In Alaskan backcountry on the Alagnak River, the myth of wilderness in the form of a fierce, wild, strong King Salmon is just a cast away.

Alaska. The Alagnak River. July. As from my boat I watched eagles, ospreys and bears hunt along the river, I realized that man was not the only apex salmon predator here. I saw a grizzly jump into the river and grab a sockeye with a mouth/claw combo and actually heard the crunch of the kill. Several sockeyes I caught had claw marks on their flanks from their near misses and successful escapes.

While Scott and I were ashore on an island and fishing for sockeyes, a grizzly tried to join us and was driven off by our guide, Kurt Roller, with shouts and stones. That reminded us that we were not the only fishermen on the river. The Mossberg pump shotgun in the boat was not for show. An empty chamber followed by two bird loads and then a last-resort slug protected both the boat and its occupants – the empty chamber from accidents, the shells from bears. As Scott, my fishing partner from Texas, said to Kurt, “In bear country, a 12 gauge is a comfort.”

In summer the rivers in Alaska are magical places. The beauty of their clear water flowing through shallows, rapids and deep pools is matched by the mystery of the undergrowth on their shorelines. Salmon and trout in the water, eagles and ospreys in the air, bears and moose along the shore complete the truly wondrous picture. A fish on your line and a dancing fly rod is the bonus. It is your excuse to spend time in an almost mythical place – the northern frontier.

We come from many places – Texas, New Hampshire, Idaho, Montana, Michigan, Switzerland – and say we are after fish; but we are in reality pursuing the myth of the north – and the fishing gets us close to it. A King Salmon helps us on our life’s journey – the quest for the wild, for wonder and magic and the pleasure of being there. Yes, a King Salmon helps…

The Kings swam up the Alagnak River from Bristol Bay to waters a few minutes away from our camp. David told us over breakfast, “The hot weather and low water made the Kings leave the bay early. We’ve got King Salmon in all our favorite holes. And there are lots of them. We leave after breakfast. Bob and Scott, meet Crockett at the boat at eight o’clock. You’re going after Kings.”

Kalisha Jonell finished serving us breakfast in the comfortable oversize Quonset-style dining hut. A buzz of conversation rose around us. “Crockett got us into Kings all day while you were into Sockeyes,” Charlie told us. “The Kings are on the bite. You’re going to have a good day.”

I shoveled food in my mouth and grinned through my eggs. “Looking forward to it. David got me two Kings a while ago. I lost a big one fishing with Trevor yesterday morning. I’ve been wanting to try again.”

I remembered the huge King that I’d hooked with Trevor. It had leaped completely out the water only fifty feet away. Trevor, Scott and I yelled in surprise at the size of the fish – a curved bowed monster that easily (to my awed eyes) measured five feet from head to tail.

“Holy sh*t!” was our collective cry. And then thirty-five minutes later, there was a collective groan as the huge King broke off. Thirty-five minutes of charged excitement, leaping fish, running line, bent and shivering rod. I wanted that again.

That feeling is part of what Alaska’s Alagnak Wilderness Camp is about. David Roller manages the camp. David’s brother, Kurt, his son, Crockett, and family friend, Trevor McDonald, all guide. Their goal is to get you into fish – big fish – the kind a fisherman dreams of. They have the water, the boats, the gear and the skills; it is Alaska, the fish are here. And when that salmon is fighting at the end of your 10 weight fly rod, win or lose, you have the memory of a battle with a mighty creature rightly named “King.”

That morning Crockett steered Scott and me past a large griz fishing on the shoreline. A half mile downstream we threw the anchor ashore on a small island, one that was located where the main river and one of its branches came together to form a stunning piece of water. Seated in chairs, we fished from the boat, chucking a weighted rig of two artificial salmon eggs. Scott and I alternated casts and soon got into a rhythm that kept our lines untangled. Scott was using his 9-weight fly rod and I had borrowed a 10-weight from the camp’s numerous outfits.

It didn’t take long. “Fish on,” I yelled at the sharp tug on my line, and soon boated a 15-inch “Jack”. ( A “Jack” is a adolescent King.) “That is a good beginning,” I said as Crockett netted and released the fish.

“Just wait,” Crockett said. “There are bigger fish here. I see them out where Scott is casting. Lengthen your line about 10 feet and you’ll be in them. Scott, get ready. You’re right in the middle of…”

“Fish on,” Scott cried. “It’s a big one.”

“Bob, reel in and give the fish some room to play,” Crockett said and grinned. “Look at that bend and the line. Scott, I’m going under your rod to the anchor. We’ve got to follow that King before he spools you. Take in the slack as we get closer to the fish.”

A young man can scramble fast and the anchor was quickly in the boat, the engine started and we were chasing the fish downriver. Scott reeled franticly and kept the line tight on the jumping rod as we had an Alaskan version of a “Nantucket sleigh ride.” Three hundred yards from where Scott set the hook, the King finally jumped out of the water with a huge splash and we got a look. Big!

“He’s taking more line,” Scott called.

“I’ll keep up,” Crockett said and steered for the fish. “No slack, no slack. Keep the rod bent. Reel! I’m going to get you closer.”

Another jump and again we saw the King shaking in the air as our boat tried to keep up with the fish. I didn’t say much, but I was thinking hard, “Come on, Scott. This is a good one. Reel.” Without Crockett at the helm, shouting instructions and steering, we would not have had a chance. This was a team operation with Scott on the reel and Crockett in control, acutely aware of the river, the boat, the fish and the line.

Another 300 yards. Runs, jumps, the reel screaming as line passed through it. More line out; then some line in. Scott’s arms starting to ache, but it was a good ache. Fingers tightening and gripping the handle of the reel. Another few yards in. Line passing in front of the bow, the King crossing in front of us from shallow to deep water. Scott lifted his rod, I ducked and the line cleared the boat.

“He’s heading for that branch. There are downed trees and brush tangles at its mouth. Scott, keep him away from that mouth.” The motor rumbled as the boat accelerated.

“If I get us past the mouth, your reeling and the current will keep him away from the snags.” More speed and the boat got past the mouth.

“Reel, Scott, reel.” More line in. Suddenly the fish was downstream of those deadly snags and we all began to breathe again. Another jump and head shake.
“Keep the pressure on.” More line in. A splash fifty feet away, the closest the fish has been. “He’s coming, he’s coming.” Then, “He’s crossing the bow. Keep your rod high to clear Bob and the boat.” I ducked and watched the line pass over me. Twenty feet away. Crockett picked up the net. Scott reeled in more line, and the fish was almost in reach.

Then Scott’s rod bent abruptly down and the tip was almost under the boat with line clicking through it. “Holy sh*t. That damned fish dove under the boat and is on the other side. Pass me the rod.” Crockett grabbed the rod and swept the drowned tip past the rear of the boat and the engine’s jet drive. Then he gave the rod back to Scott.

“Let’s do this again,” Scott said. Crockett grinned back. I yelled. We still had that big son of a bitch on the line, a line that, once again, was rapidly going out.
We followed the running fish – a hundred yards, another hundred yards. Scott and Crockett kept the pressure on. Another jump, completely out of the water. A good half hour into the fight and that King was still showing strength. I was awed by the fish’s muscular display – the jumps, the fierce runs, the spirit. This was a “King” indeed.

Both Scott and Crockett had landed Kings as a team before, in other seasons, and their experience and confidence in each other showed, and, I hoped, would pay off this time; for this was a fine, heavy fish and was one this team had earned.

I watched the fish, the fisherman, the guide, the rod, the line, the boat. The King ran, dove, jumped, shook its head, danced across the water on its tail. Scott reeled, groaned, grinned, twisted from one side of the boat to another. Crockett steered the boat and varied the motor speed depending on where the fish was. The boat and the fish traveled a mile downstream. I kept out of the way. Another half hour passed. Finally, Crockett said, “I saw a little roll the last time you got him close. He’s tiring.”

“Me too,” Scott said and grinned. “My arms feel like wet noodles and I’ve got bumps on my reeling hand from where that fish hit me with the handle. But I’m gonna bring ‘em in.”

Crockett smiled slowly and said, “Let’s try again. I’ll bring the boat closer; you take in the slack. He’s not as strong as he was. Bring him close to the boat. Lift when I say ‘now’ and I’ll net him.”

I watched anxiously. I wanted Scott to land this fish. The King was 75 feet out from our boat and still swimming away. Crockett got the boat closer. More line came in. Fifty feet and then a short run. Another 20 feet in and the tired fish was on the surface. A 10-foot run and a roll on the surface.

“Reel him in slowly; watch out for a run. He can still break you off. That’s it. Slowly.”

The net was ready. Another five feet. Now the fish was in position. “Lift,” Crockett said and as Scott swept the King up the net passed around him, tail to head, and carried him into the boat.

Scott yelled, smiled and said to me, “Now it’s your turn. I’m gonna take a break.”

I grinned back and watched Scott and Crockett revive the 35-pound fish and then release it. As we motored back to the island I grabbed my fly rod, eager to use it.

In the Alaskan backcountry, on the Alagnak River, the myth of wilderness in the form of a fierce, wild, strong King Salmon is just a cast away.