief lunch, we got dressed to fish. Aren wanted to see our gear and what flies we brought. For my part, I was interested in getting to know him and his background. He was a native Alaskan of Swedish heritage. That coincided with his blue eyes and long, blonde hair. He grew up in the bush and was not afraid of bears. He had, in fact, killed his first bear at age eight. The animal killed his dog so he grabbed a rifle and tracked it down. I can imagine the bear didn’t have a chance. At the ripe old age of seventeen, this was his fifth summer guiding fishermen and the first at Talstar lodge. His previous employer was just across the river from Talstar. To everyone’s satisfaction, Aren summarized his inspection of our tackle saying “You brought all the right stuff.” That pleased Dick and me as the three large boxes of flies represented several months of preparation. We each strung up two rods and headed for the boat. Aren placed the rods in a rack fixed to the console. We added life vests to our outfits and sped downriver. Fishermen were still working the water in the same places as when we passed them an hour ago, now to our right looking downstream. So Aren tied up the boat on the left side of the gravel bar and pointed toward the deadfall. I didn’t realize it at the time but he was sizing us up. Some earlier clients couldn’t cast fifteen feet and were frustrated at not hooking the monsters swimming visibly by. A guide has a tough day when his clients don’t catch fish and a worse one when the fish are almost within reach. Dick and I spread out. At Aren’s suggestion, Dick tied on a purple egg-sucking leech, a fancy name for a purple woolly bugger with bright pink or orange chenille wrapped at the head of the fly in the shape of a salmon egg. I admittedly have a touch of perversity in me so I ignored Aren’s advice. I went to my box of shad flies instead thinking their bright colors would be as attractive to the fish as the pink and orange salmon flies in the catalogs. The shad flies were an assortment of brightly colored Clouser minnows. I picked a pink and white one. It didn’t seem to matter what we threw at them. We cast against the deadfall, let the fly sink and stripped it back. The salmon sometimes took softly and the line just went tight. Other times the fish slashed in from nowhere and smashed into the fly. Once they felt the hook, the fish usually made several strong runs and went airborne, tearing up the pool. Pink salmon are not supposed to jump but one greyhounded across the pool and made the reel sing before he tired. His broad, humped back (hence the nickname “humpy”) made it easy to determine his sex. In as many casts, I hooked a pink, silver and chum salmon. The pinks are the most plentiful being the smallest with the chums the largest in size and fewest in numbers. I hooked something solid right against the deadfall and quickly got it on the reel. It was a powerful fish and had the muscle to exert its will. It never cleared water and wanted none of my side of the river. Finally it came into view and I saw the chum, all twelve or so pounds of it. The chums are sort of the special forces of Pacific salmon being extremely strong fish and decked out in bizarre, multicolored stripes, like a form of aquatic camo. My fish turned upstream and was now fighting the current and the rod. Dick had been watching the whole affair and called out to warn me of a stick that could cause trouble. The stick was downstream of my position and, I thought, well out of the way. But the fish heard him, turned 180 degrees downstream, and headed straight for the stick. Before I could react, it wrapped the heavy portion of the leader several times and broke off. I couldn’t believe it. Only a few seconds elapsed between being tight to a big fish and holding a frayed leader. Thanks, Dick. Dick and I quickly realized we had an unanticipated problem to deal with. These fish were so large we couldn’t simply grab them with our hands like a trout. And Aren didn’t have a net. I suggested to Dick he drag the fish onto the bar where the final kicks of their tails would beach themselves. This worked but it was quite a ways back to the gravel bar. I decided to see if the ole’ fish lift would work. The lift is a one-handed operation. Place your hand under one side of the fish, halfway down its length, and lift the entire critter out of the water. In theory, the fish relaxes, letting its dead weight hang in your hand and doesn’t flop around, allowing you to easily remove the hook. Well, the darn thing worked. My second silver was about nine pounds and he was docile resting in my hand. The barbless Clouser came out easily and I slid the fish back into the water. The lift was a life saver for the fish, easy on me and didn’t require any extra equipment. I hadn’t noticed the fishermen to our backs had left but Aren had maintained a watchful eye. The opposite side held deeper water that tapered off quickly from the bar’s edge so the fish actually swam closer to you than those we were fishing for. So we switched sides and had the entire shoreline to ourselves. The conditions were perfect Alaskan fishing weather: an intermittent light rain and low, gray ceiling. What an afternoon! For about three hours, Dick and I were constantly hooked up. We had doubles most of the time. Dick stuck with the leech and had constant success with it. I used a single pink Clouser and caught about 40 fish on the same fly. I had to replace it only after Aren started removing it from the fish with a pair of forceps, which were tough on the fly. I reached the point of talking to the fish, yelling at them to “Take it, take it!” The silvers reacted violently to the hook, immediately taking to the air, tossing head over heels and peeling off line to get away from the source of the sting. They jumped, rolled and crashed on the surface throughout the fight. It was no wonder so much of what I had read praised the silver’s fighting abilities. To keep the fish from breaking off, I constantly checked the tippet for abrasions and replaced it many times (the tippet was looped onto the body of the leader so I wasn’t constantly cutting the leader back). I also upped the ten pound tippet to twelve pounds as the possibility of tangling with a larger chum was always present. The clear water allowed us to do a lot of fish watching. I noted most silvers often traveled in groups of two or three but the larger individuals tended to be loners. I also observed a behavior not described in the books. Conventional wisdom has it that ‘you can’t strip a fly fast enough for a silver.’ I found, however, that sometimes you could induce a take without even activating the fly. I picked out a silver to cast to and dropped the Clouser about a foot upstream. As the fly sank, the salmon swam over to it and closed its mouth down on the fly. The Clouser must wobble like a dying baitfish as it sinks because it surely attracted the fish! Silvers ate the fly on the drop several times so it wasn’t a fluke displayed by just one fish. We finally fished ourselves into exhaustion and it was time to go. We had indeed been in the right place at the right time. The lodge brochure stated you can expect to get a strike on nearly every cast. Both Dick and I were alarmed by this believing it would set unusually high expectations that could never be satisfied. In short, we felt the lodge was setting itself up for some dissatisfied customers. But we had just demonstrated their claim was true! Dick was grinning from ear to ear. I know I was smiling. This was the best fishing I have ever had and for the largest fish I had ever caught, outside of a few large stripers. But these guys came one after the other whereas the big stripers were a rarity. The Tal was truly a fishermen’s dream. Aren was as relaxed as I have ever seen a guide. We had passed his test and didn’t need his constant attention, certainly a welcome respite from his previous clients. Now we headed back to the lodge for dinner and some much needed rest.
Part 4 of 4: I Try to SleepOur arrival at the lodge was marked by lunch and a brief orientation. We were cautioned about the presence of bears in the area and, in particular, to look out for bears in the camp at night. Before we stepped off our porch to head for the toilets in the bathhouse, we should scan the area with a flashlight. Bears had been seen roaming around at night and we should not just walk blindly about. This was not comforting to me. Combined with the many bear tracks and piles of bear scat around the river bank in front of the lodge, I knew that an encounter with a bear was possible, perhaps inevitable. So the first night I lay me down to sleep and didn’t do so well. I usually sleep on my left side but am also claustrophobic and the small bed tucked in a corner forced me to sleep on my right. I was also not adjusted to Alaska time, four hours earlier than home. There I was, wide awake trying to sleep in an unusual position in a strange place at a strange time. Finally, I dozed off only to dream about being chased by a bear in my bare feet and undies. I didn’t find how the dream ended because I abruptly woke up in a sweat. And I needed to pee, really bad. The men were given the option of peeing off the porch instead of walking all the way to the bathhouse and after that dream, no way am I going across the compound. I pick up a flashlight, go out on the porch and scan the area. Holy shit!! There’s a bear thirty feet away! But the critter doesn’t move and I realize it’s actually a very large gall, probably from one of the trees used to build the cabins. A gall is a large localized swelling of a plant, usually caused by an insect infestation. I actually remember seeing the thing in daylight but it didn’t register. And this one looks very ursine in the dark. Even though I can intellectually comprehend this and the fear of an encounter has passed, it doesn’t do a thing for my bladder and now I am nearly wetting my pants. So with great relief, I let go off the deck. I go back inside and make another stab at sleep. I am still wired over meeting a chunk of wood in the dark so it takes about a half hour before I finally relax enough to drift off. While all of this is transpiring, Dick is over in the corner sleeping like an infant. Totally passed out. No snoring, no heavy breathing, just quiet. Just when I finally do fall asleep, he abruptly growls and snorts loudly in his sleep. This sends me flying three feet in the air, blankets and all! I am so wired I can feel electrical charges zinging all over me, probably well conducted by the soaking sweat I am drenched in. Now I am wide awake, on super-heightened alert, listening for the slightest sound. I look out the window, half expecting to see a wild animal looking back. Fortunately, nothing’s there. I crashed back down on the bed, exhausted physically and emotionally, my bed clothes cooling off and becoming less comfortable by the minute. But I was too tired to do anything. It’s 4:00 am and I felt like I haven’t slept a wink. I was so exhausted I was limp and pressed heavily into the mattress. Gratefully and without fanfare I slipped into unconsciousness. Suddenly, the roar of the generator announces the new day. It’s 5:00 am and the cook needs electricity to make breakfast. I heard some noise off in the distance and with what senses I had left the noise came closer and closer until I realized it’s time to get up. I have, after all, had one hour’s sleep. Dick climbs out of bed and growls, “Brady, get up.” “How did you sleep, Dick?” I mumble in reply. “Pretty good, how about you?”
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