Getting Sidetracked in Paradise
Story and photos by Andew Cremata
Under the canopy of the forest, the morning light was muted and dim. Spruce needles crunched underfoot and scents of fall permeated the still air. It was the smell of a salmon spawn in its final stage, a foul-sweet odor that came and went with no obvious means of conveyance. There were silhouettes among the trees, tall and narrow, yet they bore no leaves and were obviously carved by hand. One of the totems displayed the profile of a raven at its crown and a hint of color along its edge. [emember_protected custom_msg=’This content is available for subscribers only.’]
When the sun came up above the rim of the eastern mountains, the forest came alive with beams of white light. In those illuminated shafts appeared swarms of tiny insects rising upwards with the sudden heat. A ray of sunshine lit up a creature’s face on one of the carved totem poles. Its eyes were large and round, bearing a weathered turquoise pigment faded and worn with age. Farther along there was the sound of birds, then splashing where a clearing in the woods revealed a stream thick with fish and lined with gulls feeding along its banks.
I had my fishing rod and a few lures that would surely be up to the task at hand. Yet a hundred feet ahead through the woods another totem stood conspicuously in an otherwise barren clearing. It was painted with wild reds, blues and black, and the whole scene was bright and inviting. I figured the fish could wait for a few minutes more, while I allowed myself to get a little sidetracked. After all, isn’t that what wandering is all about?
And wandering is what my visit to Sitka was all about – to continue this series dedicated to exploring southeast Alaska’s communities and finding fish with little to no advance knowledge of the area. The ultimate purpose of the series is to aid the independent traveler, who might be visiting for a day via cruise ship or coming though for a longer stay by plane, in finding the premier and most easily accessible fishing hotspots. The secondary purpose, and the one I’m most fond of, is that I get to go to an awesome new place and hopefully catch some big fish.
I had never been to Sitka, but almost everyone I spoke with beforehand said it was one of the most beautiful locales in all of Southeast. Everyone also said the fishing was incredible, but when I asked them where they went fishing it was always from a boat, trolling or fishing bottom. I resisted the urge to seek out information online so as to retain the element of surprise and see if I could rely on local kindness and my own limited knowledge to guide me toward the action.
What I found in Sitka was some southeast Alaska perfection – great weather, great people, incredible food, and some amazing fishing. I also found it was easy to get sidetracked by the many things the community has to offer. It was the same at Sitka’s National Historic Park, where my desire to take a closer look at the totem pole down the path lured me away from the fish noisily running upstream. That calm morning wandering in Totem Park was actually my second morning in Sitka; what happened the previous morning was nothing but pure, adrenaline inducing, non-stop action.
Winning Silver
I suppose I should thank the guy at the rental car agency and the fellow at the tackle shop. They were the first two Sitka locals I asked about area fishing spots on that gorgeous mid-September, Saturday morning. I was worried about planning the trip so late in the year, but record high temperatures were forecast for the entire region, and from Skagway to Ketchikan everyone was whispering the words, “Indian summer.”
Both of those local gentlemen told me of three hot spots I could try for fish, but each said that the lack of rain was keeping the water level of the streams low, so fishing could prove difficult. I sat on the deck of the aptly named “Fly-In Fish Inn,” where I had an immaculately kept and spacious room overlooking Sitka Channel. Before heading out for the day, two large male sea lions came right up to the floating dock and kept me company before going about their business.
I spent the first hour of my morning utilizing the information I received to formulate a plan. Even though Sitka has only 15 miles of roadway, the three recommended fishing spots were evenly spaced along the road, so I figured I would start on one end and work my way to the other. But from which direction would it be best to start?
I was able to scientifically deduce, through years of experience, that the quarter I tossed chose to land on “heads.” This result meant I would be heading north to a place on my map called Starrigavan Campground. There was a scribbled pen mark there that the rental car man had made, so I hopped in my two-day Hyundai and headed out.
My wandering adventures are always filled with hopeful anticipation and dread. I love looking for new fishing spots in a foreign place, and I get this excited feeling in the pit of my stomach just like I did when I was a kid the night before a big fishing trip with my dad. However, I also have this nagging fear of getting skunked and then having to figure out how to write an article based on abject personal failure.
With these thoughts rolling around in my head, I parked in the campground and headed straight for a trailhead that would lead to the spot marked on my map. In my path was suddenly a sign that read “Warning,” followed by an explanation that the trail was closed due to excessive bear activity.
I was a little deflated. I decided to gut it out and fish the shoreline that was not closed off, just to see if I could maybe change my luck. With my fishing rig, some spare leader, a few lures and my camera, I made a straight line toward the beach and started to walk its length looking for fish.
I made a few casts along the way, but I was trying to save my energy for when I actually saw fish. I was working toward a spot back on the main road where a bridge crossed over Starrigavan Creek. In that direction were hints of activity, like jumping fish and patrolling birds. When I reached the bridge I walked up onto the road and back down the other side. The heat of day was already settling in and I could feel a bead of sweat trickling down my spine.
The wide outlet of water narrowed and meandered toward jagged mountain peaks in the distance. Tall brown and green grasses bordered the creek where a half-dozen blue herons fished along its banks. It appeared as though the tide was just starting to move out, but otherwise the scene was still and peaceful. Casting blind into a bright glare where the freshwater mingled with the salt, I hurled my orange neon Vibrax as far I could. It plopped gently on the surface. I turned the handle of the reel twice to start the action on the lure.
Have you ever been fishing, and because in the back of your mind you are resigned to the fact it is unlikely you will actually get a bite, your conscious brain is zoned out and nowhere near focused on the task at hand? If you have, then you know this is invariably the time you will get a strike. Often this leads to a missed opportunity and renewed focus. My dad used to say, “They caught you napping!”
Well, I was definitely napping. I was watching the blue herons fly back and forth along the shore. I was enjoying the rare September heat and contemplating a cold beer at the end of the day. I was perfectly content and relaxed and unconcerned with anything that couldpossibly . . .
There wasn’t even time to set the hook. The fish must have been moving at full speed when it took the lure because the rod just bent into a distended arc causing my hand to instinctively tighten its grip on the handle. Eight-pound line went screaming and the fish rocketed above the surface in a fierce display of power and will. I could see the color when it jumped and the hue was coho silver. Not only that, this fish was big.
The silver salmon was raw power and I knew I would have my work cut out for me if the fish decided to run out to sea. When it turned in my direction I reeled furiously until I could put opposite pressure on her in hopes she would turn away from the inlet. The ploy was successful, but the fish made another turn and ran just below my position in the deeper water of the channel. When it did, it was only a few feet away and I could tell I had a monster on my hands.
The coho used every weapon in its arsenal – wild leaps, thrashing turns, deep runs, and lightning fast speed. I was resigned to the fact the fight was going to take a while, so I remained patient and kept tension on the fish. When the fish started to acquiesce to her dilemma, I began planning her release.
For the purpose of these Wandering articles I feel it is necessary to get some photos to go along with the story. Not only is it a hassle to carry a bulky camera everywhere I fish, there is always the problem of trying to take a self portrait along with a subject that has no desire to have its picture taken. I also want to get the shot quickly and return the fish to the water to revive it and send it on its way, healthy and strong enough to fight another day. With this in mind I situated the camera between two rocks where I could press the button that would allow me ten seconds until the photo was taken. I figured it was a flawless plan.
When I got my first close-up look at the salmon I immediately put it around 16 pounds – a whopper of a silver by any standards. It was bright and fresh and normally would have been in my cooler within seconds, but my need to travel light made this a very lucky day for one silver salmon. I set my rod down and reached into the water to grab the coho, causing it to go completely nuts, turn, and make another run toward the deeper water. I grabbed my rod in an instant before it was swept away. Lesson learned.
On the second attempt it splashed a great deal of brackish water on me, my gear, and my camera. The lens was covered with water droplets, but on the third attempt I was able to press the button, hoist the fish up, and capture a fond memory. Actually, my memory is nowhere near as crooked as the photo, and has no unsightly water droplet marks, but the picture would have to suffice. You never know if the bite is going to stay on, especially when the first fish takes you twenty minutes to catch, photograph, and release.
I wasn’t worried though, I figured the first spot of the day was already a success. I checked the leader for nicks and made my second cast into the scenic inlet.
It is entirely possible the coho saw the lure coming and timed his jump to take the lure in the air like some trained golden retriever–because that’s what I could swear I saw. The commotion sent fish splashing in every direction, away from the one with the hook in its mouth.
This was more of the same–another long fight that one could classify as textbook coho. My wrist was starting to ache by the time this fish came in, but the photo-taking process went much smoother even though the silver was a 17-pound male and the biggest I would catch during the entire trip.
It was however not the last. The next two casts resulted in two more coho, a 12- and a 14-pound fish that fought just as hard as their bigger brethren. There was a lull when the action slowed for twenty minutes, but then it kicked back into high gear. Eventually I stopped taking pictures of the fish, but in all I caught 12 nice coho – not a bad first morningin Sitka.
The lightning-fast action kept me at Starrigavan Creek longer than I had planned. You could say I got sidetracked by the incredible fishing. I decided to skip the spot in the middle of the map and wander to the south end of Sitka toward Herring Cove. The terrain changes dramatically on that short drive from the ocean inlet at Starrigavan, through town, and then into a dramatic landscape where steep mountains rise from the ocean and Mt. Edgecumbe looms on the horizon. Humpback whales blew in the distance at the aptly named Whale Pass. When I reached the end of the road I doubled back and found a turnoff at the mouth of a stream bustling with fish and shore birds.
I hiked down a wooded trail from the road and then climbed down a trickling waterfall until I was standing on a rocky beach covered with pink and chum salmon carcasses. With the thought of bears in the back of my mind I caught two relatively fresh pinks, but it was a bit of a letdown after catching silvers all morning. I heard rustling behind me and immediately thought, “Bear!” I turned to see a marten scrambling down the same path I had taken. When just a few feet away, he turned and saw me, gave me an incredulous and confused stare and then turned around and went back into the woods. It seemed like the right idea and I was quickly on his heels.
A few hours later I watched the sunset and the sea lions from the patio deck of the Fly-In Fish Inn while sipping on a beer. My plan for the following day had changed. I would hit the last of the fishing spots along the road in the morning while taking in some of the less fishy sights in Sitka. In the afternoon, I was planning something special.
The man at the tackle store told me I was missing out by fishing only in the spots accessible by road. He informed me that much of what makes Sitka unique is the stuff that isn’t plainly visible, but still easily accessible. He said, “You should really get out on a boat or floatplane while you’re here and check out one of the remote streams.”
This seemed like good advice, so to get a true local’s taste of Sitka-style fishing I phoned Tad Kisaka, professional guide and owner of Classic Casting Adventures. We made arrangements to meet the next day a little after noon. As the sky lit up with an orange and ochre glow, the warmth of the day faded and I headed in to rest up for the following day’s excitement.
Going Off-Trail
After getting sidetracked in Totem Park, I did end up heading away from the trail, wandering the shoreline and casting toward schools of fish. From the looks of things the run was nearing its end, but had I persevered I’m sure I could have gotten into some nice fish. The smell had limited my patience and there were still some things I wanted to see around Sitka, so I left and spent some time checking out the downtown area and other highlights along the road.
Sitka is just plain beautiful. The unusual weather didn’t hurt, but I can’t imagine Sitka ever being otherwise. Eager to meet up with Tad, I grabbed some snacks and headed to the docks near the ferry terminal.
Like everyone else I met in Sitka, Tad loves his Alaska home and feels equally enamored with his chosen profession. It’s easy to see why. The boat ride took us though sheltered coves and rocky islands before we came to the mouth of a wide stream. The fish were visible as we approached, and Tad brought the boat to shore where we began our short trek to the stream. The salmon were thick and occasionally brushed by my leg as we waded to spots with good angles on the fish.
The first couple of salmon were large pinks in the 8-pound range. It quickly became apparent that all of the pinks were large, and there were a lot of them. We spotted chums and the occasional silver but the pinks were too eager to take our offerings, leaving no realistic way to target the others.
Tad worked in front of me upstream casting his fly with precision while I followed with my Vibrax – if it works, whychange it? We leapfrogged targeting schools of fish along the way, but every fish we managed to hook up turned out to be a pink. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but when you can pick the silvers out from the loose groupings of salmon packed like sardines throughout the entire stream, it whets your appetite for some down-and-dirty action.
We followed a bend in the stream to a deeper pool where so many fish were schooling there was no way to tell one from the other. The entire area was black with salmon, and the mountains that framed the scene made it one incredible place to fish. The sun was hot on my face as I cast into the deep pools and slow-jigged my spinner so as not to snag fish. I released my third big male humpy when Tad’s reel sang a song of speed and the water just upstream from the pool erupted in a fury.
I got out of the way and snapped some shots of Tad playing his shimmering coho. The fish made multiple determined runs, and just as Tad was reaching out to hoist the fish for a photo the hook came free. Within a split second that feisty silver was just another member of the teeming masses.
Tad was all smiles and was casting again within moments. I got into yet another big pink and while I wrestled with it Tad moved upstream over a large fallen tree to the next pool. While I played my salmon I heard a splash in Tad’s direction. Then another. By the time I released the pink I heard Tad yell, “Andrew, you gotta come over here!”
I managed to haul myself up and over the tree. Tad already had on a sleek silver and announced, “This is the third one I’ve had on already.” That was enough for me. I cast toward the top of a ripple and let it fall back into a deeper pool where more fish waited. I began to reel and when the spinner emerged from the fray one lone fish was in pursuit. There was no doubt it was a coho that had just moved in from the saltwater. It sped toward the lure and grabbed it with one quick surge. I set the hook and watched the fish swing straight up and rocket into the warm afternoon air, reaching its apex in the light of the sun, violently shaking while it fell.
Tad and I managed to keep our catches apart with some deft maneuvering along the bank. Tad landed his coho first and was casting again by the time mine started to tire. We got into the groove from that point on. I managed to get a chum, a coho, and a pink salmon all in the span of about ten minutes. That’s some good fishing. It is also a fine taste of real Sitka fishing, local’s style.
While working on the Wandering stories I almost always fish solo, so it was a nice change to fish alongside someone who was just plain fun to hang out with and who truly knows his stuff.
On the ride back to town we stopped and watched a sea lion violently attacking chum salmon and shredding them into pieces. The sea lion would emerge with a chum in its mouth and then thrash its head sideways with enough raw power to rip the chum in half. As one half of the chum soared skyward in an uproar of saltwater, foam, and blood, the sea lion would crush the other half in its jaws before sinking back into the waves. It occurred to me that in Sitka there are plenty of fish to go around.
More Where that Came From
Sitka is one of those unique places that seems to stand alone, even when considered regionally. Southeast Alaska is a world unto itself with infinite variety among its many towns and communities. Sitka seems to transcend even that, and it’s easy to see why some consider it the brightest jewel amidst many in Southeast.
One of the best indicators of how much you like a place is to gauge how strong your desire is to return. While I allowed myself to get sidetracked on more than one occasion, there are still plenty of things to see and do in Sitka that will have to wait until next time. When I think about all the places I didn’t get to fish, the urge to return is strong. Along that short stretch of road there are numerous streams, shorelines, and trails to hidden lakes that would keep anyone busy for years while attempting to fish them all.
Considering how good the fishing was at all of the obvious spots, I can only imagine what lies in wait for the intrepid angler willing to do a little Sitka wandering of his own.
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Andrew Cremata is a contributing editor for Fish Alaska magazine. His next article in the ‘Wandering’ series is set in Haines and will be published later this year. [/emember_protected] [emember_protected scope=”not_logged_in_users_only”]
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