Alaska diary: Wet entry

The Last Frontier.  Land of the Midnight Sun.  That's the Chamber of Commerce speaking.

The bumper stickers for sale in the airport shops get down to details.

• The Alaska State Bird (picture of mosquito).  
• Shut up and fish.  
• Drill Now.  
• I can see Alaska from my house (with mugshot of Putin).  
• Always love your country -- Never trust your government.  
• Ted Bundy was a Republican.
• I brake for moose.
• Gut Salmon?
• We eat therefore we hunt.
• My Alaskan malamute is smarter than your honor student.
• This car survived the Alaska Highway
• Because stupid is the new smart (with mugshot of you-know-who)
• Quit Happens (with the same you-know-who pictured)

There should be some bumper stickers about the weather.  I arrive in a drizzle.  The plane sweeps over a long narrow waterway -- the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet -- above what look like (and later prove to be) mud flats.  My brother, Dale, and I meet at the airport and spend the night at an inn that has seen better days.  It rains most of the night.  We spend the night battling stomach cramps and worse from the overpriced halibut dinner and beer we sprung for in the hotel restaurant.  We will learn soon enough that everything in Alaska is overpriced, although not as lethal as the cooking at the Coast Inn.

The shuttle to the float plane is waiting for us at 7 a.m. as promised.  We join the pilot and six other fishermen headed to Wilderness Place Lodge on Lake Creek, a fishing resort off the Yentna River northeast of Anchorage.  The lodge owner, Jason Rockvam, has come to meet us and is the tenth man in the plane.  We pile ourselves and gear into the red and white deHavilland Otter.  Everyone dons a headset and we take off in the mist.  

The windows fog up from the heat of ten adult bodies, but visibility is clear below.  Anchorage disappears quickly and we fly over a vast plain of wooded and watery land.  Small areas show signs of domestication.  I overhear Jason say there was a federal program to start dairy farms in this region.  The cattle were creamed by the winter cold.  Moo-cho money spent and little thought given to practicality in the frozen north.  It's a summary of Alaskan sentiment towards government in general.  

Mostly we see trees and rivers and bogs and little bodies of water that might be lakes or just big puddles left over from melt-off or summer rains.  Occasional solitary cabins and groups of buildings peep out of the bush, mostly along the river.  We land on the Yentna and are met by guides from the lodge who take us in outboard boats in groups of 2-4 up the Lake Creek channel to our home for the next three days.

The lodge sits back from the creek -- which is more like a river -- fronted by a lawn and surrounded by cabins and outbuildings.  The log construction buildings ooze with back country Alaska ambiance.  Fly poles lean against the railing on the porch.  A large stand of fireweed blooms just below, a welcoming blaze of local flora.   It is barely misting now.  

Despite the weather, the temperature is a comfortable 60 degrees at midday.  No need to fire up the wood stove in the lodge.  The owners and staff greet us, shaking hands, introductions all around.  Noah is a teacher from Thornton, Colorado, where my son and family live.  He teaches in nearby Brighton schools.  His steely handshake is out of proportion to his height, but not to his enthusiasm.  He's a waterbug of energy, voluble and upbeat.  

I ask him about the weather.  "What's the forecast for later today and the next few days?"

"Cloudy with a chance of sun or rain."  He laughs.  "That's the forecast every day in Alaska in the summer."

The new arrivals sit down for a quick lunch.  Buffalo chicken wraps with a full-bodied chile and spice coating that raises them far above the camp fare I was expecting.  A taste of good things to come.

 Our guide, Casey, introduces himself.  He is a lanky 25-year-old from Michigan who, like everyone on the staff, lives to fish and be in the outdoors.  We are shown into our cabin, the only one without gas heat.  A wood stove and box of pine and birch logs are on call should the need arise.  We agree to meet in 20 minutes.

The cabin has a shower and toilet in the bathroom, two beds in the living area with a sink and mirror.  A photograph of Mt. McKinley and the Denali range hangs on the wall above my bed.  Despite our rough night and Dale's dehydration and lack of sleep, we pull on waders and boots, ready to lay into one of the fabled salmon that brought us to Alaska for this year's annual fishing trip.  The rain has stopped.  No sun, but just a hint of brightness behind the clouds.  And plenty of hope and enthusiasm brewing as Casey comes up the walk to take us out on the river.

The other groups head out in boats both up and down river.  Casey asks if we are up for a short hike, about half a mile, to a run that has been fishing well.  We set out with spin and fly casting gear, working our way through the brush and across the river to a gravel bar that meanders, disappears and reappears along the opposite bank.  The walk loosens me up from the flight and hotel and quick unpacking.  I'm ready to concentrate on salmon.