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ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER!
By: Greg
Brush
Alaska's Kenai River has a well deserved
reputation for consistently producing the biggest
Chinook salmon in the world. During peak season,
fish average in the low forties, fifty and sixty
pounders are caught fairly routinely, and the rare
eighty-plus pound beast is landed by some fortunate
angler nearly every summer. As further testament to
how special this large glacial river really is,
eight out of ten of the biggest sport-caught
Chinook ever documented, including the 97 lb. 4 oz.
world record, came from the Kenai River. The
habitat is ideal and the unique genetic programming
that commands a small percentage of these wild fish
to stay at ocean for five long years (and return as
seven year old behemoths) thankfully remain
intact.
Armed with a reasonable amount of King salmon
knowledge, correct technique, proper equipment
(plus a healthy dose of luck!) salmonid dreams of
epic proportions can still come true on the Kenai,
but as many visiting anglers often discover, these
tremendous dream fish don't exactly jump in the
boat. The Kenai River's other reputation, being a
bit stingy about giving up a strike or two, can
sometimes take an angler on a roller-coaster ride
of fishing emotions. He or she boards the boat with
visions of trophy Chinook, brimming with confidence
as they finally get to fish these famed waters.
Hours later, after telling and retelling what
initially intended to be interesting stories
occasionally shared between savage strikes, the
roller-coaster car slows to an all time low as the
fisherman realizes they've been dragging their
gaudy lures around for hours, with nary a single
nudge to show for it. Self-doubt inevitably rears
its ugly head and slowly inches into the anglers
psyche. As a veteran Kenai River guide with sixteen
seasons and thousands of guests under my belt, I've
seen it a hundred times if I've seen it once. Faces
get long, the boat becomes quiet and an air of
hopelessness creeps from one guest to another like
an undetected virus.
The Kenai River is serious business; a virtual
gamble every time one fishes it. Like a trip to
Vegas, the gambler must choose between the nickel
slot machine and the dollar slot machine. While you
will hit often and certainly have fun with the
nickel slots, the pay-off will likely be minimal.
Once one commits to the dollar machine, they do so
with the understanding that the odds of hitting the
jackpot are considerably less, adopting a positive
but realistic approach that boarders on that of a
defeatist, mentally prepared for a worse case
scenario where they are simply thankful for the
opportunity to have played, but secretly hoping and
praying that the stars align and they "hit" just
once! What keeps the persistent Kenai king
fisherman coming back for more is quite similar to
what drives the fellow who slams his last three
dollars into that one armed bandit: both "players"
know their luck can change in a fraction of a
second, enabling that roller coaster to
mysteriously arrive at the apex of the highest
hill, providing a shot of adrenaline like none
other. Indeed, the pay-off is big on the Kenai!
And so it was, with hopes of jackpots, that my
wife and three guests boarded my river sled for
some Kenai king fishing early that fateful morning
of June 30th, 2004. My clients that day were Ned
Smith and Tony Taylor Jr. from Mesa, Arizona. Steve
Huckey, an unassociated Arizonian, was the third
guest. Having my spouse along to fill the otherwise
vacant fourth seat was a rare but pleasant
surprise. Little did we know that her presence
would change all of our fishing philosophies
forever!
I ran a short mile up river to a long,
non-descript hole called Harry Gaines, which had
been producing fairly-well for the past few days.
Fishing had not been 'hot' lately, but with
persistence I had managed to hook a king or two
from this run each day. I set the drags, sharpened
the big 8/0 Gamakatsu hooks and explained how to
let the lures out behind the boat without tangling.
We would back troll this morning, holding the boat
against the rivers powerful current and slowly
backing down, working the gaudy lures through the
hole and hopefully bumping a big fish on the nose,
irritating it enough to provoke a strike. We
settled into our seats and prepared for the
inevitable test of patience, our offerings working
forty feet behind my stern and all but one of our
rods securely placed in the boat's rod holders.
As I do every morning, I explain to my guests
the many merits of rod holders while back trolling
for Kenai kings. Over the years, I have found that
rod holders consistently produce more strikes
because they hold the rod perfectly still, allowing
the lure to work correctly all the time and remain
in the strike zone throughout the day. In addition,
and perhaps more importantly, the rod holder allows
a king salmon to fully take the lure, turn with it,
take the stretch out of the line and thus hook
itself. In effect, a rod holder prohibits a salmon
guide's worse nemesis, the early hook-set, where an
overly-excited angler jerks too soon, pulling the
lure from the fish's mouth. By the time one sees
their rod go down and they remove it from the rod
holder, the fish is reasonably well hooked and one
good hook-set to drive the barb deep is all that is
needed to seal the deal.
Now, it is important to point out that my wife
Sherri is no different than most spouses; she knows
more about everything than her simpleton husband,
including salmon fishing on the Kenai River. True
to form, she refuses to put her rod in the holder,
claiming that she would rather feel the strike and
miss it then to sit idle and watch a rod in the rod
holder. We have gone round and round for years and
I have pointed out the virtues of rod holders
countless times, explaining that jerking early and
missing a fish on the mighty Kenai is kin to
throwing away a winning lottery ticket. After all,
that strike may have been an angler's big chance
and one never knows what sized salmon they just
missed. At this stage of our relationship there is
no use arguing with her and I let her fish as she
pleases. Although I have never checked, I am
convinced that if one were to look up strong-willed
in Webster's latest edition, they would surely
discover a charming characterization of my
beautiful spouse!
As fate would have it, just minutes into our
first pass, the fishing story I have likely told
countless times before is interrupted by Tony's
tell-tale "hey-Hey-HEY!!!" Snapping my head around
to check his rod, which is working perfectly but
still strike-less, I notice Sherri's white knuckled
grip, wide eyes and pumping rod. In hind sight, I
should have never doubted her, as the veteran
fisher-gal freezes just long enough for line to
strip off the drag before coming back hard with her
hook-set. Fish on! Retrieving our other rods and
floating down river a half mile, we land the
beautiful thirty pound king and promptly release
it. Sherri and I have sufficient opportunity to
fill our freezer with more abundant sockeye and
silvers later in the season and it's been years
since either of us has felt the need to harvest a
big, native Kenai king.
After running back up river to the head of Harry
Gaines, high-fives are evenly distributed and the
lures are again let out. This time, however, I
notice that Sherri has placed her rod in the
holder. Once again, she has me scratching my head,
wondering what she is up to. Suddenly, she launches
from her seat and proceeds to run to the bow,
pointing to her pinned rod and frantically yelling
"Get it, Ned!" Before he can even process what has
transpired, Ned is into a hot fish with Sherri's
rod! The other lines are once again retrieved to
avoid tangles and we float and fight for nearly
fifteen minutes before bringing a gorgeous hen of
perhaps forty-five pounds boat side. After three
days of fishing and nearly twenty hours of effort,
Ned has finally caught a Kenai king. To his credit,
he too supports catch and release, and the special
fish is promptly photographed in the water and
permitted to swim free to spawn.
At this point, Sherri has had enough fishing
and, since I am conveniently near our original
launch site and her vehicle, I congratulate the
lucky angler, kiss her goodbye and send her on her
way. While heading back up river to have another go
at the Harry Gaines hot-spot, the adrenaline filled
angler rambles on and on about how nice my wife is!
Ned is struck by her unselfishness, and a part of
him struggles to understand why one would share a
strike when they are usually so few and far
between. Placing our proven lures behind the boat
and settling into our run once more, I dawns on me:
Sherri had caught the fish she came for and, by
placing her rod in her rod holder, she fully
intended to share her good fortune, should she be
lucky enough to get bit again. I explain that my
soft-spoken wife has caught dozens of Kenai kings
and, unlike my Arizona visitors, will surely have
other chances at a trophy salmon. Ned is obviously
touched by Sherri's gesture, to what degree I would
not fully realize for a few more moments, and
cannot quit rambling on about it, at one point even
exclaiming that "it is one of the nicest things
anyone has done for him!"
Suddenly we are returned to the task at hand
when Ned's rod violently slams to the stern. With a
ferociousness that is hard to communicate in text,
line peels off the drag at an alarming rate. I
shout for the frozen angler to grab his rod, but to
my astonishment, Ned reacts quite unexpectedly.
Following my wife's example, he turns away from the
pinned G.Loomis and, without hesitation, shouts
"Steve, Steve, Steve!" to the idle stranger sitting
behind him. Twenty minutes later, it is clearly
apparent that this is no ordinary salmon. Unlike
"average" Kenai kings, this fish avoids speedy
runs, directional changes or thrashing at the
surface. Instead, this king shows classic big fish
tendencies, staying down and refusing to budge
despite the tremendous pressure that Steve is
putting on it. At several points, the fish surges
upriver against angler, boat and the even the heavy
current of the powerful river. Though it is clear
that we are into an exceptional fish, we have no
idea how large it is until it finally surfaces and
Ned blurts a "Holy Cow!" with the emotion of a
seven year old on Christmas morning. Minutes later,
after netting the beast, the giddy crew photographs
and measures the monstrous salmon. The fish is
flawless in every aspect; nary a single scar or
seal bite, ocean-bright and complete with sea-lice
still intact. Overflowing with emotion, we know
what we have to do. The fish is quickly and
unceremoniously released. Immediately we reference
my catch and release chart, and the Kenai king
specific formula shockingly claims the 55.5" long
and 34" girth salmon would have topped the scales
in the upper eighties, the largest to date on my
boat after sixteen seasons of guiding on this
river!
The fish of ten lifetimes has been landed. We
are emotionally drained, and call it a day,
quitting on the highest of high points. Its
momentary capture was a team effort, and there is
no jealousy or resentment over whose salmon it is.
Undeniably it is "all our fish" and we consider
ourselves blessed to have even seen such a Chinook!
The memory of the catch is ours forever, more
permanent than any "hero shot" photo or trophy skin
mount. The special salmon has touched all of our
lives, and the circumstances surrounding it were
unique and unrehearsed. We've hit the jackpot on
the dollar slot, and the pay-off is larger than we
had hoped. Occasionally an angler can walk away
from time on the water with a lesson learned. This
rare catch has served to build all of our
characters, perhaps even making us better people in
the long haul. Like my youngest daughters
irritating purple dinosaur has been stressing for
years, "Sharing is caring!"
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