CROSSROADS

A convergence of beauty and fishing in Skagway Alaska

Story and Photos by ANDREW CREMATA

2005 Derby winner.

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There are places where paths converge. Some are physical, like the mouth of a shallow mountain stream that empties into a boundless, cobalt ocean. Some are symbolic, a life choice dictated by a space in time or a decision that can no longer be ignored. It is a place of uncertainty mixed with anticipation and hope. Oftentimes, it is the place where we test the waters, wet a line, and wait.

I have lived at these crossroads for almost a decade here in Skagway, Alaska, where submerged chasms of earth give way to air and land at the northern terminus of the Inside Passage. Glaciers built this unique geography. Man made it a hub, a jumping-off point to the wilds of the north where gold was the lure at the turn of the last century.

This century finds Skagway a hub of a different sort. It is a port of call for almost a million cruise ship passengers every year, a crossroads of camcorders, souvenirs and sightseeing. This is what most people already know about Skagway, but what about the fish?

Fishing from the dock in Skagway.

On a rare windless, warm summer day, I managed to get off work a little early to enjoy some fishing at the mouth of Skagway's small boat harbor. This is a place where sandpipers hop along the jagged rocks to scan the lapping surf and seals splash in the wind-driven waves. Hidden beneath the surface lives predator's prey such as salmon fry, barnacles, and mussels, which cling to strands of seaweed undulating in the robust tide.

I was looking for something a little tastier.

Faced with the decision of what to tie onto my light action spin-outfit rigged with 6-pound mono, I decided on a #1 Mepps spinner. Perhaps a Dolly Varden would find it irresistible. Enjoying the calm warmth, I began to cast and got into a rhythm.

A sparkling glare caught the corner of my eye, like the reflection from a car's rearview mirror traveling ahead on the highway. About 30 feet away, a mere 18 inches under the surface, a massive king was cruising in the direction of the harbor.

It's moments like these that are hard to describe. Hardly a thought had crossed my mind in the 30 minutes I had been methodically casting, but now a myriad of synapses were firing in unison, and I could feel adrenaline creeping up my arms.

One thought would quickly win out over the rest, "There is no possible way I can catch this fish."

However, much like the involuntary need to breathe, some innate drive took over, leaving no real conscious choice in the matter. Trying to maintain focus I took aim on a spot that would put the spinner within inches of the moving target, and before I could give it any further thought the #1-underacheiver was sailing into the still air. Line followed the lure through space and sketched an arc that rose skyward and descended like a magnet pulled to its target by some unseen force.

Before the line could fully settle on the water in curled ringlets, the lunker king turned up its nose and delicately grabbed the lure with the front of its mouth. I reeled up the slack and set the hook.

There is no way to convey the feeling of excitement laced with dread I felt at this turn of events. I've been lucky to have tangled with some pretty hearty Chinook salmon, by Skagway standards, but in those cases I was using heavy-duty salmon gear, often with the advantage of a boat. This fish happened to be the biggest king I had ever seen first hand, and it seemed ironic that the moment this one-time opportunity arose, I was burdened with the lightest of gear and the slimmest of chances.

At least I had remembered to tie on the leader.

The hook-set was solid, and felt more like being hung on underwater real estate then the soft mouth of a fish. I'm pretty sure the fat salmon was as surprised as I was, and for a moment he ceased swimming. He began to sway in the water, curling the length of his body right and left, every movement sending shocks waves into the wispy fishing rod. The big king was still visible just under the surface, but only for a moment.

At that instant he vanished and the reel began to scream. The fish resumed his course directly into the small boat harbor, now moving at terminal velocity. "At least he's not heading out to sea," I thought.

But when 150 of the less than 200 yards of line spooled on the reel were gone, the thin mono singing varied notes of tension, I figured the fight was almost over. The big fish was heading directly under the vessels moored in their slips, and one propeller blade was all it would take to claim a victor in the fight.

It was time to make a decision.

Rewind

The decision to leave behind the creature comforts of life in the Lower 48 was one I made years before. Braving the wilds of America's last frontier seemed glamorous as an adventure, but it would take a catalyst to face that fork in the road. It's easy to look back now and come up with a variety of reasons for my departure, but my prevailing thoughts at the time focused on the threat of development alongside the waters on which I had chased fish throughout my life.

My home, the west coast of Florida, was growing exponentially. A high-rise condominium could spring up seemingly overnight. What was once a mangrove wetland teeming with blue crabs, pelicans and redfish would suddenly become an assembly of asphalt, iron, and cement block. It didn't matter if I'd fished there for years, suddenly the access was gone, a pristine Florida beach transformed into a seawall, access blocked by a uniformed guard manning an electronic gate.

There was a fishing magazine I liked to read, and in the back section there were advertisements for Alaska angling experiences. One photo is still vivid in my mind; it was of an angler holding a bent rod in the foreground, slightly out of focus, with a big fish jumping from the water, sharp and crisp in the camera's eye. There could be little doubt what the potential tourist would find appealing.

And so did I. So when a friend made a suggestion in April of 1996 to travel to Alaska for the summer I jumped at the opportunity. For two weeks I gave away most of my belongings, said many goodbyes, and packed the car in preparation for the 4,700 mile journey.

I was told we were heading to Skagway, Alaska, a place where a gold rush occurred in the latter part of the 19th century and job opportunities for the modern Cheechako could make an extended vacation financially fruitful.

I had never heard of the place.

Grinding rubber along America's highways puts a few things in perspective. There are many roads that converge, and it's easy to end up traveling down the wrong path for hundreds of miles before you realize you're going the wrong way. Those miles spent backtracking are some of the longest a person can experience.

The trek was full of the beautiful and weird, from fiery sunsets on the nation's high plateau to seedy motels with signboards that read, "John Wayne stayed here!"

Six long days of yellow painted lines and intermittent gas stations gave way to the Klondike Highway, a 90-mile stretch of road that connects the ALCAN to the official end-of-the-road, Skagway. Along that final tract of highway were massive frozen lakes. I wondered if there were any fish there.

The White Pass summit, which descends 3,200 feet into town, was covered with snow. I said to my travel companion with tongue in cheek, "I wonder why they call it the White Pass." It turns out it was named for Canadian Minister of the Interior Thomas White. I am just one of myriad visitors who have come to Alaska with some pretty ridiculous speculations.

The first night out in Skagway I focused on what was really important and asked a local fellow where a good place to fish around town would be. He said, "Fish? There are no fish in Skagway!"

Other patrons in the watering hole let out a chuckle; it was something they had all heard before. It turns out this is a running joke about town, something you still hear to this day. Some say it was started by commercial fishermen from nearby Haines, others said it was a rumor started by the cruise ship companies which did not sell charters off of the boats in Skagway. Whatever the reason, it's a rumor easily challenged.

Chasing Angles

Just like anywhere else, knowing where to fish is half the battle. Fishermen the world over are reluctant to give away their hallowed fishing holes, and while the Alaskan version is no different; it's not difficult to find someone willing to let the new guy tag along.

My boss from one of first jobs in town turned me on to a favorite spot of his called Yakutania Point, a short hike from downtown that culminates at a rocky jetty extending into the ocean. Lichen of various colors clings to the white granite, which is grooved from the same glaciers that carved the entire Skagway valley.

On one particular bright, summer day, sea lions flipped salmon into the air in a fury of splashing water mixed with blood. The feast was on, and the thrill of the hunt obviously meant it was okay to play with your food.

Skagway fishermen employ a variety of methods for a variety of fish, many of them unorthodox and downright strange. While I cast a spoon, hooking into the occasional Dolly, my boss stuck a whole herring under a bobber and let the outgoing tide carry it out 100-feet.

When the bobber went gliding under the surface, the fight was on. The drag on his aging rig sang off-key and in irregular bursts. He smiled as his wife pulled out her camera and let out a few shouts of encouragement. Somehow he managed to hold his beer as he played the fish, and when the fight was in moments of stalemate, he found a perfect opportunity to take a swig.

The fish tired and he made up ground until it was within reach of the shoreline, but the kelp clinging to the lower position of the jetty made traction impossible. A local in a passing boat had taken interest in the fight, and called out to ask if we had a net. After answering in the negative he motored close, extended the handle, and passed it over to me. It was just long enough to get under the fish and I dragged it up onto the rocks.

Apparently, my boss had his fill of wild Alaska salmon over the years, so he gave the fish to me. That night I discovered what all the fuss was about.

Skagway's run of pink salmon makes wide-eyed out-of-state visitors drool. After seeing first hand the hordes of fish in the local streams that host the spawn, many run to the local hardware store to drop a few bucks on a vacation rig.

When the run heats up, schools numbering in the hundreds cruise the saltwater shoreline. An occasional king travels in between the tight packed pinks and resembles a zeppelin within a contingent of fighter planes.

Sight-casting toward the pinks is exciting and rewarding, especially using a fly rod. It's easy for spoiled Alaskans to become critical of the lowly pink salmon. They are the smallest of the bunch, and the flavor is not palatable to many who are accustomed to plentiful sockeye and coho. Yet the thrill of catching pinks is not lost on the novice, the tourist, or on someone like me who enjoys some fast and furious action on light gear.

A short drive from Skagway, along a narrow, winding road with vertigo inducing sheer drops, lays the town of Dyea. During the gold rush, Dyea was a bustling jumping-off point to fields of fortune in the Klondike.

Until the White Pass and Yukon train route was built, making access less difficult, Dyea's Chilkoot Trail was the arduous path of choice for gold seekers.

Emerging from the thick woods where downtown of Dyea once stood, one is greeted with an open expanse of tidal flats and incredible views south from the vantage point of the northernmost shore of the Inside Passage.

Eagles scan the sloughs that meander through the high grass. Fallen trees, carried by mammoth tides from distant locales, pepper the terrain haphazardly. Northern harrier cruise at low altitude for a meal of field mice or an unwary sparrow.

Occasionally, grizzlies wander the sloughs in search of a meal, and when the pinks are thick they take a certain glee in flinging them onto the shore for no apparent reason other than sheer joy.

Dyea is travel-brochure material; the perfect lure for fishermen seeking solace and an unending supply of incredible fishing. Wandering the sloughs with a fly rod is hard to beat, anywhere, any time.

Toward the start of the run, the fish are bright and brutal, and when they leap with a splash and a thrash they challenge their own dubious reputation. I have taken many novice and experienced anglers to this place over the years, and the end result is always the same, perfect.

On the Road

Skagway is connected to the rest of the world by the Klondike Highway, arguably the most breathtaking stretch of road in North America. The deep, glacial lakes change from emerald green to ocean blue depending on the angle of the sun, and on calm days, impart a perfect mirror to towering mountains rising from their depths.

The highway provides access to shoreline where creeks and streams bring water during the summer and fall, courtesy of the melting snow. Wildlife is common. Moose, caribou, and lynx occasionally feed alongside the road. Bears come out in force when the dandelions bloom, and munch away while travelers lean out of their windows composing photos.

And yes, there are fish here. Grayling, lake trout and pike reach trophy size and the big ones are always a cast away.

I am a sucker for these waters. A half-hour drive from Skagway is a small price to pay for a chance to tangle with big fish in a perfect setting. There are days so quiet along these shores an eagle's beating wings can be heard cutting through the air from a quarter-mile away.

Coming across another fisherman is rare. In fact, it is more likely to encounter the occasional bear or moose at close range, and it's the only thing that will make you look over your shoulder.

There are many places with remnants of days lost. The dilapidated ruins of old mining towns, deserted trapping cabins and gold rush artifacts have been reclaimed by the ever-growing forests of Sitka spruce and quivering aspen. These relics reaffirm the nature of this place; impossible to subjugate, wild and apathetic.

While hiking along a wind-scorched ledge framed with blueberry bushes in search of ripe fishing grounds, a buddy and I came upon the bleached, exposed bones of a horse buried over time and now peeking up through the sand. It lay as it had fallen, its rusty shoes resting beside the remnants of its hooves, the victim of an unforgiving place.

There are days when the bite simply will not let up. These times make it hard to exercise restraint, catch what you can eat, and move on. It's a little disappointing. You go out planning to fish all day, and you limit out in under 20 minutes. It's times like this you're thankful for a warm campfire and a six-pack of beer.

A Changing Reputation

In 2005, Skagway hosted the first Pat Moore Memorial Game Fish Derby. The event drew participants from all over the country and abroad who discovered Skagway does, indeed, have fish. The event, sponsored by the Taiya Inlet Watershed Council, offered over $11,000 in cash and prizes, and all the money raised went toward charitable local causes.

Pat Moore, the man for whom the event was named, passed away from Lou Gerhig disease (ALS) a year before the start of the event. He embodied the nature of Skagway: He devoted his life to his family and the benevolence of helping those in need as an active member of the community.

He also loved to fish. He would wake up early when the fish were biting and was know as the guy who always got fish when everyone else got none. He loved to hear people's fishing stories, and here in Skagway you're bound to hear some whoppers. Even when confined to his wheelchair, Pat made his way down to the docks to watch people fishing, offer some advice, or share in a story.

The annual derby continues to be a unique Skagway event geared around families and the tradition of fishing.

The Fight Continues

When a big fish has you on the ropes there is only so much you can do. One thing is certain, taking a chance has risks, but those risks can bring rewards.

Faced with the prospect of losing the lunker king, which I had no initial belief could be landed considering the circumstances, I decided to palm the drag and test the limits of the six-pound line.

Maybe the fish was as tired as my arm holding the rod. Maybe he wasn't.

The added pressure drew the wispy rod into a distended arc. The high-pitched whining of mono about to snap that makes the muscles in your face tense up surely meant the fight was almost over.

The fish, unaware of things like breaking-strains and physics, decided to stop. There was moment of indecision on my part. It seemed like the slightest motion could make the whole situation fall apart, so I stood on the rocks, frozen, like the ice that rests there during the winter.

Suddenly I was gaining ground, in small increments at first, but soon I was in a steady rhythm of pull-up reel-down. Minutes later, the Chinook was by my feet and I put both hands into its gills and hoisted it up. A round of cheers from onlookers on the deck of one of the tethered cruise ships proved it was real. I had been unaware they were watching.

But the sight of that 44-pound king proved something to them they may have been unaware of before.

There are fish in Skagway.

Andrew Cremata was recently honored as the best sports columnist in Alaska by the Alaska Press Club for his long-running column in The Skagway News entitled, "Fish This!" He lives in Skagway with his wife Angie and cat Peabo. While Peabo enjoys the product from his lengthy fishing trips, Angie is often less happy.

Ketchikan, Alaska, a unique island community along Alaska’s Inside Passage, is a haven for those seeking Alaskan adventure. Visit Ketchikan, where our lifestyle is your reward!

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SKAGWAY CONTACTS

Skagway Convention & Visitors' Bureau
www.skagway.com

How to get there:

By Sea
Skagway is the northern terminus
of the Alaska Marine Highway System.
Drive to Bellingham, Washington or Prince Rupert, British Columbia and board with your vehicle for a trip through
the Inside Passage.

By Land
110 miles south from the Alaska Highway taking the South Klondike Highway, you can drive to Skagway.

By Air
Many travel via air to Juneau and take one of the daily commuter flights offered to and from Skagway.