Alsaka diary: Trout fishing in America

My brother, Dale, wants to catch a dolly varden.  Dollies are a trout species found extensively in Kenai River basin waters.  Or he will settle for a big rainbow, anything to justify hauling waders and boots 1500 miles in his luggage.  (The Wilderness Lodge supplied all our equipment, so to this point we have not made use of any fishing gear we have brought.)  The trout will be feeding on roe from the spawning salmon.  We will be feeding on the trout.

After breakfast at Hidden Lake, we head to Grim's Tackle, a recommended fishing shop up the road from our camp.  We always spend time in the local tackle store, looking for advice on flies and fishing technique.  The price of a few geegaws -- flies, split shot, strike indicators, leader material -- is always repaid with more information than we can use.

In this case, the trout expert is a young fellow named Tim from West Virginia.  His down home drawl seems out of place at first in Alaska, but soon enough we settle into the usual fishermen's give and take, and enjoy his good ol' boy fish tales.  For trout he recommends plastic beads that mimic roe as attractors for rainbows and dolly varden.  Nearby Quartz Creek holds the best population of dollies, although Tim has lots of stories of 20+ inch lunkers he has pulled from lakes and rivers in the area.

Because Grim's has been bought out of the hottest size of beads, we drive a mile farther to Troutfitters and swap questions and a few dollars on tackle for further advice.  The same advice.  Quartz Creek it is.

That's where we head after breaking camp.  The creek is a beautiful freestone stream packed with salmon, in this case sockeyes.  The hook-jawed males lunge and swipe at each other, hardwired to protect a spawning bed.  Dale wanders off downstream and I fish upstream for an hour, hooking a couple of salmon but no dollies.  For me, watching the fish is as entertaining as casting for them.

Directly in front of me, two huge king salmon, both a yard long and battered from their long swim upriver, take care of the business that has brought them to Quartz Creek.  Their red bodies have white gashes and molting flesh.  The female sweeps her tail over the creek bed near shore.  Then the male moves in to deposit his sperm and stir the mix with a frenzied fanning of his tail, a final gesture to fulfill his destiny.  Water from his churning splashes against my wader legs.  The two fish slide back closer to the center of the stream, their job done.

When I get back to the car, Dale has stories of bear scat and pictures of a gorgeous dolly.  Mission accomplished.

Our last stop in the area is at the confluence of the Kenai and Russian Rivers.  The Russian, according to a chalkboard tally at Troutfitters, has counted close to 1.5 million sockeyes moving upriver this season.  So far.  The second run of the season is underway.  We park at the Russian River campground and walk several hundred yards on a raised boardwalk set back from the riverbank.  By restricting fisherman traffic to the walkway and stair access points spaced out every fifty yards or so, riparian damage is minimized.  That's a handy accommodation, since this river gets more fishing pressure than any other in Alaska.

I had read in advance to expect elbow to elbow fishing when the reds were running.  Jostling and lines tangled -- bound to happen.  It's not exactly cheek by jowl, but groups of fishermen stand in the hottest runs no more than 10 feet apart.  Sockeyes do not feed while spawning, so the method for landing them involves a short, weighted dropper that pulls along the bottom, while the leader pulls a bald hook at the level the fish are swimming.  Hooking one of the reds in the mouth counts as a catch.  My guess is that an equal number are foul hooked.  This is meat fishing at its most ravenous.  And sockeyes, as your butcher will tell you, offer meat worth stalking.

The guide books prove prophetic.

I find an open stretch near the confluence when a young fisherman and his female companion step back  to rerig.  I connect with two dollies, both in what look to be the 18+ inch range, but lose them when my leader snaps.  Two anglers in fancy Simms waders and top-of-the-line gear -- obviously guys who have come to Alaska to fish like my brother and I, not like the locals in levis and hip waders -- splash across the river through the run I am fishing.  One asks how it's going and I make the mistake of saying that I've had a couple of fish on.

That's a signal for one fellow to set up to my right, within six feet, and begin casting.  He hooks a salmon and it splashes through the run I am fishing, spooking whatever is there.  His partner walks directly across the river from me and casts back in my direction, hooking my line, which is floating through the run.  He reels in and untangles our rigs, casting a haughty squint at me as if I am intruding on his space.

I bring in my line.  I've had enough fishing for the day.  If we had been among those looking to fill a bucket with sockeyes, we would have had more fun.  But since we are more used to fishing as an escape from the noise and bustle -- more like a walk through nature with Isaac Walton -- the Russian River scene proves uninviting.

We dismantle our gear and pull off our boots and waders at the car.  The drive to Anchorage takes close to three hours, where we spend the night.  Starting tomorrow morning, we will put away our fishing hats for four days in Denali Park, our next destination.  Wilderness and grizzly bears await.  Plus many other (pleasant) surprises.