Fly Fishing in Alaska
By HOMER KREINBROOK JR.
[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e hook into too many fish to keep an accurate count. At times, almost every cast meets with a hook-up. The problem is that many of the salmon have started to “ripen.” When a sockeye is in the freshwater for a period of time they begin to undergo a metamorphosis. They begin to change into what we call tomatoes. Their bodies turn vibrant red, their heads turn bright olive green, just like a stem-on tomato. At this stage we don’t eat them. Judging how red is too red for a Red is a trick. For grilling and eating fresh, we only like the chromers, or those that have only slightly blushed. This time we kept a few past prime, not complete tomatoes, but more red than we normally like. I brought them home and smoked them with my father-in-law. He has smoking meat down to a science, and the smoked sockeye are perfection! The following day my dad, Parke, and I take a guided float trip on the Kenai in search of big trout.
HOMER KREINBROOK JR. Photo Daily American.
The water on the Kenai was very high, about three feet above normal. On a river this big, that’s a lot of extra current. Drifting very large articulated flesh flies near the bottom usually produces that monster Rainbow and Dolly Varden trout that the Kenai is famous for, but with the super-fast current, it was difficult to keep the flies deep enough. We had to use a lot of lead, and that caused drifting problems. The flesh flies are intended to look like chunks of salmon flesh that has broken away from the deteriorating carcasses. These trout are educated, and if the fly drifts unnaturally, they turn their collective noses up at it. The tugging lead definitely affects the drift, so while we did catch fish, most of the more learned of the schools avoided our offerings. I did manage to land a nice Rainbow trout that went about five pounds. The next morning was Wednesday, and my dad, Bob, and I were heading on a new adventure.
In 2008, our halibut guide sold his business and moved to Wisconsin. We had been chartering with his family since he was 15 years old and the mate with another captain. In 2008, he had finally completed his engineering degree and had been hired in Wisconsin. Of course we were pleased for him and his family, but it was also like losing a family member of our own. A truly bittersweet year; it was the year I landed a 333 pound halibut, and lost our guide all at the same time. Since then our halibut trips have been fraught with disappointment, nausea, and even some danger. We had heard about a service offering double limit, or four fish, overnight Halibut trips out of Homer, Alaska. The price was reasonable so we thought we’d give it a go. There would be 30 people fishing on the boat, and the boat was very large at 60 feet in length. More than the ordinary headboat, they advertised a private bunk for every fisherman along with the normal, all bait and tackle provided. We arrived at the slip where the boat was moored, and indeed it was a mighty boat. We climbed a mobile stair case to get over the gunwale, and once we all were aboard, the boat motored out into Cook Inlet. Fellow fishermen who had apparently been on the trip before quietly told us to go and claim a prime bunk right away. So off we go in search of a bunk below deck. I never realized I was claustrophobic before this, but when I descended the stairway, and stood there in that dim cubby hole looking at the bunks, the walls began closing in. The bunks were six feet long by three feet wide, and were stacked three high with only about 30 inches between them vertically. A curtain could be drawn across to give the sleeper some privacy. There were no windows, and as I stood there I realized there was no air either. I don’t mean air conditioning, of which there was none, I mean no oxygen. Sweat broke out all over my body, and felt like I was being crushed, and back up the stairs I went. I am pretty sure the people I trampled will forgive me … when they can walk again.
Only several minutes into the ride out, the captain came on the loud speaker with the trip scenario. We were to motor out to the Barren Islands and fish once we got there; anybody that did not fill their limits out there would certainly fill their limit when we returned and stopped at the “chicken hole.” The chicken hole is an area in harbor very close to Homer that holds vast numbers of 10 to 25 pound juvenile halibut. About an hour into the ride out, the captain came on the speaker again and informed us that due to bad weather, the ocean around the islands was at 12 foot rollers and waves. Even though the boat could easily handle those seas, we wouldn’t be making the trek because many of the fishermen on board could not stand the abuse. Once again, our luck stayed true to form. I have gotten sea sick in the past. One particular trip is legendary among a few individuals who thought videotaping my agony was humorous. So be it, I never quit fishing. Back to the chicken hole we go. Everybody on board had their first two halibut by 10 p.m., the three of us included. Nothing was over 20 pounds, and everybody headed for their bunks. Not me. There I stood on deck rod in my hands all night. It rained, the wind blew, and I fished on. Midnight came and went. I began to experiment by combining different baits on the massive 12/0 hook. The captain occasionally came out and gave me encouragement, like, “Are you nuts? Go to sleep!” and, “Don’t fall asleep and lose that rod overboard!” I knew he was just kidding, and at about 2 a.m. he brought me a folding chair to sit in while I fished. I was grateful even though the seat was about three feet lower than the rail of the boat. At about 6 a.m. the mates rousted up everybody, and we once again entered the chicken hole. By 8 a.m. we all had limited out on minnows and were steaming back to port. By 11 a.m. we were in the car back to the cabin, my dad at the wheel. I would love to describe the trip back to the cabin, but I honestly am not sure the dragons or unicorns existed, so I’ll leave it out.
In the ensuing days we caught a lot more salmon, had a black bear steal our stringer of fish, and laughed until we cried at a banana muffin accident that nearly cost one dear friend his life, or at least his sanity. I can’t wait until we go again next year. Our trips are the stuff of legends, and Alaska is a legendary place.
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Editor’s note: The second in a two-part series from Homer Kreinbrook Jr., of Berlin. He is a physics teacher in the Somerset Area School District and president of the Somerset Fly Fishers.
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