by Terry Sheely
“We’ve got some of the best red and silver fisheries anywhere, and the trout fishing is outstanding. Once people get past missing the kings they’ll discover that this river is filled with alternative fish.”
-Mark Glassmaker, guide.
The Kenai River flows west from dripping crevasses in the crags and mountain steeples above Kenai Lake, a heavy current rolling 82 miles down the Kenai Peninsula flush with turquoise snowmelt running to saltwater and controversy.
It is a powerful anadromous arterial, broad enough to intimidate newcomers, and a rare river carrying the genes of giants; an international celebrity flagged in sport-fishing superlatives. It gave us the 97-pound, 4-ounce Anderson world-record Chinook and for decades filled glass show cages and flat walls with taxidermied 70- and 80-pounders, built bootstrap entrepreneurs into upscale businessmen, carpeted the best king runs with unbelievably expensive boats sprouting $400 high-tech rods that were bought with high expectations. The river’s native kings have created traffic jams, parking lot chaos, crowds of lucrative tourism from Cooper Landing to Cook Inlet and evidence that sport fishing is a heavyweight economic factor in Alaska. [emember_protected custom_msg=’This content is available for subscribers only.’]
And then came the skid.
Seventy-pound trophies were replaced with 60s, then 50s, and now anglers settle for 40-pound brags; natal runs falling to annual lows that have become tragic patterns pushing ADF&G to publicly worry that too few spawners are surviving, and field agents privately acknowledging that top-end management reforms are needed to stop this wondrous gene pool short of depletion. King seasons are opened based mostly on hopeful optimism then slammed closed in crisis emergency. Fishing dates are written on calendars in erasable pencil, dream vacations cancel and crumble, guides live a nightmare of rescheduling for once-in-a-lifetime hopefuls, the new buzz phrase is “catch-and-release,” blame is shotgunned in all directions and ADF&G is pleasing no one.
And something just slammed my back-drifted flesh fly, slammed and spit before the hook went home. Judging by the speed and quick pull it was a good trout; black pepper spotted, faint rainbow stripe, with a wipe of painted-lady-pink on the gill plate. A trout like the others we’ve been catching, a trout that some are saying holds, at least partially, the sport-fishing destiny of Alaska’s most popular salmon river.
Neither nature nor sport fishermen will long suffer a vacuum and when the fish of choice is no longer viable an alternative option will be found. In this case, the steady plunge of big king numbers, confusing management, emergency uncertainties and collective hand-wringing is giving rise to new, more dependable sport-fishing directions. For many Kenai fishermen catch-and-release is now the byword for native kings; anglers now dream of bragging trout and tables and smokers are packed—not with slabs of giant kings, but with prime fillets of Kenai reds and silvers.
The question now is can the big river flourish on a sport-fishing menu of alternative red, silver and rainbow options until, as anglers hope and history indicates, the imperiled king runs rebound, genetics win out, agency politics, Juneau interference, biased blame, and emotional feel-good finally take a back seat to biology, conservation and creative, resource-targeted management?
Can the big river regain its sport-fishing throne—absent its kings?
Yes, say a growing number of Kenai old timers. “The Kenai is far more than just a king salmon river and recent years have affirmed that to both me and my business,” says Mark Glassmaker, who has been fishing and guiding on the Kenai since the 90s.
On a misty day last summer I arrived in Soldotna to fish with Mark and rod-test his “other” Kenai agenda.
“Trout on the Kenai are definitely a lot larger on average than trout found in the Lower 48 and even elsewhere in Alaska,” he explained. “The tremendous amount of food available, as well as the diverse amount of habitat, makes the watershed ideal rainbow trout country and fish beyond 30 inches are not at all uncommon.”
He reinforces his alternative fish argument by adding, “Dolly Varden are also abundant in this river and while we rarely see Dollies as large as the big rainbows they’ll still go well over 10 pounds,” Glassmaker says. Add the fact that reds and silver arrive in multiple nicely-spaced runs in waves that crash upriver and, he says with confidence, “It’s very much a world-class destination fishery—with or without our kings.”
Soldotna’s Greg Brush is another Kenai guide working both ends of the stick—fighting to recover kings while targeting the river’s alternative diversity.
With a quarter-century of guiding behind him as EZ Limit Guide Service, Brush is vitriolic in his condemnation of Chinook management on the Kenai, resolute in efforts to “change our mindset to where a wild Kenai king is treated like the special, genetically unique fish that it is,” while demanding “accountability and change from our managers.”
“I see ADF&G management taking us full-speed ahead into a brick wall,” he told me, adding that without state accountability “this king fishery will continue to decline and will never be what it once was.”
And while goading the department toward recovering the Kenai’s unique run of wild kings, he, like Mark Glassmaker and other sport fishermen, is realistic in revising the way he looks at the Kenai fishery, and changing SOP business to models that emphasize catch-and-release king clients, remarketing the river as a booming destination for local and traveling anglers who covet light-tackle action on big rainbows and nasty Dollies and who prefer slabs of sockeye and silvers for table dressings.
“Our August and September silver fishery is our busiest (season) of the year,” Brush points out, adding that the fall wild rainbow action is, “world-class and hugely successful due to almost total catch-and-release.” It’s a view shared by Glassmaker and others.
Public acceptance of Kenai catch-and-release has surpassed even Brush’s optimistic expectations. “Plenty of conservation-minded anglers (are) willing to catch and release. This is the first year that EZ Limit has gone to catch-and-release for all Kenai kings and (we) had our best Kenai king bookings in many years.”
Glassmaker tells me he had similar experience.
“I think,” he says, “there are plenty of people who not only understand that our king returns are hurting and really did not come here just to catch or kill a big Kenai king. Most of my fishing guests just want to have fun, catch a lot of fish and hopefully take some (red or silver) meat home.
“Overall (2013) king salmon returns were similar to 2012 on the Kenai where both the early- and the late runs struggled to make minimum escapement numbers. But the sockeye runs were again very strong and with the unpredictability of the king salmon fishing, we very often opted to trade king fishing for a day of sockeye fishing, where we would be assured of much more action and had a great opportunity to take fish home. Landing a limit of sockeye is a very rewarding experience to be relived each time you go to the freezer for a fresh fillet. Additionally, the silver runs on the Kenai this fall were as good as we have seen them in many seasons,” Glassmaker said.
While struggling to recover wild king numbers and mourning what he describes as “our king salmon debacle” Brush agrees that new enthusiasm is running high for Kenai sport fishermen re-targeting to reds, silvers, Dollies and rainbows.
The days of living off Kenai kings alone is over, Brush believes.
“Any small business owner—mom-and-pop guide service, local tackle shop, restaurant, whatever—that doesn’t adapt and change their business model is doomed,” he warns. The same might be said for sport fishermen on the river.
It’s a position shared by Glassmaker, who with his wife Cindy operates a modern, log- and towering-window lodge on Keystone Drive near the end of East Redoubt Road, overlooking the Kenai. Their company, Alaska Fishing with Mark Glassmaker (www.mgfalaska.com) has also found high enthusiasm for catch-and-release kings and rainbows and Dollies, and anglers who look to the reds and silvers for table fillets. For more diversity Glassmaker has added connections from the lodge to fly-out Cook Inlet hotspots and halibut fishing. “We’ve got a one-stop lodge,” he says; “Whatever you want, you can do it from here.”
“There’s a lot more to the Kenai than just kings,” he believes; “we’ve got some of the best red and silver fisheries anywhere, and the trout fishing is outstanding. Once people get past missing the kings they’ll discover that this river is filled with alternative fish.”
One of those alternatives is ripping Leonard Lee a new attitude and before he gets the upper hand his son Brian makes it a double. Their spinning rods are bent in opposite directions but the lines are racing cross-stream on a tangle pattern. Both guys are grinning. Leonard came north from California to put a big Kenai king in his bucket list. Which he did, but he adds, “I didn’t realize when planning my trip that they were as scarce as they are. I understand Mark Glassmaker’s position/philosophy about the kings now.”
And as a non-resident angler, Leonard represents a big chunk of the critical Kenai Peninsula tourist industry, and I found his take on the king situation revealing.
“Kenai kings,” he said, “are what draw the tourists / fishermen to Alaska. It would be fine if everyone played by the same rules and released the kings like we do trout. But releasing a king without uniform rules in place will most likely mean that the next fisherman (who catches your released fish) will keep it. Personally, I doubt I’ll go after Kenai kings again unless and until the king escapement reaches high numbers.”
He wasn’t ready to say if the massive red and silver runs would be enough to replace kings on his adventure menu, but he grinned when his hot sockeye crashed across the surface on its way to the fish box and clapped when their electrifying father-son rainbow-double bounced into Mark’s awaiting net.
The morning started at the dead-end of Redoubt Road above Soldotna with Mark running upriver from the public launch. Leonard, Brian and I are hunkered down in the 18-foot Willie Boat, peeking into the half-light glare of almost dawn, eyes watering in the wind, heading for a slot under a steep bank where we beach the boat, spread out and synchronize the Kenai flip for reds. Mark tells me that between 850,000 and 1.3 million reds swamp the Kenai every year.
I just want three, I tell him.
“When the reds are in you wouldn’t believe this place,” Mark says. “Every good slot will be taken before 4 a.m., some at 2:30 a.m. But there’s plenty of fish. We have limited the boat in less than an hour many times. That’s when we go looking for Kenai diversity.”
Blue sky, bright sun and warmth is breaking out.
Another of Mark’s boats pulls up, anglers spread out along the bank, master the Kenai flip and with a hoot a young lady with long blond hair and a master’s touch puts the first red in the cooler.
We work the reds until the sun warms our bones, and Mark asks if we want to go trout fishing. We’re ready.
“My favorite section on the Kenai for both rainbows and Dolly Varden is the middle section, essentially anywhere from the Soldotna Bridge to Skilak Lake,” Mark tells us, and that’s where we set up. It’s also the most productive stretch for both guided and unguided trout anglers, according to stats compiled by ADF&G.
Mark positions the Willie bow upriver in a deep, sullen slot along a brushy bank. We’re rigged with spinning rods, one-ounce weights and a whitish yarn fly with a dab of egg orange near the head. We fan cast off the bow, hold the rod tips at eye level, concentrate on where the line cuts into the surface and rapidly back-bounce downriver at current speed.
We’re hunting, Mark explains. “These rainbows shift around in the river, moving up, down, and back and forth to feed. In mid- and late summer, when the salmon are spawning, these trout will gain several pounds in a month. They are fat!”
And strong. We back-bounce into squads of trout in the slicks behind rocks, downstream from islands, along the seams—in the usual trout places.
The rod tips vibrate. “Don’t set the hook. Those are rocks. Trout will hook themselves,” the guide says.
And they do.
We back-bounce each slot two and sometimes five times and then move downriver to another piece of good-looking water to do it again, catching and releasing rainbows and Dollies in every drift. An eagle dives on a hooked fish and misses. Brian points and laughs.
Our biggest ’bow is 6½ pounds, not a Kenai giant, but plenty of fish to fight in this current, and there was the Leonard and Brian father-and-son double on three-pounders that made everyone smile. “The lower river is where the biggest trout are,” Mark says. Evidence hangs in my cabin, a framed photo of Mark with a 20-pound Kenai rainbow. It’s not that old a photo.
The hours are mixed with big trout and decent Dollies and I land a solid but small Chinook that for a few minutes imitated a double-digit rainbow. On our gear—Lamiglas 9-foot, 6-inch light X96LX models rated for 6- to 10-pound-test line and ¼- to ½-ounce lures, these fish are a hoot.
My 6½-pounder hit hard and runs wild. Twice it shoots under the boat, swaps directions and we drift at least 200 yards on the quick Kenai current before Mark can sweep it into the rubber net. Beautiful fish. A little more color than the smaller trout. The yarn fly is stuck squarely in its jaw. The fish glares while Mark pops out the hook and it tail-splatters us on the release.
Diversity: hot trout, flashy Dollies, meaty reds and I am really wishing it was silver season.
Mark assures me later that my wish was on track and pointed out that I went home too early. Should have hung back for the silvers.
“The silver runs on the Kenai last fall were as good as we have seen them in many seasons,” he needles. “Both the early run and the late run were exceptionally strong with very large, hard-fighting silvers.”
I listen as he describes silver fishing while the snow flies, and mixing it up with the biggest trout of the season. There seems to be no downtime on this great river.
From May deep into October there are fish, big fish, and lots of fish, Mark tells me. ADF&G stats bear him out and with a quick glance at the calendar it’s easy to spot the species’ overlaps.
The river opens for rainbows in mid-June “and from then until deep into winter good fishing for rainbows can be found somewhere on the Kenai. Peak trout times include around the opener, late July and early August after all the fresh sockeye carcasses have accumulated, and then into the fall.”
First sockeye run—Russian River fish—arrive in mid- to late June and then the biggest run hits between July 10-25.
Silvers start to filter upriver in July but it’s not until the second week of August that they get past the nets and the river gets hot. Locals say the first silver peak is between August 15-25, and then the second—larger—run hits around September 10 and runs strong into winter.
Unlike the universal Kenai flip that sockeye seem to demand, silvers are not technique picky. Anchor up in a run and drown egg clusters, throw Pixee spoons and Vibrax spinners at eddies and side channels, or put out a K15 Kwikfish, MagLip or Hotshot and back-troll. There is no wrong way for silvers.
Probably the least publicized option on the alternative list is a run of pinks that surges into the Kenai in even-numbered years. But what they lack in size and quality they make up for in numbers that can be added to the “alternative” fish pool.
Mark is convinced that Kenai kings will come back. They always have before, he says. But this time, “It’s more critical than ever for users to understand the importance of conservation, if the legendary Kenai kings are to rebound—and I know they can. I am also aware that it is not going to happen in one or two seasons. It will take a combination of things to help the runs return.”
But, he assures, “The Kenai is far more than just a king salmon river” and the immediate future is being run on Dollies and ’bows, silvers and reds. “And we’ve got tons of them,” I’m told.
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Terry W. Sheely lives, writes and fishes from his home in Black Diamond, WA. He is a contributing editor for Fish Alaska magazine and more of his work can be found at www.tnscommunications.com or on our website. [/emember_protected] [emember_protected scope=”not_logged_in_users_only”]
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