Andy's Alaska Adventure - Part III

Our stay contnues in the Anchor Valley, and the fishing is fantastic

After not sleeping well again, I was up at dawn.  I grabbed my 5 weight and headed down to the river, not wearing waders and intending to just fish from shore for a while.  I stood atop a boulder and drifted small nymphs through a nice run, catching a few char and enjoying the solitude.  Suddenly I hooked a good fish, which raced around the river.  It came up and leaped high out of the water multiple times, a bright silvery fish of around 20 inches.  The fish made a fast run downstream that took me into my backing, and the hook popped out.  It must have been a big, fresh dolly or an early steelhead.   Shortly after this, a young bull moose came wading up the river along the opposite bank.  He just sauntered  up, stopped and looked at me when he was just across the stream, then trotted off upstream through the shallow water. 

A pair of big chinook bucks were engaged in battle right here in a swift gravelly riffle.  I sat on the gravel bar and watched the fish, which were only 10 or 15 feet from me.  The two brawlers were a deep crimson color, probably done with the act of spawning.  Only death remained for them, because all chinooks die after they spawn and they know it.  These two 50 pound beasts held next to each other in the fast current, taking turns slashing around and chomping down on the wrist of the tail of the other.  Their large teeth cut and tore flesh and fin, and each fish bore deep battle scars.  The ferocity and quickness of their attacks was amazing, and the performance seemed to me as a macabre yet beautiful dance of the dying.  Their whole life had led up to this day.  These great fish left the vast ocean to charge up the river of their own birth on a mission that they knew they would not return from.  After successfully spawning their life’s work is complete, yet life still remains in them.  This cruel joke of Fate is the reason that these two gigantic red fish were holding in a fixed position in a fast chute of water next to me trying to destroy each other.   They may battle for days.  I watched these fish for a very long time, then returned to the tent around 7 am. 

After a small campfire and a pot of coffee, we packed up camp and headed to the town of Homer to pick up some ammunition and other supplies.  Homer is an interesting town, to say the least.  We drove out on the Spit, which is a very narrow strip of land that juts out into the ocean that is many miles long.  Dozens and dozens of tents were set up on the sandy beach, and it appeared that some of the campers had been there for quite a while.  Beautiful snow-capped mountains rim the horizon, just across the inlet from Homer.  This is a major Halibut fishing hub.   A saltwater lagoon exists here, and coho salmon stack up in it when they are running.  We stopped and brought out the flyrods, and took up position along the edge of the lagoon among dozens of other anglers.  Many crabs were crawling around in the seaweed near shore.  Salmon were jumping and splashing in the center of the lagoon, and schools were perpetually swimming circles around in it.  When a school would come by, they made a visible wake and we chucked various streamers in front of them but got no strikes.  A few times fish would charge the fly, but pull up at the last moment and turn up their nose.  Almost all of the other fishermen were using a peculiar rig consisting of a float and a bare hook, rigged backwards with the float at the end of the line and the hook tied inline a couple of feet above it.  They would cast out and lay their rod tip in the water, and the trap was thus set.  When a school of silvers came through, the rig was designed so that a fish would get the line across their mouth and keep moving, so the line would slide through and the hook would set neatly in the corner of the fish’s mouth.  A few folks landed fish using this technique, but the salmon were not interested in our flies so we left the lagoon.

Finding an outpost, we looked to purchase some .357 loads that would provide adequate bear medicine if we needed it.  A 220 grain soft-point bullet is considered the “Bear Minimum” in the Alaskan bush, but the shopkeeper had none and made no promises that they would stop a charging Grizzly from mauling us anyway.  He and his grizzled compadre each had a battered 454 Casul on their hip, and they offered to trade straight-up for Corey’s immaculate Smith and Wesson.  “No deal, fellas”, Corey said.  “We’ll find another outpost that has what we need.”  They had a good deal on a lightweight sleeping bag, so I splurged and bought it.  No more freezing in the tent for me!

After this, we headed for the upper Anchor river.  It was the first day of the open season on the upper river, and rumor had it that large sea-run dolly varden inhabit this water.  Crossing it on a dirt road, we found a beautiful stream that was reminiscent of a Wisconsin spring creek.  Large boulders and colorful patches of Fireweed made for a beautiful setting.  In fact, the first spot I fished is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever fished in my life.  There was a massive boulder formation jutting out from the far bank, and patches of pink Fireweed and other white flowers mixed with the long, bright green grass enveloping the streambed.  The crystal-clear stream took a turn and dumped into this large boulder formation, and a deep, swift run was carved out.  A short flip was all that was required to get my egg imitation drifting through the run, and I hooked up on my second drift.  A large char broke the surface and fought hard on my light tackle, racing around in the swift water.  This was the biggest dolly we had caught so far, and I put it on a stringer.  Hookups came on nearly every drift.  I caught a few more, and Corey was enjoying the same action at the bend just above me.  My largest fish from this spot was a colorful male of maybe 24 inches, and Corey got one just a tad shy of that.   We explored upstream, and found willing char everywhere.  After catching 30 or more fish each that averaged a foot and a half, we kept our limit of four of the biggest and said goodbye to this wonderful stream.  That afternoon on the upper Anchor river will not soon be forgotten.

           The Corolla took us through rutted and muddy back roads as we explored the North Fork of the Anchor.  This was a very small little creek, and we didn’t find much other than a few spawned-out chinooks.  We intended to camp back here somewhere, but didn’t find a reasonable place to make camp and light was fading quickly.  It was decided that we would go back to our spot on the lower Anchor and spend another night there.  Starving, we stopped at a diner just outside of Anchor Point.  The diner was housed in an old bright blue bus, and we were the only customers.  They served us two pound burgers covered with cheese and a generous portion of chili.  Once we had the tent set up and a fire going back at our camp on the lower Anchor, it felt like home.  We had stayed here for three days, and encountered only a couple of other anglers and no other campers.  I was excited to crawl into my new sleeping bag and enjoy a good night’s rest, so I turned in rather early.   Tomorrow we would break camp and leave the Anchor, headed to Soldotna to visit our relatives before returning to Anchorage.

I slept very well snug in my new sleeping bag, and we didn’t wake until 8.  Rain fell outside, and we packed up the tent and hit the road.  With a long drive ahead of us, we settled in and turned on the radio.  A news bulletin came on reporting that a major bridge had collapsed in our home town of Minneapolis, and many were feared dead.  The bridge spanned the Mississippi river, and it collapsed during rush hour when it was fully loaded with vehicles.  We had crossed this very bridge on our way to the airport just a few days ago.  A few phone calls assured us that nobody we knew had been on the bridge when it collapsed, but it was still a major tragedy that would surely affect us when we returned to Minnesota.

We spent the afternoon and evening at our Aunt Judy and Uncle David’s place in Soldotna.  David was halfway through building an aluminum drift-boat, so we looked it over and he discussed a few float trips that he wanted to take once it was complete.  Like his son Tyler, he wasn’t much of an angler.  He had planned to take us to the Kenai to fish sockeyes on a friend’s property just down the road, but a heavy rain still fell and we all decided to simply relax.  Judy cooked a wonderful meal of fresh Kenai river sockeye.  It was cooked in traditional Alaskan fashion, the red filets baked in the oven and smothered with a thick covering of mayonnaise.  I could have done without the mayo, personally, but the fish was delicious.  Judy talked about Soldotna's grizly bear problems.  The local population was way above quota, and they were wandering through town causing problems almost daily.  A special hunt was planned to thin their ranks, and David said he would take the big bruin that frequented their garden with his .50 Smith and Wesson.  As soon as the season cleared city council, he would pop out a porch window and get a good edge on his skinning knife whle he waited for the bear to show up.  It was getting late, and our relatives offered to let us stay overnight.  It was pouring outside, and we had about a four hour drive ahead of us to get back to Anchorage.  We wanted to arrange for a float plane ride out into the wilderness tomorrow and getting a late start was not an option.  After thanking Judy and David for the hospitality, we once again hit the highway.

             The weather was nasty.  At first we drove through a thunderstorm with driving rain, and when we finally got through the worst of the storm, a thick fog dropped down from the mountains.  The Corolla had only one headlight and it was pretty dim, so visibility was very low.  Moose kept jumping out in front of us, and many of them seemed larger than our vehicle.  We actually raced a big bull for a while, the beast keeping pace with us at 20 MPH.  He galloped down the shoulder, just 10 feet out from the mirror I rested my hand on with the window rolled down.  After two hours of this, Corey had enough and we pulled off at a campground near Glacier Creek to spend the night.  The campground was full, and as we circled it a few times at 1 am I’m sure the sleeping campers appreciated the muffler-less roar of the old Corolla.  Finally we found a tiny campsite tucked away by the lake and crashed in the tent.  An early start was needed once daylight broke.