These
are the Chronicles of Famous Surf Writer Ben Marcus and his trip
into the Wilds of the Alaskan Frontier.
Latest Update: October 6, 2000
20:41
ALASKA TIME THE TV ROOM OF THE DRIFTWOOD INN.
Homer.
Shit,
I'm still in Homer.
Naw,
Homer isn't so bad. There are worse places than Homer, but I thought
I was leaving this morning, so I'm a little surprised to be back.
I guess I'm back because I like this Driftwood Inn, and I know there
is Internet access and a TV for watching the news and the Giants
on Saturday and maybe the 49ers on Sunday.
For
now I'm back at the Driftwood Inn watching 15 days of James Bond
(The Living Daylights), eating pizza and trying to avoid being run
over by a girls' volleyball team from Soldotna, in Homer for a tournament.
I'm
back in Homer because I'm now frustrated/obsessed with catching
a fricking steelhead. I failed today, as I have always failed with
steelhead.
I
mean, what's a guy got to do to catch a fish here in Kenai?
The
Kenai Peninsula is the Hollister Ranch for fishermen, epic, world-class
fishing by land and by sea: silver and king salmon, steelhead, Dolly
Varden and trout in the rivers. Halibut and salmon at sea.
I'm
here for the river stuff, and I thought all I had to do was tie
on something reasonably attractive, make a decent cast and ba-da-boom,
ba-da-bing. This is Alaska, after all. The Kenai Peninsula is one
of the most famous sports-fishing areas in the world, and I'm getting
skunked.
I
have a long history of flogging rivers for steelhead, and never
catching one. The San Lorenzo River in Santa Cruz was one of the
best steelhead rivers in California back in the 50s and 60s. As
a kid through the 70s and 80s I would sit on the railroad trestle
(the one the vampires hung from in The Lost Boys) and watch the
occasional super-tanker steelhead swimming upriver. I've flogged
the San Lorenzo with bait and flies for years. I've seen other guys
catch steelhead. But I've never caught one myself. The San Lorenzo
is mostly dead now, and I'd probably feel guilty if I did catch
one. They're few in number.
I've
also flogged a lot of rivers north of Santa Cruz: Scott's Creek,
Waddell Creek, San Gregorio, and other rivers north of San Francisco:
the Gualala, Garcia, etc. etc. A lot of flogging, no steelhead.
This has been going on awhile and it's getting annoying.
I
just want to catch one. I don't want to keep it. In fact, you aren't
allowed to keep any steelhead along here. It's all catch and release.
I
just want to catch one fricking steelhead.
Is
that too much to ask, God?
Well,
that and the Giants winning the World Series.
Today
I set out driving north intending to fish my way out of the Kenai
Peninsula, but keep going, and make for Anchorage, then Denali.
After
saying goodbye (or so I thought) at the Driftwood Inn, I went to
the Kachemak Gear Shed again. I didn't know what I needed from there,
but I knew they had something I needed. That should be their slogan:
You
don't know what you need, but we've got it.
Or.
You
don't know it yet, but we've got what you need.
Something
like that. It's a pretty epic fishing store.
Turned
out the Kachemak Gear Shed had some half-fingered wool gloves that
are perfect for fly fishing, because they keep your hands warm but
let you tie flies. I bought two pair on sale, and also bought a
warm, foul-weather hat. I also bought an illustrated guide to Alaska
fishing that explains the different boats and the different net
sets.
I
also got a Kachemak Gear Shed baseball cap.
Local.
Driving
out of Homer/Malibu, I stopped at a bridge over the Anchor River-the
same bridge where I met those Kevlar-wearing Fish and Game guys
a few days ago-and fished from the bridge. It was illegal, possibly,
but it was fun to watch my green Wooly Bugger moving back and forth
in the current, while hoping for a big flash of silver and red,
and a big fight and quick stumble off the bridge to river-level
and the end to years of struggling and torment. My first steelhead,
on a fly.
Didn't
happen. I think a small Dolly Varden went after Mr. Green once,
but I over-reacted, jerked too hard and scared it off.
After
fishing from on top of the bridge I drove a little farther and fished
under a bridge on the Anchor River, which was running much higher
after all the rain. I flogged the Bridge Hole for a little while-where
I had seen others catch steelhead-then gave up. I bought some more
local flies and another hat at the Anchor Angler, then drove down
to the mouth of the Anchor to see what was happening there.
This
is Alaska, so you're allowed to do things like drive along the beach
on State Parks, and pretty much go anywhere you want to. I drove
along the beach toward the rivermouth and found a kind of Alaska
gypsy camp: a bunch of sled dogs tied to a camper and running loose,
and a trailer with a mushing sled on top. The puppies were loose
and friendly, but their parents were tied up and not so friendly.
I could see them eyeing me. When I took their photo, they started
howling like wolves. I think they were wolves. They looked wolvish.
I
fished the mouth of the Anchor River for awhile, which was beautiful
and scenic and lonely, but no fish. I'm pretty sure steelhead are
as tidal as salmon, but I didn't know what the tide was doing. It
was nice down there. Quiet and lonely, except for the sled dog pups-two
white ones and one black one-who dogged me everywhere. It was nice
to have company while fishing.
I
had Mr. Walther with me, tucked into the inside pocket of my 49er
jacket, locked and loaded. Not sure why exactly. Maybe because this
morning I read a story in the Anchorage paper about an Anchorage
prosecutor who had a pretty gnalry bear incident. He stopped along
the Old Seward Highway to do a little grouse hunting on the way
to a meeting. He had a 12 gauge with bird shot and was walking through
the bush when he came around a corner and found himself face to
face with Yogi Bear in a Bad Mood.
It
was a sow brown (grizzly) bear in a bad mood. It charged the prosecutor,
moving faster than he thought an animal that size could move. He
yelled, but it kept coming. He shot it once and it kept coming.
When it was 30 feet away he shot it again, and it veered off. Then
he saw the cub, and understood what was up.
He
had stumbled on the classic "mama bear with cub" scenario, and the
mama had charged him. It might have been a bluff, but then it might
not have been.
The
guy had shot the bear with the bird shot, and had no way of knowing
what damage he had done: maybe left a baby cub without a mom, or
left a shot-stung, pissed-off mama bear raging around the tundra,
ready to kill the next haole she came across. He felt guilty, cancelled
his meeting, called Fish and Game and organized a posse/search party
to make sure the bear wasn't dead or blinded or vengeful. They never
found the bear, but the tracks and blood assured everyone the bear
had only been grazed.
This
was all done by a guy wanting to do a little grouse shooting on
his way to work.
Alaska.
I
don't know if there are any bear in this part of the Kenai, but
I spent a good part of the day walking along salmon and steelhead
rivers through high grass in an area without many people around,
so I had Mr. Walther with me.
I
didn't see any bear, and didn't see any fish, either. After flogging
the mouth of the Anchor River, I drove on and stopped at Deep Creek.
There is a really nice hole right beside the highway, so I went
down there to flog it.
I
met a guy fishing bait there, who turned out to be the owner of
the Happy Hooker, a semi-renowned charter boat that operates out
of Berkeley. He has a house in Pinole and a house in Deep Creek,
and he goes back and forth, but tends to stay in Kenai most of the
year, as his son is taking over the charter business.
"Working
charter boats is like being a bus driver," The Skipper said. "I'm
getting tired of it."
We
had a good chat about the San Francisco Bay and charter boats and
Oh Them Giants and a lot of other stuff, and he told me about how
he and his sons power drive from Berkeley to Kenai. Driving 24 hours
a day, non-stop, eating at gas stations, they can make it in three
and a half days.
Berkeley
to Homer. Three and a half days. Look on a map. That's some driving.
Took
me a month and a half.
I
told The Skipper I had never caught a steelhead. He was a little
incredulous, and he felt sorry for me, so he gave me some advice.
"If you can't do it here, you aren't going to do it," The Skipper
said. "Look for a couple of hours after high tide, that's when they're
moving." He clued me in on a couple of good steelhead holes on Deep
Creek and Stariski Creek, and left me to it.
I
spent a couple of hours slipping and sliding Deep Creek from the
highway down toward the mouth. There were a lot of good holes, but
I think the tide was all wrong. Normally tide wouldn't effect a
river so high up, but the tide change here is nearly 15 feet, which
makes a big difference.
I
walked all the way down Deep Creek without a bite, then gave up
and cut a path back to the highway. I whistled as I walked, just
in case Yogi was In the House.
After
fishing Deep Creek I managed to buy a tide chart and figured out
the tides were all wrong. The tide was going out in a big hurry,
and would be until dark.
I
drove on to the Ninilchik River and decided to fish it on the inland
side of the highway. It was a pretty good slog down a hill in slippery
mud. I took Mr. Walther with me again, because there were State
Parks and Recreation signs warning of moose and bear.
The
Ninilchik is another classic steelhead river, winding through a
grassy valley, with high cliffs on both sides. I flogged it without
mercy, and without success. I think I might have gotten one bite,
but that was it. I was also walking through very high grass, whistling
as I walked, with Mr. Walther by my side. It was spooky down there,
all by myself. Off in the distance, someone in the high hills along
the Ninilchik was practicing for the revolution. They were having
non-stop target practice with what sounded like handguns, shotguns
and an automatic.
Hillbillies.
But
that's Alaska. You can do what you want.
After
Ninilchik, I drove back toward Homer. I fished the mouth of Deep
Creek, but the tide was still racing out. I also tried a hole just
below the highway bridge on Stariski Creek, but nothing.
I
got back to the Driftwood Inn through the rain and sleet and gloom
of night, and dumped a couple of gallons of water from my boot outside
the door.
Now
I'm watching James Bond, another guy who never goes anywhere without
Mr. Walther. Come to think of it, Bond is loaded for bear, too.
Except he's gunning for Russian bear.
I
ordered a pizza, and offered a slice to Merlin, the guy who owns
the Driftwood Inn.
The
volleyball girls are back. They're pretty rowdy. If worse comes
to worse, I'll drop a name and tell them I know Gabrielle Reece.
Tomorrow
I'm gonna go fishing some more, but try to get the tides right.
Hopefully they'll line up with the Giants game. Whatever happens,
I'll be back here to watch the Heart Attack Kids.
Go
Giants. They have to win. Have to.
I
fear another earthquake if they don't.
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