Enjoy And Savor The Sacrifices On Memorial Day With A Father-Son Alaska Adventure
We hope your Memorial Day holiday is fun but also meaningful for the ultimate sacrifices that have been made for our country. This story is from our May issue, with our Scott Haugen celebrating part one of a father-son adventure on Prince of Wales Island:
BY SCOTT HAUGEN
FIRST OF TWO PARTS
Editor’s note: Scott Haugen has lived in some unique parts of Alaska, and traveled to many others. But this trip with his father was one of the most memorable of his life!
The lush, grassy knoll overlooking Klawock Harbor was soft beneath my feet. The midday sky shined cobalt blue. It was warm on this August day. My mind was sent adrift while admiring the many permanent fixtures in Totem Park. Then the silence was broken by a sound that’s very familiar to those who’ve spent any time in Alaska: basketballs bouncing on a hardwood floor. The sounds took my mind even further astray.
At the bottom of the hill sat Klawock School. The metal doors to the gym were open. Motioning my 84-year-old father, Jerry Haugen, to join me, we strolled down the hill, admiring more totem poles along the way.
Hanging from the ceiling inside the gym were numerous regional and state championship banners, including the girls basketball state title from the 1995-96 season. That’s the year they beat Anaktuvuk Pass in a nationally televised game played in Anchorage. I was the coach of the second-place team. For four years I lived, taught school and coached basketball in Anaktuvuk Pass.
Two high school boys approached Dad and I as we stood at center court and gazed up at the banners. “Whatchya guys doing?” one kindly asked. Pointing to the banner that marked our runner-up finish, I asked the young man about it. “Yes, sir; my mom played on that team,” he smiled.
I introduced myself. We talked basketball, family, fishing and hunting. That’s the normal conversation in just about every village in Alaska, even the most remote ones, and in that order; basketball takes top billing.
The unexpected visit brought back many memories. For Dad, it ignited a spark. You see, he was a biology teacher for over 30 years at a big high school in Oregon, Thurston High in Springfield, which shared the same black and red colors as Klawock. Dad was the head basketball coach for many years at Thurston. He was my biology teacher and I played point guard for him. Dad was also my football and golf coach.
Since my formative years in Oregon, Dad and I have shared many wonderful times fishing and hunting in Alaska since the early 1990s. This was the perfect beginning to our weeklong adventure on Prince of Wales Island.
THIS WAS MY DAD’S first time on Prince of Wales Island. It was my third. I first set foot on the island in 2008 on a combination spring bear hunt and fishing trip. We filmed that adventure for a TV show I hosted at the time on the Outdoor Channel.
After hanging up my teaching hat with the North Slope Borough School District in the late 1990s, I landed a job as a TV host and full-time outdoors writer. Those jobs found me hunting and fishing around the world, including many places in Alaska I otherwise would have never seen. I’ve been blessed to see so much of this great state and meet some wonderful people along the way. I gave up my TV career in 2018. Freelance writing and wildlife photography are how I still make my living, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
I was excited to be back on the island. Dad and I were invited to spend a week fishing with a former student and athlete of his, Duane Leavitt. Leavitt graduated from Thurston High School in the late 1970s before I was a student there. But IknewLeavittbecauseIwastheteam’s ball boy then. Leavitt was a gifted, hard-working athlete – someone I looked up to. He also loved to hunt and fish.
Following a successful business career, Leavitt sold his company and fulfilled a lifelong dream of moving to Alaska. Given the climate, the long fishing seasons and the endless waters to explore, he laid claim to Klawock as the place to be. Leavitt bought a chunk of ground with some cabins and a place to dock boats and dubbed it Stryker Bay Adventures. It’s a small operation mostly catering to friends and family. He prefers it that way.
Leavitt doesn’t skimp on boats or gear. In fact, a while back he bought a rod company, changed the name to Stryker Rods, developed and redesigned several lines, and then sold that company. His boat is deluxe, a North River SL 29-footer with twin 300 Yamahas that get you places fast. We’d get to experience that ourselves.
THE FIRST MORNING FOUND us marking scores of salmon in the archipelago’s waters. Unfortunately, the football-field-sized school of herring made it tough to compete with. We managed one coho on a plug-cut herring, then changed things up. While Leavitt tied on a trolling spinner, Dad and I went with a Spin-N-Fish 3.0.
Before Dad could get his line out, a feisty coho hammered a glitter pink white belly Spin-N-Fish tipped with a pink skirt. Then my plug in mother of pearl glo belly went down. I lost the fish, but just as quickly, another salmon grabbed it. Dad landed another one and it looked like we were going to be catching limits right there. Then the bite came to a screeching halt. Three hours and four spots later, we finally put another coho in the boat.
“I’ve never seen so many baitfish,” Leavitt noted. “They’re everywhere this summer!”
Eager for a change of pace, we put the salmon rods away. Dad and I started cutting bait while Leavitt headed the boat into the middle of a nearby bay. “There’s a point out here where the lingcod hang out,” he shouted from the captain’s chair. “With the tide swing, we should be hitting it just about right.”
My father’s a river guy. He occasionally fished the ocean over the decades in Oregon, but only if there were no salmon in the rivers. Upper tributaries are Dad’s first love of fishing (mine too). But for him, trolling in the bays for salmon is a close second. During all the years he’s fished with me in Alaska, never had we targeted bottomfish. He was excited to try something new.
And in less than an hour, Dad landed six species of bottomfish, including a lingcod, a small halibut and a mix of rockfish. He loved the variety and not knowing what was on the other end of the line.
THE NEXT MORNING, WE headed to another bay. Dad and I were supposed to be baiting shrimp pots, but that responsibility didn’t last long. “Just enjoy the ride, Coach; we’re in no hurry,” said a smiling Leavitt.
The ocean was calm, the skies clear. Sea otters frolicked in kelp beds near rocky shores. The white heads of bald eagles shined against the backdrop of green trees in the morning light. Spouting whales could be seen across the horizon line. It was a beautiful morning for a boat ride.
“I wonder if there are any deer up there,” Dad said, pointing to a grassy peak high above the coniferous forest. “Oh yeah; they’re up there, Coach, but getting to them is another story,” Leavitt quipped.
Our captain then killed the motor over the shrimp hole. Together, we baited pots as the sounds of whistling eagles and squawking gulls resonated across the bay. There was no sense of urgency.
“Wanna head south, see if we can find some black bass?” Leavitt asked once the last pot was in position. Dad was quick to reply. Again, this was a new species for him to try for. The prospects got him excited all over again.
Dad loved flipping plastic baits on light gear into massive schools of hungry sea bass, as rockfish are also known. He got especially excited when the fish followed his bait to the surface, then attacked as he swam it in a figure-eight motion. I love eating bass, even over other prized bottomfish. We had plenty of clean, white fillets to take home.
We also trolled for salmon and jigged for halibut. It was a slow day, but it didn’t matter. “When are we going to check the shrimp pots?” Dad asked Duane. “Anytime you’re ready,” he winked. Dad started putting rods away, his sign he was ready.
MY FATHER LOVES CRABBING back home and can’t get enough of delicious Dungeness on the table. But this was his first shrimping experience, known as prawns to many folks.
Dad quickly caught on to coiling the rope as it rolled off the davit’s wheel. When the retrieve slowed, we were like kids, hanging over the side of the boat, eager to see what the pots held. We enjoyed fresh spot prawns for dinner that night. Two more days of prawn action, two more nights of feasting like royalty. Dad was in heaven. And we were only part of the way through this magnificent journey. ASJ
Editor’s note: Look for part two of this ad in the June issue. For signed copies of Scott Haugen’s best-selling book, Hunting The Alaskan High Arctic, visit scotthaugen.com.
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