The Alaska Range |
Fishing in Bristol Bay, AK
This story is about fishing in Alaska. It's a frontier story about adventure, survival, trust, friendship, and all the other emotions and experiences that nature draws out of us in places like this.
In a Super Cub (otherwise known as a bush plane and undisputedly the best transportation in this huge state with few good roads) the trip from Anchorage to Bristol Bay takes about 5 hours with a slight tail wind and one stop at Lake Clarke for gas, coffee, and a stretch. A return trip on an Alaska Air 727 takes about 45 minutes (barring any delays from drunken fisherman celebrating the end of the season and their pockets full of cash).
Bush planes, like the Piper or Super Cub, are revered in Alaska for their ability to carry heavy loads, their ruggedness, and most of all their ability to land on and take off from very short runways. In Alaska, "runway" is a relative term. Often, "runways" are glaciers, frozen lakes, sand bars, or tundra. Lots of bush pilots outfit their cubs with "tundra tires." These are huge, tubless tires that allow the plane to bounce over rocks and small stumps without damaging (or removing) the plane's landing gear.
The vaunted Piper Super Cub |
Meet "Bruce the Moose," a pilot, skipper, guide (Boone and Crocket record holder), proud father of three (husband of just one), mechanic, carpenter, and Anchorage Station 1 Fire Fighter. As my older brother, he's given me lots to shoot for in life. Bruce and his friend, Scott, left for Alaska the day after highschool graduation, flying their Supercub across the US and up the Canadian coast to Anchorage. With only one wing tank they had to stop about every three hours for fuel, including one touchdown at a gas station on the lonely AlCan highway. They said it was quite amusing to taxi their plane up to the pumps, although the grizzled attendant had "seen it before."
It was Bruce who encouraged me to come fishing for a summer with him when his boat needed a crew member and it is was he who told me not to expect a bed of roses. "If you expect the worst" he told me over the telephone in May, "and the worst happens, you'll be prepared. If something good happens, then it's just an unexpected treat." While I consider myself an optimist, this is advice that, ten years later, I still use in preparation for most adventures.
Here, we are just coming out of the glaciated Alaska Range and over Lake Illiamna. The views from a few hundred feet are spectacular and at a cruising speed of around 90 miles an hour there's time to get a pretty good view of the wildlife and scenery. One season we counted 11 black bears on our trip. There are grizzly too but they are far less numerous and, with their brown coats, tend to blend into the tundra better.
Alaska is truly America's last remaining frontier and, as with any frontier, living there takes a lot of ingenuity, creativity, and duct tape. In the lower left of this photo you can see how Bruce keeps the engine's RPMs steady by jamming his wallet in between the throttle and plexiglass window. Other tricks include climbing up to around 3000 feet when our left wing tank is getting low on fuel. Each wing (since Bruce retrofitted it) has a petrol tank and because the simple guages can't predict precisely when we'll run out of gas Bruce likes to just empty them completely, stalling the engine in mid-flight.
"Why are we climbing?" I nervously motioned over Bruce's left shoulder.
"This way," he yelled back over the drone of the airplane "if we aren't going fast enough to turn the prop over after I switch to the other tank, we can nose the plane over and create some more airspeed."
"Oh," I quietly mumbled as my stomach tightened.
"Don't worry," he quickly added. Five minutes later the engine sputtered and coughed, and in that split second of silence 3000 feet over the frozen tundra, I caught a glimpse of our motionless black propeller. But before I could panic, Bruce expertly switched tanks and the engine immediately kicked over. It was little more than a Super Cub hiccup, stifled by the grandeur and scope of the surrounding landscape. Bruce shot a sheepish grin at me over his shoulder and we dropped back down to a few hundred feet of elevation. This was the first of many times that, not knowing Alaska's ways, there was little to do but relax while I put my life in Alaska's hands.
An average sized King Salmon (40 pounds) |
We soon arrived at Naknek and after a week or so of preparations, we had the boat storage folks pull our 32 foot "C-Quest" off its winter perch and into the Naknek river. Alas, it was a false start: whoever worked on the boat over the winter (there is always some off-season maintenance stuff to do) didn't tighten the bolts on the stuffing box around the propeller shaft properly and we started taking on water; and FAST. Luckily, having seen this many times before, they were right there to yank us back out. This was the first, though not the worst, of many mishaps on the C-Quest that season.
Our crew consisted of Karl, Joe, and myself (holding a 40 pound King Salmon. The King run just precedes the Sockeye run so it's not uncommon to catch one or two early in the season). Bruce skippered our boat (skipper=captain). I feel incredibly lucky to have met Karl and Joe, let alone have them as crew. Over the course of the two month season we each found our spot in the group, taking on roles that added glue to our team. When the peak of the season came and we were working extra long hours, putting our bodies and minds to the test, we were rarely left wanting, physically or mentally.
Karl |
Karl is an Anchorage accountant with, like most Alaskans, a "real life" on the side. He guides climbers on Denali--Mt. McKinley for non-natives. Denali means "the great one" in the local indian tongue. Karl has summited the 20,320' peak at least 2 times which amazes me to no end (given that he's not dead or missing any fingers or toes). Because he had the least fishing experience among those on our boat, Karl was responsible for extra duty (in the kitchen mostly) and never failed, though he battled a hacking cough all season, to earn our respect. In those cold, dark, predawn moments when we'd been fishing for more than 25 hours and had had all we thought we could handle, Karl was a wellspring of motivational energy.
Joe is a true Alaskan hero (even though he doesn't have his own picture here). You may have heard of the Alaska Iditarod, which is a monumental, 1049 mile sled dog race from Wasilla to Nome. It is Alaska's SuperBowl, World Series, and Olympics all rolled into one. Well, Joe, among other great accomplishments, won that race in 1989. Despite his hero status Joe was one of the most humble and gentlemenly figures one could ever hope to meet. As the "father" of our crew, he served as our continual inspiration. One can draw a lot of energy from fear or anger, and every time I was feeling tired I just thought about Joe who silently kept plugging away hour after hour. "If he can keep this up," I would angrily chide myself, "I (at half his age) better damn well be able to also." Later, I came to realize that age has no affect on Joe. Ageless Joe just continues to go merrily along the road of life.
Skipper Bruce |
Bruce was a real inspiration on our boat. Unlike us lowly crewmen, he was constantly making split-second decisions. He also had to stand on the flying bridge (the roof of the boat) and drive us around all day as black deisel smoke from the boat's twin engines poured out of the stacks and into his eyes and lungs. As a result, he battled a massive headache most of the season. Most importantly though, he was in charge of the C-Quest and its crew and if the Alaska Department of Fish and Game ever cited us for fishing out of bounds (which we never did) or keeping extra nets on board (which we never did), Bruce would be the one to spend the night in jail. That $30,000 ticket--not unheard of or even rare--would have his name on it.
He also had the job of asking (or telling) us to do things that, under more normal circumstances, we wouldn't want to do. Well, we did those things for him because of who he is. We all knew inside that he would of done them for us, and much more.
That is one of the greatest things about fishing in Alaska, about our crew, and about that time and place. It's the simplicity: things have to be done and you do them. I think this above all else is what draws me to adventure in general. On the surface, we may hate fishing, hate struggling up a mountain in the freezing cold with a 60 pound pack, hate racing sled dogs for 14 days across 1000 miles of frozen tundra, but when you get to that place where everything (your life) is on the line and where survival is all that matters, then all the millions upon millions of choices and options that we're forced to sort through in our daily lives fall by the wayside. We're left staring into a blazing fire and jump in, a complete burn.