I'm lucky I'm still married. We were alone on our last day, wading one braid of the mighty Kvichak, searching for the Holy Grail of rainbows-thirty inches of Alaska trout. We'd been to this particular section a few days earlier and found some 26-inch beauties, but we hadn't made it to the far pool. Patrick dreamed about that pool the night before, knowing the morning would bring us back there. He laid in bed plotting his attack, how he'd approach from the bar upstream, how he'd sidearm a cast under the low-hanging branches, how he'd undoubtedly feel the electric shock of an outfoxed trophy trout grabbing the tiny coral-colored bead.
It was downstream of some riffles, the water seductive in its quiescence. Its dark green color broadcast its potential-deep, a little slow, curling around a huge submerged rock. Getting there involved wading by tempting gravel bars, so he made his way downstream slowly that next morning, looking for pocket water and drifting a bead. He laughed softly as he took the occasional grayling, but his eye and his mind remained on the upcoming pool. I was on the near bank, running a black leech through some surprisingly deep mini-channels.
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Patrick with a beautiful trout. |
Much to my surprise, because I'd come up empty here earlier, I hooked into a big trout that ran like a banshee downstream. I called to Patrick to bring the camera so we could get its picture. Happy for me, but not for the interruption, he waded across and watched patiently as I played tug-of-war with my prey, finally tiring him enough to bring him close to the bank. The landing was what Patrick, ever the Floridian, calls a "Palm Beach release," with enough of a glimpse to see it was about 28 inches, but not enough time for a picture. In the process, though, my leader tangled and required more than just new tippet. He had all the gear in his vest, plus he's a quicker knot-tier than I am, so I asked if he'd re-rig my gear. With that little harrumph that husbands save for wives who are being bothersome, he handed me his rod and started on my line.
Here's where the accounts differ. He remembers giving me a whole litany of instructions: stay out of my pool, be careful, it's a size 2 hook not your big ugly leech, don't go far. I remember just a simple "be careful." In any case, I waded out towards the pool. Yes, towards the pool of his dreams-what was I thinking? On my first cast, I landed the bead exactly where I wanted it, just up from the rock, clearing the overhanging branches. It drifted down and, bam!, the next thing I saw was a cartwheeling jumbo-trout bending the rod into a semicircle. Certain expletives rang out from the bank as Patrick grokked immediately what had happened. Hopes dashed, he set my rod down on the reeds and splashed out towards me, not sure if he'd kill me or help me. He settled on the latter and started shouting more advice. "Don't horse it in, it's a tiny mosquito hook."
"That's my rod, keep your hands on the grip."
More jumps, more advice.
"Gentle, gentle now."
"Pick up that slack."
I was so enthralled by the magnificent creature at the end of my line that I didn't even grouse back. Willing myself to focus, I kept the pressure on through six or seven more leaps, making all the right moves. The fish took the line up close to the menacing low branches, and I flipped the rod right and low to prevent tangles. That's when I decided it was time to bring this fish in, and in spite of all the coaching, in spite of Patrick's anguished wail, I palmed the next run. In what I can only credit to panic, or perhaps cosmic justice, I popped the trout off.
I hollered, he hollered, and then, in the stillness, we just looked at each other. I was constructing my own doghouse in my mind, he didn't need to say a thing. His hole. His rod. His fish. And, adding insult, while he was fixing my leader.
The boat ride back to Blueberry Island Lodge was a little quiet. Every once in a while, one of us would laugh ruefully, or knock our head with our hand, V-8 style, and by the time we got back, we could at least look each other in the eye again. Our host, George Riddle, was on the bank as we pulled in. After we'd tied up the boat and unloaded our gear, he looked at us quizzically, obviously wondering when we were going to tell him about our day. Patrick finally said, "It's a long story," and we waited until happy hour to tell it.
Riddle's Blueberry Island Lodge, on the Kvichak (pronounced Kwee-jack) River, is the perfect place to kick back and tell tall and not-so-tall tales. It's also a perfect launching pad for creating fishing memories. The Kvichak is home to rainbows, grayling, and northern pike as well as sockeye, silver, and chum salmon. When we were there, in late August, we caught at least one of each salmon species, with the silver at its peak while the others, still big and feisty, were a bit past prime. Our main target on this trip was rainbow trout, but we admired every grayling we caught and enjoyed the silver on the grill.
Have you ever wished that you had a buddy with a cabin on a remote, world class Alaska river? We came to think of George's lodge as just that. It's a do-it-yourself arrangement-you bring your gear and your food, and he supplies the rest. For about one-third the price of a high-end lodge, you get to enjoy the same incredible Kvichak fishing on your own schedule and under your own steam. George has four boats with new Honda motors, and on your first afternoon, he'll give you boat lessons and a tour of the river, pointing out the latest hot spots.
He's happy to leave you to yourselves, but, on the odd day, chores allowing, he may join you for a time on the river. He's a companionable fishing partner and knowledgeable local who'll share his expertise. He and Patrick enjoyed one afternoon on a wide section of the river, practicing their Spey casting and trading tips.
Lake Iliamna, at 1,000 square miles, is the largest lake in Alaska, and the Kvichak is the only drainage. Think of it as a two way superhighway with no exits-every single fish that heads to or from the lake goes by. Our aim was to intercept as many travelers as we could.
Our first solo morning, we headed upstream to an island known as the Fishing Shack spot. The sky was remarkable, looking like a freeze-frame on the Weather Channel. There was some of everything, a little valiant blue, some swirling gray on the horizon, and some fast moving clouds crossing zenith. Perhaps it portended a rich fishing day.
We'd been a little concerned that we might miss the landing beach, but everything was right where George had said. My first catch was a 16-inch rainbow that was so upset about being hooked that his fourth jump was right over my rod, three or four guide-eyes in. Luckily, I was using my fly rod with its downward facing guides, so the line didn't catch on anything and I was able to recover and land the little guy. Meanwhile, upriver, Patrick caught a sizeable trout, his first on his new Spey rod. The Kvichak is a perfect venue for casting the double-hander, with its extra-wide braids and its trout willing to take on the swing. We were glad for the sun and equally glad for our DEET, as the warm, still air brought out hoards of mosquitoes.
We waded our way around the island, changing up techniques as the river bottom transitioned from deep channels to grassy bottoms to undifferentiated gravel. While casting my way down the gravel bar, I reflected on geometry as it applies to fishing. In science class, I'd always had trouble understanding time as the fourth dimension, but here was a perfect example of it. One of the other lodge guests had caught a 31.5-inch trout in these waters just two days ago. Here I was, fishing in the same three dimensional space as he did, even using the same flesh fly that he proscribed, but without success. I was much happier believing that it was the time dimension rather than my ability that was to blame. Perhaps we could return to the Fishing Shack spot some other day and have that fourth dimension work in my favor.
We headed back to the lodge for a quick lunch. We found it easy to prepare our meals in George's spacious kitchen. We'd brought fairly simple things with us, and camaraderie with the other guests meant that we could trade treats and pool our resources. One of the best things about the do-it-yourself nature of the lodge was that each party could set its own schedule. With sunset being around 10:30 at night, one group from Totem Ocean Trailer Express hit their stride with an early rising and launch, a late lunch followed by a nap, then evening fishing from 7 to 10 o'clock. Guest George strove to catch one good fish per day, read that as 30-plus inches, which he did with regularity. After that one good fish, he'd lay the rod down and retire for the day, happy in accomplishment and unwilling to feel greedy or ungrateful.
We were a little more conventional, fishing mornings from 6:30 till lunch then 2:00 to 7:00, but on rainy days, we could make our own decision about when to venture outside. It's quite a contrast from the regimen of a traditional lodge, and one that Riddle's guests particularly appreciate.
One of the most productive spots, which we nicknamed The Point, was downriver at the confluence of two major braids. It's a popular site for boats from the other lodges. We watched as a couple of guides put their clients on fish after fish, aiming their boats' drift parallel to one particular seam. Rather than join the parade, we beached our boat and waited them out, sipping tea from our thermos on the shore. Gray-on-gray, the clouds and the water blended like a smudged charcoal drawing in the distance. Even the aluminum boats with their olive Gore-Tex-clad occupants seemed one with the river, and, except for the occasional exclamations from anglers with fish tugging, we could have been in a black and white silent movie.
When the two boats moved on, we fished from shore. With some expert casting, Patrick was able to reach that same seam, and he was rewarded with a rainbow or chum salmon about every third cast. I struck out fishing below him, but once I leapfrogged above him, I was rewarded with a very pretty, very shiny medium-sized trout that looked me right in the eye as if to chastise me for interrupting his day.
We returned to The Point a few more times during our trip, always with great success. We found a little creek in the area behind it, where we anchored and explored its micro-world on foot. Here's where we found the sockeye, lurking where the rainbows should be, and we each managed to land huge humped-up males. At least we got our flies back.
While I fished from a shingled back eddy, Patrick clambered up on the grassy bank to scout from above. Part of the bank was severely undercut, and he spotted a huge trout resting beneath the overhang. He selected his ugliest fly, a Big Nasty black articulated leech, and tied it on securely, first checking the line for nicks from the sockeye's teeth. It was a difficult high back-cast, given all the brush behind him. He aimed well upstream, hoping the fly would stay in the drift. It did, and he watched almost reverently as the fish snatched at the Nasty. In a nanosecond, his line was flying off his reel as the trout took one leap and headed downstream and around the bend. Neither the fish nor the leech returned, but the excitement was worth having to tie more flies that evening.
You can have any river you want on the Kvichak. Its complicated system of braids as it flows from Lake Iliamna presents big, wide stretches that look like the Naknek, quiet back creeks like the scene of the stolen leech, and anything in between. You can use any gear, from fly to spin to bait, and you can fish from a boat or on foot. The water is fairly easily read and much of it is wadeable. A particularly useful fly technique for rainbows on the Kvichak is the "swing," involving quartering downstream, allowing the fly to swing across the stream, and letting it dangle briefly at the end of the swing. We found that the critical dangling moment was the productive point, where hungry rainbows would most often take a flesh fly or a leech.
We spent a few afternoons exploring the islands around the lodge on foot. Our fellow guest George caught a few 30-inch-plus fish from a neighbor's camp during his two week stay. We weren't quite that lucky, but we did land a few 22- to 26-inch trout and several good-sized grayling within view of the lodge, and, nightly, we harvested the resident blueberries for dessert and breakfast. Views from the dining room over dinner one night showed some locals and their dog in a boat, fishing pixies and scoring nice-sized silvers on each of a dozen or so drifts.
Our last evening, we sat around the dinner table with host George and the other guests and reminisced about all the experiences we'd had at our buddy's cabin. The TOTE group laughed the most about their only silver of the night actually jumping out of their boat while they were sharing swigs from a flask of Knob Creek 1894. Guest George's eyes shone as he told of the 31-inch trout he'd taken not 100 yards from the lodge. And Patrick and I, having loved making up again, weighed in at last with the story of The Robbery.
As the sun set and the scene outside the dining room window began to fade, Patrick stepped out onto the deck. He scanned the river and knew that he was just yards away from three lanes of traffic, rainbows close to shore, then sockeye, then silver. It wasn't meant for just watching, he thought, as he picked up an ultralight with a blaze Vibrax that was leaning up against the railing. Five casts, two grayling, and two rainbows later, he came to terms with this being our last night at our buddy's cabin.
Kathy Anderson is an associate publisher of Fish Alaska magazine.
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