Alaska rainbow trout are some of the finest in the world. Trophies topping over 30 inches long loom in the rivers and creeks of the Greatland. Here are 5 top choices for Alaska rainbow trout.
Story & Photo by Troy Letherman
IT’S 1982 IN THE MIDDLE YELLOWSTONE VALLEY and the high-plains river materializes as a freestone schematic for trouters: cobalt-colored slots of holding water, boulders peeking out like flagsticks on a golf course, reflective riffles that run for half-mile stretches, deeply undercut banks hiding pools of great promise. Here the big sky means a bigger light show and evening descends on the valley in folds of golden drapery. Cottonwoods throw long shadows on the gravel bars at water’s edge; hay fields lay beyond, dotted with second-cutting bales, round and square. The Absarokas rise in the southern distance, the Crazies to the north. I’m too young to row and so I get to cast, even though my little arms and the long rod make for an odd combination. Still the hopper sporadically finds the right spot. Several rainbows. A good brown. Trout for life. [emember_protected custom_msg=’This content is available for subscribers only.’]
Well into my twenties I’d walked to nearly every piece of water I found time to fish. It leant a familiarity to all my angling, a comfort with water and Woolly Buggers that made the double-haul feel as natural as dinner with my parents. This is decidedly different then, flying low over the efflorescent tundra of southwestern Alaska, mere minutes into the opening of a new trout season. I’m obviously going to some lengths to get to the fish, and for a Montana rainbow junkie, that’s almost like driving five hours just to order tuna casserole. Regardless, we cross the lake and floats touch near the Kukaklek River outlet, the Big Ku as it’s known, where clouds of Katmai rainbows are expected to gather like a thunderstorm rolling down the Rockies’ eastern slope. The trout are after the sockeye smolt; I’m after the trout, and if the haste with which I tie a leader is any indication, no number of oddities can keep me from casting.
The fly settles some sixty feet into the lake. I count down to get some depth and then start to strip. Once, twice and then the line’s headed the other way. The rod thumps, throbs, doubles over. I can feel everything through the cork.
Here’s where I agree with the esteemed Dr. Freud, as early childhood experience and speckle-sided dreams have surely had a profound influence upon my life. I flew rather than walked. I’m wading waist-deep into a clearwater lake instead of standing in the bow of a fiberglass drift boat or tiptoeing across the rocks in water that barely clears the ankle. From floating line to 400 grains of sink; 5X to 2X; from a delicate dry to four inches of flash and fur.
The Alaska Range rises to the east. A bear rather than an Angus bull roams in the distance.
It might feel like I’m a million miles away from where I started—having arrived in a DeHavilland Beaver instead of my grandfather’s old Ford—but I’m not too far from home after all. The tightness in my chest as a six-pound rainbow clears the surface tells me this is still about the fish.
Trout like my favorite childhood stories; trout like mom’s casserole.
Biology is not destiny—for me at least.
ACROSS THE WESTERN UNITED STATES, the rainbow trout is considered more than just a worthy adversary; for anglers of any experience and ability, they’re the definitive sport fish, the benchmark all of us must eventually be measured against. From cloistered spring creeks budding in a rancher’s meadow to the three-mile seams of a coastal river, the species is at turns voracious and tight-lipped, ebullient and bashful, unparticular and quite finicky. But in Alaska, a last bulwark against the encroaching civilization and declining fish stocks found in much of the rest of the country, biology is most certainly a fish’s destiny—and that destiny makes them predictable.
In Alaska, as the reds go, so go the rainbows. That’s the maxim anyway, but while there’s more than a fragment of truth to this sockeye-centric view of our fisheries, there are also other considerations for those seeking to narrow down their options to a chosen few streams. This is a vast state, with a range of environmental circumstances that result in a variety of river, stream and lake ecosystems. In turn, there are some distinct differences among the state’s resident trout and thewaters in which they’re found. For me, having now experienced an opener at the mouth of the Big Ku, it all starts in June.
Fantastic trout fishing can be had during this period, with diving birds and swirling fish signaling the start of the juvenile-salmon migration, when rising lake temperatures initiate a mass exodus of ocean-bound smolt. Hungry rainbows, fresh off a long winter in the Far North, can now be caught with regularity—and if these are trout from a sockeye-rich lake-and-river system (such as fish of the greater Alagnak drainage), then anglers can also expect healthy average sizes, despite the season.
The entirety of rainbow trout angling in the Last Frontier doesn’t revolve around the Pacific salmon, though, and there’s typically a little lull between the fry and smolt migrations and the arrival of the year’s first spawners. During this period, anglers can go to work with a variety of streamers, sculpin and leech imitations in particular, or they can look to more traditional sources of trout-fishing inspiration—namely, dry flies and nymphs.
The stoneflies of the Iliamna region’s Copper River, those of the genus Pteronarcella in particular, can come off regularly in the right weather conditions in June and July, accounting for the stream’s reputation as the best dry-fly river in the state. Good dry-fly and nymph fishing extends to many of Alaska’s other freestone streams as well, where sporadic caddis or mayfly hatches predominate, especially in June before the salmon arrive. Anglers searching for surface action in Alaska aren’t necessarily limited to dead-drifting tiny insect replications, however, nor must they pinpoint exactly the smolt out-migration. For many the apex of topwater trouting in the state involves the chance to skate mouse patterns instead. Casting and stripping these simple, spun deer-hair creations requires neither a hatch to match nor exacting, drag-free drifts. It’s about covering water, disturbing the surface with large-profiled flies and explosive takes.
In late summer to early fall, the season’s egg-drop begins in streams around the state and then the salmon must again factor into the successful trout angler’s plans. At this time Alaska’s rainbows can travel many river miles in the hunt for food, kind of like underwater wolves scouring the tundra for prey. Angler’s must find the salmon, which typically isn’t very hard given the nature of spawning morphology, and then locate the current corridors where free-drifting eggs will travel. All that’s left is to present realistic egg imitations to ravenous rainbow trout.
Later, as autumn matures, days get shorter and termination dust settles atop most Alaska mountains. Another change occurs as well, this one beneath the surface of the state’s many productive streams. On the banks and in the water of these once busy rivers the decaying remnants of thousands of salmon carcasses breathes new life into the food chain. Flesh from these rotting carcasses will provide high calorie nutrition for insects, birds and plant life. Trout will start to feed heavily on decaying flesh and the now washed-out eggs as they float by. Normal fishing will dictate that the early fly colors be oranges and reds, which resemble newer flesh. Pinks, tans and whites should be used later in the season, as washed-out or bleached flesh is common when the tissue becomes thoroughly oxidized. These latter colors are normally fished from late September until freeze-up, when people like me start to fidget with worry that another trout season will never come.
MONTHS BEFORE IT’S TIME TO FRET over last light, last casts and all the projects neglected over the summer, I clambered from my cabin at Grosvenor Lodge with a cheerier persona than is usual for me and mornings. The reason: an upcoming jetboat ride to American Creek.
If bears, solitude, and rugged country are the quest, not to mention strong numbers of wild rainbow trout, then American Creek is one of southwest Alaska’s best bets. Issuing from Hammersly Lake to the northeast of Naknek Lake, the stream rushes and sometimes rages about 40 miles to Lake Coville. It’s still part of the overall Naknek system, but these fish exhibit few of the steelhead-like tendencies of fish from the big river, and they look nothing alike. The American Creek trout are boldly hued fish, heavily speckled with sides of copper to gold and typically, a brilliant crimson flank. They’re nowhere near as large as Naknek fish on average, but the fishing is different, too. Whether in the braids or the lower river, this is more of a small stream setting, with anglers reading the water and fishing from run to run, pool to tailout. Sight-fishing is possible and even prevalent in the spring and summer, when dry flies and traditional nymphs are also a big hit. Once hooked, a major challenge for American Creek anglers is managing their fish in the tight confines and among the stream’s many snags, which is very different than on the Naknek, where fish can run unimpeded for hundreds of yards. In other words, in this setting, Alaska returns trout fishing to its more intimate roots.
The day began at the neck of the braids, where we disembarked, packed up and headed for skinnier river. After bushwhacking a mile or so into the labyrinthine system of willow and water, I chose a size 12 double mayfly pattern and started looking for trout. Spotting several decent shadows beneath a cover of overhanging willows —and one that looked like a Los Angeles-class submarine—I somehow manufactured the requisite sidearm delivery to drop the fly within inches of the appropriate snout. Within an instant the biggest of the fish had smacked the fly, I’d set the hook and my tippet had snapped on one of the hundred obstructions handy in this part of the creek. It was the just the start of the one of the most challenging, and ultimately rewarding, days of trout fishing in my life.
Not every day on the water is like that, of course, even on American Creek, where almost regardless of the season the trout fishing can reach the spectacular. In the river’s upper stretches, the rainbows are generally smaller, rarely going over 20 inches, but the area does present the best potential for dry-fly fishing. Hammersly Lake also sends sockeye fry swimming for Coville Lake early in the spring, and trout anglers with impeccable timing can find the action furious. In the fall, the creek probably fishes better than it does at any other time of year, particularly in the pools and tailouts of its middle and lower sections, where beefier ’bows will be gorging on sockeye eggs and flesh. However, later in the season, when down and dirty is more the order of the day, I tend to gravitate toward larger rivers, where the trophy fish may be more difficult to find but where the compensation for some showing of skill and simple persistence can be profound.
THE RAINBOW TROUT OF ALASKA are migratory, that much has been settled. In the sparkling, sapphire-blue Kanektok River flowing off the edge of the Ahklun Mountains, resident rainbows cruise through all kinds of habitat, from small feeder streams and offshoots trickling away from the mainstem to deep, power-water runs that require long casts and heavy sink-rates. Knowing where they should be at a particular time of year isn’t too tough—the best trout water on the river seems to be from Klak Creek down, along the braided middle and lower sections. Trophy trout are harder to come by, however, and finding them is another thing altogether.
Big-trout-day on the Kanektok for me starts with the mental preparation first. There are good numbers of fish in the river, upstream from my location primarily, but hunting for trophies means the lower river; it means more casts, trickier drifts and fewer fish. It’s early August, and though a monster silver run is peaking, this is a time for precise, targeted bead presentations, and for patience.
We set off as early as possible and first descend upon a traditional run: thelong gravel bar, a feeder current melding into a long inside seam, steady riffles extending well into the distance. Half a dozen casts result in nearly as many fish, none of which push 24 inches. Everything changes with the next—a brilliant six- or seven-pounder that looked like a meteor had left flame-tracks down its sides. As in American Creek, these are Alaska’s much-celebrated leopard rainbows, and from that moment on we were on the move in the search for more, and even larger, versions.
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, we drifted down the mainstem, casting unwieldy split-shot and indicator setups, looking to bring the bigger ’bows up from their hiding places among the root wads and tangled deadfall. Occasionally successful, and sporting photos of several very decent fish as a result of our efforts, we finally arrived at the bottom end of the river, where the current was forceful and the runs started at a depth of at least six feet. Out came the Spey rods and the heaviest shooting heads, on went barbell-eyed articulated leeches and gone was any idea that this business of trout fishing was supposed to look pretty.
Ugly yielded three rainbows better than 28 inches and one runaway freight train that I never even got to see.
It’s days like this that remind me how special Alaska and its trout fisheries really are. The Kanektok isn’t exactly known for rainbows—certainly the Chinook runs grab the headlines here—but at the same time an angler in the mood can conjure up a day of fishing unlike those to be found just about anywhere else. Imagine, then, the fishing that one might encounter a month or so later in the year, in destinations known the world over—precisely for the quality of their rainbows.
One such piece of prime trouting real estate is the Iliamna region’s Lower Talarik Creek, where some of the most realistic and most frequent shots at landing a bona fide 30-incher exist. A truly remarkable place, its diminutive nature in no way suggestive of the quality of trout it regularly pumps out. My favorite of the fisheries at this time of year, however, lies another twenty to thirty minutes by floatplane away.
When talking fishing in Katmai National Park & Preserve, which encompasses over four million acres of wilderness, the most difficult decision may be where to begin. Unless, like me, one’s already been to Moraine Creek.
Moraine Creek is a classic piece of Alaska trout water, with nice riffles and pools that hold big fish scattered throughout. This used to be one of the Last Frontier’s most closely held trophy trout secrets, but the word has long gotten out and now the lodge crowd descends on the stream in force. The fishing picks up in July, when squadrons of sockeye move through Kukaklek Lake and distribute themselves along Moraine’s spawning gravel. The rainbows traveling with them can be fished with streamers and other traditional trout patterns for a few weeks, until the eggs begin to drop and the feeding frenzy begins. By mid-August, Moraine Creek is usually an egg-only affair, at least until later in the fall when the salmon begin to die off in numbers. Nearly identical angling circumstances exist in Funnel Creek, the primary tributary to Moraine. Both also share another trait—lots of salmon-munching bruins, enough that the pair of streams stands out as favored grizzly locales even among the other bear-infested streams of Katmai.
THE FLY ANGLER’S CAST is a hopeful construction. You want to get it right, the hard stops, a tight loop, full turnover. You’re also hopeful for what the right cast can deliver. That’s true nowhere more than here.
This was October in southwest Alaska. The trees and tundra had swapped summer green for the polychromatic brocade of fall; autumn rains were swelling the rivers to unrecognizable levels and the bears were out in force. The spawn was complete, the season’s salmon dead or dying, and Alaska’s trout, treasures by any standard, were nearing their finest form, happy and fat and eager for more. I was fishing the Naknek River, three hundred miles from Anchorage and even further from the details of existing within a modern life. That made me feel comfortable.
The Naknek River drains the colossal, emerald-colored lake of the same name, which also happens to be one of the world’s most significant rearing grounds for juvenile sockeye salmon. As a result, it regularly pumps out trout of gargantuan size. In the spring these rainbows travel from the lake to spawn in the river’s upper ten miles, and then move back to feed. A percentage of the fish reenter the river with the smolt out-migration in early to mid-June before retreating yet again for a summer of chasing down the high-protein fodder found in the lake. They eventually return to moving water in the fall, when their preferred forage, loose eggs and the flesh of deteriorating salmon carcasses, is in high supply.
It was prime time; I had all the right lines, the right flies, two Spey rods and a quiver of single-handers, but after the first couple of days I’d brought in nothing that was destined for a photograph on the wall. Still, I continued to cast.
This being the Naknek, I’d chosen my largest pattern and had started lobbing for all I was worth. Even under perfect conditions, the river requires something close to heroics from the fly caster. Naknek flies are universally heavy and the compulsory sinking lines aren’t exactly designed with elegance in mind. The distances routinely required trend towards the ridiculous, obliging one to either utilize a Spey rod or acquire outlandish proficiency with a single-hander. The other option is to simply not catch many fish.
Here the river also requires faith, and a life jacket. In the stretch I was fishing—somewhere above Rapids Camp but below the lake outlet—the Naknek is comprised of a soft, pea-gravel bottom that the flows have organized into a series of shelves and troughs stretching from bank to bank. Most anglers wade to their waist, work the first trough and then head for another gravel bar. Through experience I’ve learned to fish that first trough and then bundle up, bob through and pop up on the next rising shelf. In this manner it’s possible to work runs four or five times removed from the bank, and catch fish that are left unbothered by the majority of Naknek anglers. But it’s not easy, and at times it doesn’t even feel safe. Landing fish in chest-deep water a hundred yards from shore can be tricky, and then there’s always the question of the existence of a next shelf. You never really know if it’s going to be there or not; rather you just take another step and hope. Or you catch fewer fish.
On the Naknek, I tend to go with the former.
Only feeling like I was in danger of washing away a handful of times, I cast until my legs were numb, my hands spongy from exposure to the rain, my gear soaked through.
Cast, retrieve—swap flies—cast again.
When it got to the point I felt like I couldn’t go on, I’d cast again. There were only a few hours left until I was needed at the airport for a flight back to Anchorage, and thus far this trip hadn’t produced anything approaching a signature Naknek trout. Again, it was just like being a kid—late for dinner, probably starting to cause concern for the folks back home, but damn it, just one more cast.
Then, just before departure time became a reality, my swing was interrupted by a shocking take, the grab as hard as an anvil. For a moment I was riveted with exhilaration, knowing this trout could be of any size imaginable. This was not Moraine or American creeks, the Big Ku or Kanektok, and no matter those streams’ superlatives, the distinction was clear.
The fish, of course, was a Naknek trout: wild and perfect. Huge, too, I hoped as I set the hook.
Troy Letherman is the editor of Fish Alaska magazine. [/emember_protected] [emember_protected scope=”not_logged_in_users_only”]
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