From the November/December 1989 issue of Sporting Classics.
How do you thank the person who gave you your first shotgun, your first rod and reel, took you hunting and fishing as a kid, and taught you some of life’s most important lessons? Simple: You take him to Alaska and make a tribute to kings.
In the cold waters of the Gulf of Alaska, a school of thirty king salmon fought against the harsh rope and knots of a fisherman’s net. Part of the school, a group of six or so, managed to free themselves from the trap and flee to the west, heads rubbed raw from the encounter.
The largest of these was a female nearly seven years old. She was more than four feet long and within her bright silver body were the beginnings of nearly 5,000 eggs. Driven to return to the river of her birth, she had grouped with others of her kind who all headed northwest, seeking the same thing: a very special scent.
The earth’s magnetic fields, the position of the sun, and other factors that may never be scientifically uncovered, aided the fish in their quest. Continuing northwest, they passed Kodiak, Sitkinak, Tugidak, Sutwik, and Mitrofania Islands, which, along with about half of Alaska itself, are part of a geological stew of landforms. Over the last seventy-five million years these chunks of land have waltzed across the Pacific at about five inches per year, riding the sixty-mile thick Pacific Plate either to crush into the mainland or be driven under it, only to rise again in the shape of great mountain ranges forming part of what is known today as The Rim of Fire.
Within a week the salmon had reached Unimak Pass in the Aleutian chain. Here, waters of the Bering Sea meet those of the Pacific Ocean. The currents are swift and the dangers many. Nets entrapped some of the big female’s group, but since she had already experienced nets, she escaped more easily. A sea otter surprised the school and attacked a twenty-five-pound male, but it too escaped with only a piece of his tail missing and long, angry scratches down both flanks.
Turning northeast the group traveled hundreds of miles during the next few weeks. Feeding on fish and crab larvae in the shallow waters of a tiny island, one of the smaller females was captured and eaten by a seal. The skeleton of her head washed up on the volcanic beach of Port Heiden, where it helped feed a family of Arctic terns.
Entering Kvichak Bay the big female could now detect the faint, familiar scent of her native river, which solidified her determination to continue. As she and other salmon swam past the mouth of the Naknek, some of her group turned into its current, for it contained their special scents. Although the Naknek has a small town perched on its edge, these fish would swim by without ever knowing it shared the name given them by humans: King Salmon.
About the time the big female started up the Alagnak River, two float planes carrying a group of fishermen were banking to land some three miles upstream, near the largest island in the river. My uncle, Crawford Grant, and I were among them.
As we circled the lodge with the beautiful river beneath us, I thought back over the circumstances that had brought us here.
All boys, especially those whose parents have recently divorced, need heroes—someone to believe in. At twelve I considered myself lucky. I had several. One of them was this shaggy-headed uncle who always enthralled me with his war stories of air battles over Germany and France, treated me like a grown-up, and made the time to take me hunting and fishing, even though he had a new business and a son of his own.
He gave me my first shotgun and my first rod and reel. We fished the Santee for bass, crappie, and bream, the Wateree for stripers, and hunted quail with his cherished dog, Little Bit, in the fields around my grandfather’s farm.
I grew up believing he could do anything.
He could wire a house for electricity, fly a plane, build a radio. He had trophies for his wing shooting and a Purple Heart from World War II. His steel company made money, and the men who worked for him respected and liked him. He seemed to know how everything mechanical worked and would, more importantly, take time to explain it to me. He would issue great quantities of discipline and praise to me and my cousins. And he always put his family first and himself second.
Later, while attending college, I worked part-time at his company and learned more from him about money, people, and business than in my four years at school.
I made a silent promise at some point during those years that I would repay my uncle for his kindness, though I didn’t know exactly how. During my first trip to Alaska a few years ago the answer became apparent. Here, in this magnificent land of pristine rivers, towering mountains, and giant fish, was my opportunity to thank him.
Uncle Crawford was 72 this year. It was time.
But where in Alaska and what fish would we go after? Those answers, too, came easily.
Our goal would be kings, those mighty Chinook salmon of the Northwest. Just the right amount of exotic, just the right amount of size, but catchable. Real fish. They don’t have the haughtiness of Atlantic salmon. They aren’t elusive or snobbish. They’ll take flies, lures, or even bait. And they get big, sometimes 90 pounds or more. Best of all, where we come from, they’re the kind of fish you can hang on your wall and make all of your friends jealous. Instant mystique. Trophy-wise, they eat 10-pound bass for lunch.
Each July the Alagnak hosts a great spawning run of kings. It is Alaska’s only wild and scenic river. This special status means certain rules apply to its waters that will help keep the river alive and natural far into the future. The folks at Alagnak Lodge, known for its comfortable accommodations, excellent food, and convenient location, agreed to host us. We arrived on Sunday, unloaded our gear, and ate a late lunch of potato salad and sandwiches made with homemade bread. After lunch our guide, Lance McAuley, took us up the Alagnak several miles. As we passed an Eskimo village where hundreds of crimson-colored salmon lay drying on pole racks, the realization that we were really in Alaska finally sank in. Many of those filleted fish were gigantic.
Continuing on, we came to an area where you could see chum salmon swimming in the shallows. We stopped and got off on a gravel bar of smooth, river-worn rocks, probably laid down by a glacier as part of the moraines rising in the distance, sometime after the last ice age peaked 18,000 years ago.
I tied on a purple and pink fly and proceeded to catch three of these oddly-colored fish, sometimes called dog salmon, in the 8- to 12-pound range. A 12-pound chum on a 7-weight rod will give you all the battle you can stand, ripping off line at will, and fighting every inch of the way. Luckily for me, presentation was not too important. If you can get your fly out and to the bottom, you can probably hook chum salmon.
Reeling them in, though, is something else. George Harris, the young man who makes those pewter lapel and hat pins of fish and game you see for sale everywhere, hooked an 8-pound chum that instead of veering off as it approached the bank, to his amazement, ran right up into the weeds at full throttle and did cartwheels. Twice.
Returning to the lodge about seven o’clock, we found that some of the other guests had already started taking kings. George had caught a 39-pounder—his biggest fish ever. I’m sure he’s still smiling.
After a wonderful dinner of prime rib, mushroom and olive rolls, and homemade dessert of applesauce spice cake prepared by expert dining room manager Vicki Cobb, we trudged up the stairs to our room. Today’s take: two chum for me and three for Uncle Crawford. Tomorrow, the kings.
Shortly after breakfast Monday morning we loaded the boat and Lance took us down the sharply curving river to a deep hole where he knew kings would be holding. We watched eagles and ospreys fly overhead, and saw a beaver towing branches swim the fast-running river. As we sped along, a moose showed himself for only a few seconds, then disappeared into thick alders. We stopped near a steep ledge where darting bank swallows were nesting in holes twenty feet above the river.
Monday was one of those rare days in Alaska where the temperature was actually hot. It must have been in the 80s. I was busy peeling off clothes and trying to figure out how I would explain a tan to my wife when Uncle Crawford hooked his first king. His big bait-casting rod doubled itself, while the reel’s drag screamed for mercy. Ten minutes later a bright silver 25-pound king, with sea lice still intact, was in the net.
Still using a fly rod, I caught a 5-pound rainbow trout, then a smaller one. Lance, who was subject to making sudden stops with the boat to retrieve floating bottles or cans, was careful to revive and release the fish with as little handling as possible. The policy at Alagnak is to release all native fish—other than a trophy—unhurt.
We changed places, moving farther downriver where my uncle caught a powerful 35-pound male king with net marks on its head. He chose to bring this one home, so our guide quickly dispatched it with a lead-filled billy, ending its life in the most humane way possible.
Monday afternoon I caught my first king, a 25-pounder, and Uncle Crawford landed one at about 18. This time of year it never gets very dark, so after dinner Lance and I went back out for another try at chum.
We tried several places, then accepted an invitation from Neely Coble Jr., a lodge guest from Tennessee, to fish just downriver from him and his guide. In one of those classic experiences you never forget, Lance and I took fish on virtually every cast. It was particularly embarrassing because Coble is one of those refined Southern gentlemen who never flinched while we took fish right out from under his boat.
Of course we offered plenty of helpful advice—you know, the kind that fishermen who are doing the catching always seem to offer those who are not. “Y’all want to buy some of this secret potion? Could you please move upriver a bit; Our fish seem to be under your boat? You need to switch to chartreuse plastic worms.”
They weren’t humored.
During the night I could hear rain falling gently on the lodge’s metal roof. Tuesday morning the rain continued and the temperature had dropped, so we bundled up in long underwear, several layers of clothing, and rain gear.
Now it was Neely Coble’s turn. He caught one king after another just above us. In fact, everyone else was catching kings. Many fish with those curious net marks on their heads were being boated. One king, a 25-pound male, was missing a bite-sized piece from near its tail and had long scratch marks down both flanks.
Watching as he was released back into the river, I found myself marveling at the incredible will of these magnificent fish, to overcome such odds and return to the river of their birth.
At a quarter past ten, his face showing an inquisitive expression, Uncle Crawford leaned forward, then suddenly reeled fast and jerked his rod back and skyward, his lure firmly planted in the mouth of our first salmon of the day.
From the beginning this was a different kind of fish. It moved a little slower than the others, but with more determination. In powerful sweeps it pulled his line in big arcs, surfacing briefly too far out for us to see its size. Then, as if confused, it swam deep, right at the boat, threatening to tangle in the anchor rope.
Lance quickly hauled in the anchor and started the motor to steer the line clear of other fishermen. With run after long run out from the boat, the fish jerked line from the tightened, whining drag as if it was barely there.
Beneath the wind-rippled surface, the big female fought against an enemy she had never before experienced. At first she hadn’t realized the severity of her predicament. Only a faint tingle of pain came from her mouth, hardened by years of catching and crushing prey. But now something was pulling her toward the surface, where even an overcast sun hurt her light-sensitive eyes. Responding, she turned and swam downward as hard as she could. But the long trip from the sea and her cluster of eggs were beginning to sap her strength.
The battle raged for twenty minutes or more. Relentlessly it drug her, even though she fought it, until she saw the human forms outlined above her. In a panic she made one final run away from the boat, but it was useless. Still, she did not give up.
Up on the boat Uncle Crawford, Lance, and I could now see the size of the big fish. It was huge—45 pounds or more! It thrashed the water and made several more short runs before Lance gently netted the salmon and looked questioningly at the old fisherman, who was still trembling from the battle.
It was the biggest fish Crawford Grant had ever caught. A great wall trophy that I knew he’d love to keep. But I knew what he’d say—always helping other people with jobs and loans; putting his family first and himself second; taking care of his invalid mother until at age 102 she just faded away as gently as he could manage; a man strong-willed enough to run a steel business but who would get tears in his eyes over a long-dead bird dog.
“Release her,” he said.
The plane’s engines roared as we took off and rose through fog and rain. As we passed above the cloud layer and turned southeast, I could see across its crumpled, white surface the snow-covered peaks reaching skyward in the distance: Dall, Foraker, McKinley. I thought about our last day at Alagnak.
Both of us had caught more kings, although none bigger than the one Uncle Crawford took Wednesday. And the food at the lodge got even more diet-destructive. We became good friends with the other guests, especially Claire and Neely Coble, and gained even more respect for lodge manager Rod Gray and his competent guides. We had visited the small Eskimo village where the slabs of salmon hung from pole racks. We had seen eagles, a moose, and bear tracks where the trash barrel was turned over one night.
I knew I’d done my best, but I’m not sure I accomplished what I set out to do. There just isn’t enough you can do to repay someone for helping you become a better person.
Later, as we flew over the cold waters of the Gulf of Alaska and then down its lower, west-facing coast, Logan, St. Elias, and Fairweather Mountains reflected an orange glow from the evening sun against a purple Canadian sky, their great glaciers inching seaward. Farther south we flew, until the incredibly beautiful blue-green Queen Charlotte Islands were beneath us. With the old uncle napping in the seat beside me, I thought about my own nephews and made another silent promise.
After recovering from the fight, the big female salmon continued up the Alagnak, swimming by pockets of permafrost exposed where the river’s sandy banks erode away then reform, passing cottonwood trees and beaver lodges, spruce forests, and tundra, moving fifteen miles or so until she found just the right spot. By now she had lost all of her silver-rose coloration, becoming a dark purple-brown. Her fins were mangled and her flesh was beginning to deteriorate.
Using her tail and fins she fanned at the gravel bottom, forming a large depression into which she deposited nearly 5,000 eggs. One of the males that had accompanied her through the last part of the journey fertilized the eggs. Swimming a little farther upstream, she died.
But the cycle would begin again.
To get a copy of this story, visit the Sporting Classics store and purchase a copy of the November/December 1989 issue of Sporting Classics today.
Cover Image: Thinkstock