People are competitive, and in the angling community that trait manifests itself in size. It’s safe to say that all anglers, no matter what their gear preference may be or where and which species they choose to fish, would prefer to catch the largest example of a given species rather than dangling around for dinks. It’s big fish or nothing, snap.
Maybe that trait dates to prehistoric times, when competent anglers filled the bellies of fellow tribesmen and secured their status in the community through that process. Or maybe it’s not so ingrained. Perhaps it’s nothing more than the challenge of landing a large fish and the bragging rights and accompanying trophy photos that go along with it. No matter, this is clear: if you want to turn heads in Alaska there’s no better fish to catch than a king salmon. And the best king salmon to catch is the biggest damn one you can.
The biggest king ever caught was a 126-pound brute, taken by fish trap outside Petersburg in 1949. The top sport-caught king, a 97-pounder, was taken on the Kenai River in 1986. Every few years, however, tales resonate from the Great Land, describing the hooking and fighting of a giant king, a fish fought for many hours, lost at the boat, a fish believed to have exceeded the current sport-caught record. They’re out there, the losers in those battles say, which means on any given cast an angler could end up with way more on their line than they bargained for. If that’s the case, a daunting multi-hour task of bringing one of those behemoths to the boat may rest directly ahead. Before anglers make a single cast for kings they better sit down in the La-Z-Boy and ask this simple question: Am I in or am I out?
The best sport-caught king I ever landed was a 50-pounder, taken at Blind Slough on Mitkof Island in the early 1980s. I battled the fish on a six-weight Sage fly rod, of all things, and asked a couple tourists to snap a photo of me holding that king. A few weeks later a letter arrived describing the negligence of their film processor. It was the only blown roll from a six-week trip and with that I’d lost all bragging rights. At that age I thought another 50-pounder would soon roll in. But, just like all those Kenai River anglers who dream of the 70-pound mark, I quickly learned that kings topping 50 pounds are pretty rare just about anywhere in Alaska. The fact is, most kings range between 15 and 30 pounds.
The largest live king I’ve ever seen weighed 65 pounds . . . after it had been gilled, bled and gutted and set on ice for four days. I landed that fish off the west coast of Baranof Island while commercial trolling on the Elding with an entertaining skipper named Mark Roberts. Roberts wore a guardian angel on one shoulder, a perma-grin on his face, and he was one of only a few captains who would have let a deckhand take a stab at a “money fish” of that size. I remember Mark peering over my shoulder saying, “Don’t lose him, don’t lose him,” and my knees clanking like tin cans. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard was when I smashed that king over the head with the side of a gaff, which made a hollow sound, like rapping on a watermelon with a wood mallet. Then I gaffed him clean and swung the fish over the rail during his death-shiver. He smacked the deck and I perceived the Elding, a narrow 32-foot double-ender, to list just a bit.
We sold that fish at the Gedney Harbor buying scow and when I lifted him from the hold, several salty trollers, who’d caught hundreds of thousands of salmon between them, fell silent until one dude said, “That thing is huge.”
We were the talk of the fleet for a few days, having plugged our hold with kings that averaged 25 pounds and people on the radio paid particular homage to the 65-pounder. I’d been fired from a troller the year prior by a bear of a skipper who berated me from one end of the boat to the other and in the end he’d broken my will. At college I’d posted a GPA that resembled a Cy Young winner’s ERA. Roberts inherited a young man with his confidence shot and a driver’s license suspended, a little train wreck in life that might have seemed overwhelming to an 18-year old. He’d asked a single question: “Do you want to have fun catching big kings?” I’d signed on with regret but two weeks into the season, with a monster king under the belt, I felt like I belonged in the Gulf of Alaska. The power of a king.
The king salmon in Alaska offers itself to the pursuit of the masses. No other fish, not halibut in Cook Inlet, salmon sharks in Prince William Sound, sheefish in the Kobuk, not even silvers in Sitka Sound, secures as much interest or reason for spirited discussion as the king. Fortunately, the king is found all over Alaska, in saltwater and in streams. Its range extends northwest from Dixon Entrance near Ketchikan north to the town streams of Anchorage, and west/southwest along the Kenai and Alaska peninsulas, then north and west through the Aleutian Islands. The king also utilizes the west coast of mainland Alaska stretching all the way from Naknek to Point Hope, which is located just north of Kotzebue.
In full range, the kings of Alaska are true nomads, traveling as far away as Russia and Japan, prowling the Pacific in packs, pillaging schools of herring, hooligan, cod and squid, also keeping their eyes open for crabs, anchovies and anything else they believe palatable.
Along the way, during their typical three-to five-year run at sea, kings elude an armada of formidable enemies including open-ocean drift nets, pollock trawl gear, a variety of sleek sharks, and a plethora of sea lions, killer whales, and seals. I once saw a school of fifty or more kings raise from the water in unison--20- and 30-pounders flipping awkwardly about--some malicious creature having cruised just underneath.
That was in Washington’s Straight of Juan de Fuca on a day when my cousin, Gary, just eight years old, shat his pants on the boat. It was an event I continue to find humorous and often useful when visiting my smart-ass cousin these days. Of all the images locked in my brain, those bright white undies, gliding in the prop wash, slowly sinking toward obscurity, ranks with the best. I can’t remember how many salmon we caught that day, if any, but I remember those Fruit of the Looms as if watching a hi-def movie. These days the mere threat of that story silences Gary as if his lips were stitched together.
That any king survives its run at sea and returns to a natal stream is one of nature’s most profound arguments. And therefore, in my mind, each returning king should be treated as a miracle, afforded respect whether anglers choose to release said fish or take a priest to one’s head.
Some Alaska Natives would take exception to that, believing that the release of a fish is disrespectful to that creature. They need not have worried the third week of June when a friend and I visited western Alaska to fish the Kanektok with 12 other guests; we killed almost every fish caught, minus a couple oversized females, plugged full of a future generation. Perhaps some of us killed because of the Native model, more likely because--while considering lunch back home--someone announced that kings were currently selling for $35 per pound in Seattle and $40 per pound in Bozeman, MT. Or maybe we indulged because Alaska is the last bastion for king salmon and anglers seek that fish as much to fill the freezer as to engage in an awesome fight.
It hasn’t always been so hard to find a king. In the 1970s our family took to western Washington’s Puget Sound and trolled cut-plug herring for kings and silvers off Whidbey Island’s Possession Point and Point No Point.
We never managed many kings, but we caught silvers at a steady clip. Then, late one day, under charcoal skies, riding platinum seas my father’s rod tip bounced, then drew tight. He set the hook and fifteen minutes later we had a chrome-bright 20-pounder flopping on the deck, the best fish we’d ever taken in the sound. A half-hour later my sister’s rod bounced and she set the hook into another king. She’d never landed anything over five or six pounds. When we saw that fish roll we and understood, instantly, that this might be the fish of her lifetime. If memory serves correct, Kim fought that fish for a half-hour or more. A couple times she brought the king within inches of the net before took off on another epic run. Each time it did so, the suspense multiplied. As my sister cranked on the reel, and my dad barked out orders, my mother and I buried our heads in our hands. I’ve never hooked a fish that I wanted in the net more than the one on the end of my sister’s line. When my dad finally netted that fish, he brought it into the boat hanging half-in, half-out of the net and history changed. With a 20-pounder on ice and a 35-pounder quivering in the boat, the Thomas family was never happier.
I was all right with being skunked that day until my parents told me to hoist the 20-pounder, a fish that wasn’t even mine, and pose with Kim while she wrangled that 35-pounder. That’s when the finality of her catch sank in; no matter what I accomplished in my youth, scholastically, athletically, and most of all outdoors, the top slot was occupied and that wouldn't change. Kim’s fish represented a first, and a pinnacle of Thomas angling history. From there on out it was second place for me. The power of a king.
Part of the fascination with king salmon comes from the flavor of that fish. The fact is any king is a good fish on the table. A couple strains—the Copper River and the Yukon River kings—are considered among the most delectable of Alaskan fishes and they offer the greatest health benefits due to high omega-3 oil content (up to 34 percent of their body weight). That store sustains those fish through elongated spawning runs, up to 300 miles on the Copper and 2,000 miles on the Yukon. The omega-3 benefits provided by those kings include continued cardiovascular health with a decrease in blood pressure; assistance in cancer prevention; prevention of macular degeneration; reduction in arthritis; relief of depression; and a block against Alzheimer’s disease. Feel free to call kings superfish if you’d like to.
In truth, the Yukon king is all or more than the Copper River strain, just as oily, nutritious and succulent as the rock-star variety that swims near Cordova. The only thing that keeps the Yukon king from being the most sought-after salmon in Alaska is the hype that Copper River kings receive from the Alaska Seafood Marketing Institute and other entities. Those efforts took the Copper River fish from a local favorite to an internationally recognized brand. Fish processors and Yup’ik natives along the Yukon are trying to raise awareness about their fish. Either way, if you can get your mitts on a Copper River or Yukon fish—best yet if it’s attached to the end of your line—you have an Epicurean treasure on your hands.
Which means nothing if you can’t catch a king and there are times when those fish just aren’t willing to play. Still, people pursue them in masses, individually or as part of a sanctioned effort, meaning one of the state’s popular king salmon derbies. Derbies are sponsored by many towns, including Ketchikan, Petersburg, Juneau, Sitka, Anchorage, Ninilchik, and Homer. Winning payouts range from $500 and new tackle to $10,000 for a top fish and $100,000 for specially tagged kings. The potential to earn a significant monetary prize, on top of landing the fish of a lifetime, only adds to the anxiety when bringing a “banger” to the net.
There are good reasons to be anxious. The fight of a king is no one-round knockout. Picture Ali and Frazier in a ten-round slugout. Down goes Frazier. Down goes Frazier. Unfortunately the refrain in Alaska typically goes, “Down goes Angler. Down goes Angler.” Typically, kings strike soft and anglers must not be too eager to set the hook. Once a fish is on the rod, a long, line-burning run often occurs. Then, a fish usually rests, as if pondering its next move, before commencing on another long shot, an angler often wondering if they’ll have line left on their reel when that spontaneous migration ends. If fishing from a boat, especially in a river, anchors are often hauled and a chase ensues.
No matter whether hooked in freshwater or salt, it’s wise to land a king as quickly as you can. In saltwater, an angler does so to negate the risk of flotsam chafing a line, or a seal, sea lion or shark pilfering a potential prizewinner. In freshwater kings seek snags as if their metallic sides are drawn by an immense magnet. It’s safe to say the longer a king is on the line, all the while a hook wrenching in their jaw and a leader chaffing against rocks and other obstructions, the odds of losing such a fish rise. Unfortunately, kings are often lost at the boat, a final run after a net-stab. I learned some of my first sincere swear words listening to my father and his top fishing partner, Byron Vadset, when they suffered that indignation off Whidbey.
Which is why I was so nervous when recently fighting a big king—perhaps a 40-pounder—on the Kanektok River, serving battle with a meaty, 14-foot, nine-weight Spey rod. This particular fish tore through my fly line and three-fourths of the backing before pulling up mid-river. That fish held momentarily, then angled upstream, toward where I was standing on the left bank, and I retrieved line as fast as I could. It was early in the year and there was question whether the kings would arrive during our stay. King salmon runs had failed in northern California, Oregon, Washington and southeast Alaska and people wondered if that trend would continue up the Pacific Coast. I felt anxiety with every headshake, realizing that this single fish likely represented the merit of a trip, plus bragging rights back at a so-far fishless camp full of competent anglers.
I was just about willing to bet on an eventual capture when the king raced for the bank and I felt a strange sensation and then a jerk. Tension remained on the line, but the headshakes were gone. Understanding that such a potentially wonderful moment in life, a solid slice of personal history, had perished, I said, “He’s on a snag.”
You can’t expect anything less than an emotional ride when fishing kings, especially in the snag-filled and often turbid waters of Alaska. But, then, just when you believe the capture of any king to be impossible at best, the angling gods grant a reprieve. That was the case on the Kanektok with Jim Nave, a college buddy who I’d invited north to rekindle our friendship and to share in a wild ride for kings.
Two days after I’d lost that big king Nave managed a solid hookset into a ramped up fish, which elicited that man’s first glint of excitement that day. You couldn’t blame him, really.
The night prior, at midnight, in a bout of revolt after being awakened by myself and a crew of fun-loving guides, Nave proceeded to ingest four sniffs of Dean Swift snuff, followed by some serious puffing, simultaneously, on a Marlboro Light and a Backwoods cigar, followed by a swiping of Copenhagen Long Cut between his gums and his top and bottom lips, the old upper deck/lower-deck decree of serious tobacco chewers. He washed down the debris with a Styrofoam cup filled with Aberlour, and then a tumbler of Old Crow, in which I had placed a painted trout bead. When he returned the glass, of course, the bead was gone. Someone said, “That’s going to hurt tomorrow,” and Nave replied, “I should be feeling something soon.”
It was a display I’d seen from Nave before, in a different form, that time when he Cool Hand Luked eight pickled eggs in a Montana bar and paid a mighty price for his antics, on the sidewalk within full view of that tavern’s patrons. This time, just like the last, I couldn’t find reason for the display except, perhaps, to entertain and keep spirits high in a fishless camp, an offering to fellow anglers and angling gods, at his own expense. Like a line in a sorrowful Pogues’ song, Nave could have sang, “Oh all the substances I ever had/I did them in good company/and all the harm I’ve ever done/alas it was to none but me.”
Karma was in effect the following morning. Nave slinked out of our weatherport tent a little ashamed and fell silent during breakfast. That tight lip continued for a couple hours until we stopped at a favored run called “Chrissy.” Shortly he was into the big king, his senses heightened for the first time in hours, the Spey rod bent artfully, retrieval of line occurring at a steady, efficient clip. Moments later he willed a 30-pound, nickel-bright king into the net, a fish that entered the river just an hour prior on the flood tide, fresh as could be. Nave was shaking and it wasn’t because he needed a patch on his shoulder.
That evening we arrived at a raucous camp to find fellow clients and a half-dozen guides surrounding the cleaning table, celebrating a change in fortune while admiring a 20-pounder and a few jacks. Our guide thumped a gunnysack on the table and the western Alaska tundra momentarily fell still. In the distance I heard a raven snicker. As Nave’s impressive king slid from the bag—the largest fly-caught fish of the trip—the arms of those who had pointed so accusingly the night prior rose in the air and a roar spat from camp that echoed all the way to Quinhagak. A big, proud grin spread across Nave’s face and I recognized a moment in one’s life that couldn’t be bought with money. From chump to champ in 16 hours. The power of a king.
Greg Thomas is a contributing editor for Fish Alaska and currently resides in Ennis, MT, with his wife, Becky, and two daughters.
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