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FIGHTING ALASKA’S WILD KINGS
Fish-catching Secrets of a Veteran Guide
By
Craig Boulden
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Craig Boulden on Smashwords
Fighting Alaska’s Wild Kings
Text and photos copyright 2012 by Craig Boulden
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Dedication
To my late grandfather, who took me aside at the tender age of seven and taught me the art and skills of fly fishing and, later at the age of fourteen, the stealth and cunning of still-hunting. Because of him, a feeling of reverence for the animal kingdom and a love and respect for the beauty and power of wilderness burn in my soul. To my mother, who gave me family values and the strength and faith to follow my heart. And to my wife, who helped me understand the value of the path I'd chosen to take.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1 -- Living to Fish and Fishing to Live
Chapter 2 -- The Six Secrets of Success
Chapter 9 -- King Tackle and Gear
Chapter 10 -- The King’s Magical Tour
Chapter 11 -- Share with the Bears
Chapter 12 -- Shore Lunch for Six
Chapter 13 -- Tips on Selecting a Lodge and Guide
Chapter 14 -- Tips for Fishing on Your Own
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Every fishing water has its secrets. A river is not a dead thing. It has beauty and wisdom and content. And to yield up these mysteries, it must be fished with more than hooks.
--Zane Grey
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Living to Fish and Fishing to Live
Surely one of the richest bounties of angling is to grow deeply intimate with the inner life of the world of nature, and in so doing, to come closer to your deepest self.
--Nick Lyons
I have often wondered why the wilderness chose me. For it is there, among the high mountains, raging rivers, and wild creatures, that I have always gone in search of clues to the mystery of who I am. And it is there that I truly feel most at home and most vibrantly alive. For me, responding to Nature's siren call was never a decision, rather a destiny--one which consumed me as a young boy and later ushered me into a lifetime of adventure.
Born in the remote wilds of Wyoming, I was lucky enough to experience first-hand the rare and untamed splendor of the vast, open country and abundant wildlife for which the West has always been famous. Even as a young boy, my whole world revolved around studying the movements and habits of the countless creatures that littered the nearby sagebrush flats and tree-lined hillsides.
My grandpa, the woodsman of our family, must have recognized the wildness in my soul because, when I was only seven, he took me aside to introduce me to the mysterious rituals of fishing. Snatching up a twelve-foot cane pole and a Band-Aid can full of grasshoppers, he showed me how to creep through the brush Indian-style and sneak up on his favorite mountain stream. Kneeling down beside me, Grandpa swung his long pole out over the gurgling water and dabbed a freshly-hooked hopper into the choppy riffle. "Do it just like this," he whispered. With wide eyes, I watched the hapless grasshopper bob and spin along the steep cut bank, wondering what scaly creature might be living in the depths below. "Now you try it," Grandpa murmured as he handed me the bamboo pole and slipped quietly away. The fish must have felt safe when they saw his six-foot frame vanish from sight, but they didn't know a tiny angler-to-be was still lurking close by. As soon as I splatted the yellow-bellied insect into the water again, a giant shadow darted out from the bank and inhaled the wriggly morsel. Instantly, I reared back on the oversized pole, bending it almost in half. But I was too small to lift the big lunker any further than six inches above the surface and, in the blink of an eye, he thrashed off the hook and escaped. Devastated, I raced back to Grandpa with my first tale about the big one that got away--and the sure knowledge that I was hooked for life.
From then on, instead of riding bikes or playing with toy trucks, I took every chance I could to stalk the unsuspecting trout that teemed in the trickling currents of Garden Creek, only a block from our house. By the time I hit high school, I knew the names and patterns of every fly that existed and spent most of my time daydreaming about hunting and fishing in Wyoming's rugged canyons and sagebrush-choked valleys. It didn't matter what I was chasing, as long as I was out there, trudging through the open wilds that stretched in every direction. I was truly more at home in the vast emptiness than I was in my own yard.
At seventeen, I bought my first horse, a sorrel appaloosa, for five hundred, hard-earned dollars. Insisting that my freedom to roam was more important than anything else, I spurred this trusty steed through the rugged, unexplored mountains of Wyoming for months every summer, living entirely off the land. While everyone else was making big bucks during the oil boom that put Wyoming on the map, I was scraping by on the few dollars I made from selling hand-tied flies, yet living like a king in the wilderness. All I needed was the open air and a dry place to sleep, and I was in hog heaven. To me, the hardships I endured were not annoying discomforts but proud badges of honor.
My father, however, thought otherwise. He always encouraged me to work in the oil patch and "make something of myself," like most of my friends were doing. But I was the heir to my grandfather's free spirit, and his woodsy tutelage had instilled in me an inextinguishable love of all things wild and free. So, even though I felt uneasy about not having my father's blessing, I felt compelled to follow my heart and press onward. Leaving the worrying up to my mother, I depended on nothing but pure faith, as she had taught me, and trusted I would make it through whatever challenges came my way. One day I realized that while all my friends were driving fancy cars and chasing girls in the local taverns, I was the one experiencing the real richness of life, riding endless miles on horseback and exploring the remote landscapes that called to my soul.
After several years of searching for my niche in the world, I started to land jobs as a guide for elk-hunting camps and dude ranches, finally getting paid to do what I loved--fly fish and hunt in the unspoiled wilderness. I led summer pack trips on horses for hundreds of miles through the wilds of western Wyoming. And it was there, in a territory harsh and foreign to most city slickers, that my knowledge of how to live in style in the woods was at last starting to pay off.
But each year, when the November snows piled up to my stirrups, I was forced to retreat back home to the low country and figure out how to scrape out a living in the city. It was during one of these winters that I overheard my father bragging to some old crony about my exploits in the wilderness. Wistfully, they tried to envision how it might feel to walk among elk herds numbering in the hundreds or to land a five-pound native cutthroat on a size 16 Royal Wulff. Grinning with humble pride, I slipped away without saying a word, because I knew exactly how it felt. And it seemed that, at long last, I was finally getting a hint of respect from my father. Feeling that I had done the thing I was supposed to do with my life after all, I could now dig in my spurs and forge ahead with confidence to pursue my wildest dreams of adventure.
For the next several years, I bounced from job to job, working as a hunting or fishing guide for countless outfitters all across the state. At one stage, I was guide manager for a big outfit on Elk Mountain in central Wyoming, where I ram-rodded over a million acres of private playground. There, I had the privilege of "trespassing" on some of the most virgin and pristine wonderland available in pursuit of large trout and massive bull elk. Later, I operated my own hunting and fishing guide service, which I called Great Divide Outfitters for the area in the Red Desert where I crawled around stalking antelope and deer. Needing a change of scenery and some new and different challenges, I moved on to guide for an elite fly fishing outfit nestled in the shadows of Arizona's Glen Canyon. There at Lee's Ferry, we specialized in using tiny size-20 midge patterns to help clients catch finicky rainbow trout in the crystal waters of the Colorado River.
While in the winters I guided in the warm climate of the southwest, for the short summer seasons I soon began a new quest in the subarctic regions of the far north. Alaska presented a new challenge for me. I had to cope with bears, twenty-foot tides, and dangerously unpredictable rivers, as well as learn how to catch a whole new type of fish -- the migrating salmon that swam in the transparent, glacial waters few white men had ever dared to explore.
My introduction to this pristine wilderness was the turbulent Alagnak River on the Alaska Peninsula. Because the lodge I was working for didn't believe in training their guides, I had to learn everything on my own, the hard way. Every day on the river was an adventure in survival. Forced to confront the wildly fluctuating tidal surges, the fast-moving mazes of braided, narrow channels, and the violent weather patterns common to Alaska's rivers, I literally took my life (and the lives of my clients) in my hands just looking for a place to fish. Because I was the only guide not issued a boat, I was forced to borrow a different craft every day and learn through trial and tribulation how to operate a wide variety of boats--from 18-foot john boats with 50 horse props to 22-foot river sleds with 200 horse jet-foots. And when it came to actually hunting down kings, I had to start from scratch in building my own arsenal of successful techniques.
But my beloved grandfather had taught me to learn, not run, from adversity. So, that harrowing first summer, I reached deep inside to find the grit and tenacity that allowed me to hang in there, figure out how to apply my previous years of fishing experience, and eventually become a wilier, more successful guide--and a wiser and better man.
Over the next several years, Alaska opened itself to me and revealed the breathtaking splendor of its wild and verdant heart. While working for a first-class outfit on the Wood River drainage, we flew all over Bristol Bay in amphibious bush planes, through some of the most spectacular country on earth. By this time, I had found my place as a king salmon guide and mastered hundreds of miles of the Togiak, Nushagak, and Wood Rivers, as well as several killer fishing techniques to match the variety of conditions. Eventually working my way up to the trusted and demanding position of out-camp guide, I spent four months of every year alone in a tent, about three hundred miles from the nearest road. Here, in this remote, jagged region of southwestern Alaska, I had the time and opportunity to experiment with and perfect every little detail of the deadliest king-catching techniques -- backtrolling, boondoggin', downtrolling, side-planing, and even fly fishing.
Even though I still had to fight pesky bugs and endure the constant, soaking rain, I had finally achieved my life-long dream of living deeply immersed in what is truly America's last frontier. The attendant loneliness and discomforts were a small price to pay for the chance to catch over-sized king salmon and the many other indigenous fish that couldn't wait to inhale my freshly handspun flies. I felt like a kid again, always wondering what huge bear might be lurking around the next corner in the neck-deep grass, or what mystical fish may be silently prowling up the river, eyeballing my helpless fly. Several blissful years slipped by before I noticed I had become a hermit-like recluse, moving silently among the alder brush that lined the river banks and scouring the water's depths for another target. My only company during that halcyon time was the family of foxes who adopted me and warned me nightly of approaching bears.
Meanwhile, back at the main lodge, my reputation for knowing the secrets of the river and my uncanny ability to find big fish when no one else could was spreading around the evening campfire. Hearing stories of hair-raising encounters with monstrous fish, clients seemed to crowd around my dinged-up Lund, hoping to casually sneak on-board and fish with the guy who averaged about five hundred kings in his boat each season. In fact, during one banner week, every one of my clients landed at least two kings over 45 pounds and released several in the 30-pound class. And setting a personal record, I even landed three kings over 50 pounds on one lead-eyed "Pink Seducer" fly that I had invented especially for the clear waters of the Togiak River. It seemed that just by doing what I love, living to fish and fishing to live, I had somehow become a part of Alaska's frontier mystique.
Throughout my life as a fishing guide, from the Rocky Mountains to Alaska, it has been my habit to analyze and hone my strategies and weapons in order to become a more complete fisherman. So, over my years in the land of the midnight sun, I invested many days on the water fine-tuning the secrets for consistently catching the most kings with the least amount of effort. In this book, I am sharing with you these treasured and proven techniques -- ones that I know will enhance your fish-catching abilities dramatically, no matter where you hunt the mighty king of salmon. All you have to do is apply them.
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Successful hunters and fishermen are precise observers of the world around them. They have to be in order to be successful.
--George Reiger
Did you know that only 10% of the fishermen catch 90% of the fish? What those fortunate 10% have over the others is specialized knowledge, an array of fish-catching skills, and unwavering confidence. If you would like to be among this elite 10% when you go to Alaska to catch the mighty king salmon, read on.
In the next few pages, I will give you the secrets of that hard-won knowledge, those fish-snagging skills, and that winning attitude. Here, I have condensed all the tricks and techniques I've learned in my ten years of experience guiding salmon fishing in Alaska, as well as the wisdom gained through many more years of angling all throughout the Rocky Mountains, to help you take a short-cut to fishing success. If you take the time to analyze these theories and tactics and apply them to your fishing strategies, you will catch a lot more kings. Instead of having to go through years of trial-and-error like I did, you'll be able to go straight for the cream.
Throughout the rest of the book, I will discuss all these strategies in greater detail, explain how to apply them to each of the different methods for catching king salmon, and share with you many tricks known only to the trophy-nabbing pros. (By the way, these techniques will work not only in Alaska, but also in any navigable river in Canada, the Pacific Northwest, and even Russia.) But in this chapter, I have distilled it all down to its essence. Here they are -- the six basic, and most potent, secrets of success.
Secret #1: GET IN THE ZONE
The biggest secret to catching fish of any kind is discovering where they are hiding so you can plop your lure or fly right in front of their faces. Professional fishermen spend years learning to read the water and surrounding conditions, and researching the habits and movements of a particular species, so they can approach any piece of water and quickly hone in on the precise spots where the bulk of the fish are hiding. Meanwhile, unschooled anglers may spend their entire day (or lifetime!) energetically maneuvering their boats and casting their fancy, state-of-the-art lures, into waters that are completely devoid of aquatic animals. Who will catch the most and biggest fish?
The fisherman who knows how to get into the zone, is one of the 10% who consistently catches 90% of the fish. Different species of fish hang out in different zones -- and this may vary from morning to evening, day to day, and season to season. But for the most part, the zone for the mighty king salmon is near the bottom. Kings are very light-sensitive and usually seek the deepest, darkest places available. They especially love clean, gravely shoals or bars, (where they can hold below the swifter, surface currents while pausing on their journey), cut-bank contours, (where they feel safe from predators), and the deepest, bucket-shaped holes, (safe havens where the dark, cool water makes them feel particularly at home). If you aren't spending your time fishing these bottomy refuges, you might as well not be fishing at all.
One more thing. It may seem obvious, but I've seen hundreds of otherwise smart and practiced anglers ignore this basic piece of horse sense. If you do catch fish, you're in the zone. Stay there. Do not wander off to other parts of the river thinking the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Pound that area until it turns off. But when the fish do stop hitting, you are either no longer in the zone, or the fish have moved. Now is the time to consider getting out of that now-dead spot and back into fish-catching territory. Re-position yourself into a new zone in a different hole.
Secret #2: TO FIND FISH, READ THE RIVER
Once you have realized that to consistently catch king salmon, you need to be steadily fishing on bottom, you need to have some way of searching the endless watershed to find the specific pieces of bottom that will be most fruitful.
The river structure can be your first clue. Start by eyeballing the shoreline to get an idea what may lie beneath the disguising currents. If you spot a gravel bank, there's a good chance the rocky texture will extend out into the river. The fist-sized stones nestled in these clean, gravel-filled runs or holes provide prime rest stops for traveling Chinooks. You can also locate and exploit these fish-rich areas by feeling the tic-tic-tic of your fishing weight or lure as it taps over the rocky contours, literally reading the river bottom like Braille. Where there is mud along the shore, odds are that the middle of the river will have a muddy bottom. You can confirm this with your lure, which will have a sluggish, dragging sensation when it encounters muck. Whether it's mud or root wads (areas where there are a lot of sunken tree roots washed from the banks), you'll want to stay away from these difficult-to-fish and unproductive holes. Outside corners of the river where you see trees hanging out over the water (sweepers) are usually full of snags. But cut banks can be a good place to fish, when no trees are present, because the currents of the main channel wash close to the shore, providing the necessary depth, cover and traveling lanes salmon would use. So to find kings, look and feel for gravelly areas and deep cut banks.
Another clue to salmon hiding spots is water temperature. Kings prefer cool water over warm. On dry, low-water years, a river's temperature is usually warmer than normal due to the lack of icy runoff from the mountains. This is when kings will be racing quickly through the lower stretches of rivers, searching for the colder water far upriver near their spawning areas. During high-water years, the opposite will occur. The kings will be more content as they enter the cold, dingy run-off waters bulging from icy, melting snowpack. They take their time wandering up the rivers because the water is dark and cold all the way. So in low-water years, remember the kings are traveling fast, searching for cooler temperatures farther upriver. In high-water years, you will encounter better fishing in the lower sections of river, where the kings linger for several days at a time.
But don't just drift aimlessly down the river hoping to stumble onto fish. Pick out a specific hole or stretch of river with good structure and pound it hard, covering the entire hole with a series of parallel passes, from the top to the bottom of the hole and a few feet apart (what I call a grid pattern). Sometimes kings lay in small precise spots and it takes several passes, hugging the bottom the whole time, to find them. Making a grid with your drifts gives the kings a chance to find and attack your offering. If, after several passes, you are still not catching fish, you can confidently go to another hole and start the same methodical procedure all over again. When you do catch a king, mentally mark the exact spot and make several more drifts all around the area. Doing this helps to locate and catch other fish that might be traveling with the first batch. Because kings usually migrate in groups, it is uncommon to catch only one fish in any given place. So another useful trick I've learned is to follow their schools. If I've been catching kings fairly regularly, but they turn off, I might run upriver to the next available hole, to see if I can cut them off as they migrate their way upriver to the spawning grounds.
Sometimes the time of day makes a difference. On countless occasions, my clients had excellent luck catching all the kings they wanted in the morning, yet couldn't buy a fish in the afternoon and evening. This always puzzled me because the bite was usually hot and heavy again the very next morning. I don't know, maybe kings nap in the evening. The point is, if you only want to fish for a short time, I recommend you keep your hook wet during the opportune mid-morning hours. On the other hand, with quirky, migrating fish you can't make up the rules, and you never know when or where they will be ready to attack. So stay flexible and be persistent.
The lazy man's way to locate kings is to run the river until you see someone else catching fish. This method is commonly used by guides and anglers that don't know the rivers very well, or that don't want to work too hard at finding fish. If you do pull in on someone else's hole, don't blunder in like you own it. Ethics dictate that if you horn in on someone else's water, at least have the courtesy to fish the same technique they're using. Make sure to give them plenty of room--don't be a bonehead by blocking off the path of other drifters. I don't know about you, but I don't go all the way to Alaska to fish shoulder-to shoulder with someone else, and have to claw and scratch for my share of river. So have a little respect for other anglers and try to work together. There is plenty of room and fish for everyone.
If you are having trouble finding fish, step back and take stock. What techniques have you been using? If they haven't been working, try something new. What water have you covered that hasn't produced any fish? Go somewhere else. I often don't know where to fish until I start hunting, letting the kings tell me where they are -- or where they are not. If you are struggling, try moving to a different section of the river. Try using a different technique. Use a little finesse and a lot of stealth. Wherever you end up, fish aggressively in the zone until you find the fish you want.
Secret #3: MAKE QUALITY DRIFTS
Boat control is crucial. How you manage your drifts has an enormous and direct effect on your presentation -- either becoming a decisive asset or degenerating into big trouble. Most fishermen (and a lot of guides) don't fully appreciate this, but boat control can make the difference between a no-fish day and a forty-fish day. It's one of the most potent secrets for consistently catching lots of kings.
There are two essential components to making quality drifts with your boat: first, the basic operation of the watercraft specific to each technique; and second, making critical steering adjustments to compensate for wind, waves, and current.
First, let's talk about the proper boat management for each method. All of my techniques for catching kings fall into two categories -- hunting or trapping. In other words, you can either hover in one place to set a trap somewhere along the king's expressway, ambushing them as they cruise upstream. Or you can actively hunt each hole by drifting or trolling down through it. Either way, the boat's movement controls the quality of both your drift and your presentation.
Setting traps along the salmon's trails takes a lot of patience. You sit in one or two spots all day hoping the fish are coming to you. Backtrolling plugs is widely used in this situation. Here, boat control simply consists of holding the boat steady while the current does all the work.
Hunting kings takes a little more finesse, thus requiring more precise boat control. Since you are covering more water while hunting, you must constantly maneuver the boat to maintain an enticing presentation. You can backtroll plugs by easing the boat through the swirling currents, slowly crawling your way down through the hole. Or if you prefer to be a bit more ambitious, then try boondoggin' with spin-n-glos. This allows you to hunt at a casual walk, drifting along with the river's current as you bounce bottom with your weight. Or if you are an aggressive angler, you can hunt at a trot by downtrolling spinners. This technique covers the most water, as you troll down current just fast enough to slow-roll the spinner's blades while they tick bottom occasionally. While on the hunt, you are subject to more variables than you would encounter in simply setting a trap. So boat control becomes paramount in maintaining a superior presentation. That's where the second, and much trickier, aspect of boat control comes in.
On a typical Alaskan day, you are fighting a 20-knot crosswind, while waves slap the side of your boat shoving you one way as the swirling currents pull your tackle the other way. The challenge is to somehow keep your boat from being blown off course and your lures dragged out of the zone. This is where boat control becomes a full-time job. You cannot afford to get lazy and ignore the fact that your enemy, the wind, has just blown your enticing offering right out of the waiting jaws of a big whopper. Instead, you must sharpen your senses and be keenly aware of the volatile forces affecting your perfect drift. Paying close attention to the angle of your lines as they enter the water, the action of your lures, and the feel of bottom will provide clues that something is not quite right. Figure out what has changed and adjust the boat's course to get back on track. These constant corrections will allow you to improve your presentation and catch more fish.
Just to underscore how important boat control is, let me tell you what happened one day when my buddy, Kent, and I were downtrolling. With Kent at the helm, I couldn't help but notice that we weren't catching any fish. The problem was that, in trying to fight a nasty crosswind, Kent was driving too fast and pulling our Teespoons away from bottom and out of the zone. This lasted for only two passes before I stood up and said, "You're fired. I'm drivin'." Paying close attention to the throb of the spinner's blade in the rod tip, I made corrections in the boat's speed and direction about every five seconds to compensate for the brisk wind and current. Finally, we were in the ballgame, making quality drifts--and from then on, we caught at least one fish on every pass.
Secret #4: EXPERIMENT WITH YOUR TACTICS
Whatever your favorite or most successful way of catching fish is, it may not be the best. Just because something worked last week or last year doesn't mean it will work today. Don't get stuck in a rut!
Even subtle changes in weather, temperature, tidal flow, lunar phase, and barometric pressure can make drastic differences in a king's habits or moods. You must be able to adapt to each of these changes in conditions. Have enough confidence to modify your speed, depth, color or size of lure, method, or location. For instance, if you've made several quality drifts without success, try exchanging your small chartreuse spin-n-glo for a large pink one. Or if you've been backtrolling plugs along a cut bank all morning without turning a fish, think about moving to a gravel bar and banging the bottom with Teespoons. Or if the weather changes from clouds to sun, maybe switch from the fluorescent orange lure you've been running to a shiny chrome one. Make adjustments until the fish tell you what is tickling their fancy today. Or in a nutshell, don't try to change the conditions, condition yourself to change.
Secret #5: KNOW YOUR ADVERSARY AND HIS STOMPING GROUNDS
Your first encounter with Alaska's immense watersheds may inject a shocking dose of reality into your preconceived notions about huge salmon fighting each other to get on your hook. This isn't your backyard, and you can't just rely on your usual bag of fishing tricks. This is real wild country, with endless miles of untamed rivers, inhabited with huge and unique species of fish and animals. To successfully design this "trip of a lifetime," you had better research the peculiarities and challenges this seductive fantasyland holds in store for you. If you make the effort to do some thorough homework before (and during) your trip, you will secure a significant edge over your fellow anglers as well as the mysterious marauders of the deep you dream of catching.
For instance, if you don't know that once they enter freshwater, kings attack out of meanness, not out of hunger, your offerings might not be bright and gaudy enough to evoke a strike reaction. If you don't know that your chosen outfitter specializes only in backtrolling with plugs, you may be cheated out of the thrill of the savage strikes common to downtrolling. If you are not armed with a quality, heavy-action rod and flawless drag system on your reel, the blistering power of a king could leave you with a seized-up reel, a shattered rod, and a broken heart. And, what do you do when a thousand-pound bear appears at the edge of your fishing hole and wants to fish your water?
Knowledge is golden. I can't emphasize enough the importance of doing the homework necessary to ensure a safe and fulfilling expedition--one that may even exceed your wildest dreams and expectations. Keep reading, as I have shared my years of first-hand research with you in the following chapters. But remember that homework doesn't end at home. It continues when you hit the banks of your chosen river. Find local sporting goods stores and see what fly or lure has been producing lately. Compare fishing strategies with fellow anglers at boat ramps or on the water. Pick their brains for any little trick that could make all the difference in your success or failure.
It doesn't matter where you go or what you fish for, homework is the crucial and necessary price we all have to pay for angling success. And especially in Alaska, the A+ student is the one who catches and lands the monster trophy.
Secret #6: RECHARGE YOUR ATTITUDE
If there's one single thing that will make the biggest difference in your ability to catch fish, it's your attitude. Obviously, you need the proper gear and some knowledge of technique. But a healthy attitude can broaden your perspective on applying these techniques and help you adapt effectively to changing conditions. It is the mysterious but vital ingredient that raises the level of your performance that extra notch--elevating you into the elite group that consistently catches 90% of the fish. An optimistic outlook whets your appetite for success, stimulates your creativity, and keeps you perched on the productive edge. The kind of self-assured determination I'm talking about is a balanced blend of confidence, awareness, and persistence.
Confidence is a tool I use everyday as an Alaskan fishing guide. My confident demeanor infects my clients with enthusiasm and belief in themselves. Together, we're already having fun, no matter what else happens, setting a positive tone for the day. Friendly bets on the first and biggest fish are placed with high expectations, and the sporting competition begins. Now, we are really focused. When my clients expect to catch a fish on every pass, I know we are ready to outwit those wily Chinooks. This newfound intensity brings out the aggressive best in each fisherman, makes him more alert, and inspires faith in the deadly techniques we are about to employ. With confidence flying, we can look forward to learning from our mishaps instead of being defeated by them. Working like a finely-tuned machine, we know the fish don't stand a chance.
Once you're in the right frame of mind, it's time to turn off your ego and turn on your powers of awareness. This ability, more than any other, is what separates the expert from the novice. A keen sense of observation is your main tool for monitoring and modifying your fish-catching-presentation. It should be perfect on every drift. Are you in the zone? Is your lure tickling bottom or are you dredging? Are you tangled up? Is it a gravel bottom you feel, or mud? Is the wind affecting your drift? (It probably is.) Are you covering all the water? Is backtrolling working, or should you try covering more territory by boondoggin'? Is it time to switch from a kwikfish to a jet diver and spin-n-glo? If you're not constantly monitoring all these vital elements, then you're not even in the ballgame.
Once this basic type of mindfulness becomes second nature, you are ready to tune your sensitivity to the master level. This is the kind of awareness that connects you to the river and the life that thrives in it, allowing you to be one of the few who can receive and understand its subtle signals.
To achieve this enhanced level of communication, sit back and listen. Sharpen your senses and absorb the mood of the river. Look for any signs that it is coming alive -- whether it's a king rolling on the surface as he works his way upstream, an osprey hovering over the shallows zeroing in on a juvenile rainbow, grayling dimpling in the foam-line to suck up emerging caddis flies, thunderheads looming in the distance, or a freshening breeze dancing across the water. These are all signs that the natural world is responding to some unseen force, perhaps the pull of the moon, the pressure changes of an oncoming squall, or a subtle fluctuation in tide or temperature. Learn to recognize these magical moments when all the creatures become more active. Such peak periods are when big fish bite. So if you're not already in the zone, get there now and be ready for that rod bender. Manage your day to take full advantage of these windows of opportunity.
My daily ritual, for instance, is to commune alone with the river while sipping on my first cup of coffee. I squat down next to the vapory waters, quietly watching for signs of movement, absorbing all I can. If I see any fish activity -- a dimple, a splash, a boil -- I will definitely begin the day fishing the hole near camp. If the river seems dead and quiet, then I might start by running several miles downstream and eventually fish my way back to camp. Using my intuition, together with information I've collected from previous days on the water, I make a decision on where to begin the hunt. But keeping my fingertips on the pulse of the river throughout the rest of the day, I listen for any hints that may redirect my course to even more fertile waters.
By maintaining this highly-tuned level of intensity, you too can stay confident and aware, expecting to catch a king on every pass. From then on, it's just a matter of persistence. Aggressively attack each structure several times, pounding every inch of water. Fearlessly use every weapon in your tackle box. Make the extra effort to achieve and maintain precision boat control. Keep your hook wet with high expectations, stay in the zone, and work hard. Nothing comes easy. With the tenacity of a bulldog, the awareness of an eagle, and the confidence of a banker, you now have the positive attitude it takes to match wits with the king of salmon -- and have the winning edge.
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Every moment of life, I suppose, is more or less of a turning point. Opportunities are swarming around us all the time thicker than gnats at sundown.
--Henry Van Dyke
In a fever of anticipation, I stood in the remote tundra, awestruck by the eerie beauty of a lingering Alaskan sunrise. It was 6:00AM, the witching hour; and the time when the entire camp erupted in a flurry of eager-beaver activity. This morning there had been a new buzz around the coffeepot. One of the guides had overheard two pilots chattering on the radio about having spotted beluga whales chasing salmon in the bay. This meant that today's high tide might be carrying the very first wave of returning kings. As I wiped the dew off the seats of my shiny new boat, the gurgling of the restless river stirred up images of giant fish and the unknown challenges I would face in trying to catch them. Today was my first day as an Alaskan fishing guide, and I couldn't wait for my adventure in the endless and wild watershed to finally begin.
When I had first arrived in Alaska, seven long weeks earlier, I had been amazed to find that my new bosses were far more interested in my carpentry skills than my fishing abilities. In fact, they'd had me pounding nails and digging ditches, twelve hours a day, and I felt like I had been sent to some foreign prison camp. At one point, I had been sentenced to several grueling days of hauling building materials from the supply barge, ten miles down river, to the lodge, my boat so overloaded with lumber that it was in constant danger of capsizing. But I tried to squeeze some good out of these harrowing journeys by memorizing any unusual landmarks and possible fishing holes along the way--even though, by this time, I had almost forgotten that I had come to Alaska to be a fishing guide and not a laborer. This depressing notion was further enforced by the lodge's curious policy that guides weren't even allowed to fish!
On this, my very first day, I was nervous as a hen in a fox's den and worried about a thousand possible calamities. Would I be able to find my way through the confusing braids of river? Would we survive the dangers hidden beneath the frigid, turbulent currents? Could I find the elusive king's secret lairs? I simply didn't know. The lodge management had not lifted a finger to train their new employees. And the more experienced guides, who seemed to feel threatened that I might catch more fish than they, were being extremely tight-lipped about sharing their tricks of the trade.
I was on my own. Only my determination and my love for fishing would see me through. I knew I had to rely primarily on my previous knowledge of boat handling, my well-honed fishing instincts, aggressive persistence, and a confident attitude. Thanks to my past experiences with many different species of fish in the lower forty-eight and my willingness to learn, I felt I had some good tools to apply in this crash course on king fishing. I was ready to brave the ragged edge, in search of my Alaskan dream.
My first clients, Rob, his wife and their two toddlers, piled into the boat with me. The twenty-foot Woolridge had seats made of two-by-ten wooden boards, and, in weaving our way onto them, we'd already tracked mud across the boat's sturdy, galvanized floor. She was brand new, and like us, raring to head down the chilly river, still steaming from the icy-cold morning frost. Though I didn't know where I was going, I reluctantly goosed the ninety horsepower Yamaha into forward gear, and the huge aluminum boat began plowing through the swift current. We eased down the Alagnak River, beginning a tense, thirty-minute boat ride to where kings were expected to be entering the brackish tidewaters.
Adrenaline pounding like a kettle drum, I glided down the meandering waterway, trying to read the complex scroll of swirling currents. Hoping to make the correct zigs and zags, I focused ahead carefully, narrowly avoiding disaster at every corner, as snags, sand bars, and islands whizzed by in a blur. I was skimming along on step, trying to stay with the main flow of water, when all of a sudden, KRRRRR! We ran out of deep water, and the prop plowed like a farmer's disk into a sunken gravel bar, knocking Rob and his family to the floor. Totally embarrassed, I leaped from the high-centered boat to check the brand new prop. "Whew!" Everything was OK, including the clients. I reassured them that I really was a guide, and cautiously continued down the river, closely eyeballing every rock and swirl. With my heart pounding loudly in my ears, I prayed that we would safely make it to a spot where we could wet a line for kings. I was furious that the lodge had not properly trained me or showed me the trail in which to safely navigate. And I trembled with anxiety and frustration as senior guides whizzed past us, racing down river to get the first shot at the approaching, sea-run kings.
Eventually, I recognized a beaver house nestled along the alder-laced bank. It was located above a picture-perfect hole called the Upper Barge Slough. There, a choppy riffle tumbled over a stretch of gravel and flowed into a long washed-out corner. The water had carved out the tundra, deepening through the years and forming a bucket, or dark abyss, where the traveling kings could rest. The bottom of the hole had a network of sloughs and side channels that surrounded a huge boiling eddy. That's how I had spotted this place on one of my earlier supply runs and made a point to remember it, even though I knew the senior guides seldom fished there. Besides, today I wanted to start high on the river, working my way down toward its outlet. Maybe we could cut off the fish heading upstream and stay away from the heavy traffic and combat fishing down river. Here, we would at least have the water all to ourselves.
With a sigh of relief, I cautiously pulled the Yamaha's throttle back and swung the bow upstream to hold steady in the current. "Let's fish here," I announced with captain-like assurance. In reality, I was as nervous and excited as they were and couldn't wait to start fishing.
I had decided to start our day by backtrolling plugs. Back home in Wyoming, I had caught hundreds of lake trout and walleye using this same, bottom-banging technique. So I had confidence we would at least be in the ball game, tickling those wiggling warts in the "zone." I readied the stout king rods with diving plugs and, with crossed fingers, assured my clients that we were going to catch a king.
Dropping a bright orange tad poly plug in the water, I let it out for the six-year-old son. But before I had a chance to spool out the desired thirty yards of line, I felt the savage strike of a king. Instinctively, I smashed my thumb down on the spool to prevent a backlash and reared back on the rod, setting the hook. My thumb print burned off as the line literally sizzled from the spool. Suddenly, a huge king boiled near the surface and raced down river toward Bristol Bay. I quickly engaged the reel to obtain some drag and held on tight while the line melted away. I tried handing the rod to the kid, but since I was having to hold on to both the rod and the boy's britches to keep them from being yanked out of the boat, I suggested that Rob take over. He gladly accepted the rod and began the long and strenuous fight that lay in store.
I eased back the throttle into neutral so the boat would drift down river right along with the oversized fish. This ensured that we wouldn't have to pull the fish upriver against the formidable current--a situation which usually resulted in a lost fish. By this time, the twenty-pound test monofilament was mostly gone from the spool. So, as we drifted down a long rapids section, around a sweeping corner, and into the deep slow pool, I advised the straining father to try to gain back some line. This deep and quiet abyss was a perfect place to try to land the fish.
After forty minutes of wrenching his rod against the power of the sulking beast, Rob finally managed to work him under the boat. But the stubborn scrapper kept insisting on diving for the darkness of bottom. With each sweep of the king's powerful tail, every inch of the stretched-out line cried for mercy and hummed in the rod's guides from the intense pressure. The big salmon kept a bend in the rod so hard that it rebelled with creaks and groans of stress. There was nothing to do except keep the line tight and hold on. My God! The raw power of the fabled Alaska king was everything I had imagined and then some. I really wanted this behemoth, my first guided king, to end up in the boat. But I felt helpless, perspiration trickling freely down my forehead and stinging my eyes, as we drifted in big, lazy circles around the hole.
Worn out by now, Rob struggled to raise the king to the surface for the umpteenth time. Finally, leaning over the edge of the boat and staring into the gin-clear water, we got our first glimpse of the bruiser just as he kicked back toward the rocky bottom once again. He had looked at least four feet long, with a tail the size of an oar. Hovering in the depths like a sack of cement, the big beast was too heavy to lift without fear of breaking the stressed line. But even though he seemed to have the stamina of a marathon runner, I knew it was just a matter of time. With a little patience and persistence, we would triumph over this fish of a lifetime.
Thirty minutes later, my confidence was still growing when suddenly, the wily warrior darted for the surface and launched into the air. Time seemed to stand still as the fish paused at eye level, fixing us with a determined glare. But when he belly-flopped three feet from the boat, splashing all of us squarely in the face, I was startled from my momentary trance long enough to register what I had seen. This fierce bruiser was a hook-jawed buck of at least fifty pounds, large even for Bristol Bay kings. With our mouths hanging open, we all stood frozen in awe and just stared at each other, speechless. I wanted this fish!