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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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