Performing Salmon Feats In The Southeast Circus

The following appears in the January issue of Alaska Sporting Journal:

BY BRIAN KELLY

Anticipation is defined as the feeling of excitement and expectation of a future event. Some years this feeling can be stronger than others as the time approaches for me to jump on that flight to the West Coast.

This past year’s trip certainly had that strong sense of anticipation. Based on reports we had been seeing from the lodges on the outer waters of Southeast Alaska, big, fat coho were feasting on a seemingly never-ending supply of herring in the Gulf of Alaska. On top of that, a predicted record return of Taku-strain coho back to the Macauley Douglas Island Pink & Chum Hatchery in Juneau had our crew all sorts of fired up as we boarded our first flight west to Seattle. But, as per usual, Alaska had other things in mind for us on this trip.

ONE OF MY COMPANIONS on this trip was Eric Greiner, my mentor and longtime fishing partner from Michigan. Eric took me on my first steelhead journey in December 1989 to the Big Manistee River in northern Michigan, and I returned the favor years later with the first of many trips to Juneau. We have been around the proverbial block a few times in our lives, as our ever-mounting supply of gray hairs would attest to.

Meeting us in Alaska’s capital city for this trip was our pal from Texas, Hunter Drozd, as well as many of his family members. More on them later.

We watched the weather forecast leading up to the trip, and it was a constant flip-flop from tourist weather – sunny and warm – to fishing weather – wet and cool. A dandy low-pressure system rolled up from the Gulf of Alaska in mid-August and brought with it an early slug of coho into town. It was a great sign, as strong runs are usually front-end loaded with the bulk yet to come. But then the dreaded high-pressure dome followed behind the front and parked its bright and clear sky over Southeast Alaska and didn’t move.

Now, for those in the lodges that cater to trolling and bottomfishing clientele, this was a godsend for late August into early September, when the weather usually turns for the worse and stays that way until the following spring.

It didn’t really hit us how warm and dry it had been until we landed in Juneau and headed straight to the Sheep Creek access. There was no water coming off the side of Mount Juneau as we drove along Thane Road; usually there are steady streams pouring off the mountain, as this is a rainforest.
As Eric and I suited up and walked out at low tide, I noticed that Sheep Creek only had one branch of flowing water; it had been so dry that the back channels were bone-dry and filled with rotten humpy carcasses. Even so, we both walked into the cool ocean water and managed to land large, bright males in short order. We figured things might be a bit tough after the first-light bite each morning, but we’ve had plenty of success on past trips in tourist weather. Well, little did we know how tough it would be.

OUR FIRST FULL DAY actually went pretty well; a decent slug of fish showed up on the incoming tide and the weather cooperated with some wind and scattered cloud cover, which helped to get some stain in the water for a great spinner bite. While we didn’t limit out, we had plenty of action and started to accumulate a meat pile for the freezer. Team Texas was nowhere to be found on this day, as they had to go hiking and sightseeing, along with an extensive tour of the local breweries and distilleries. Some go to Alaska to fish. Others? Well, not so much.

The weekend turned out to be a complete gong show. The sun and warm weather were in full effect, which brought out the locals in droves. Added to this was the ever-clearing water and a noticeable lack of fresh fish with the incoming tide.

Let’s talk about that incoming tide for a moment. We witnessed an odd phenomenon, as the water didn’t change directions and flow like it normally does with the tide change. Instead, the water just slowly rose with the incoming, which seemed to confuse the fish, as they didn’t have their usual free ride into town with the tide push. This made for very small bite windows and Saturday marked the first day I was ever skunked in Alaska.

But we fished hard, because it’s what we do; we fished through the tide change, checked the other side of the channel – you name it, we did it. It was becoming apparent that the fish just weren’t around and there wasn’t much we could do about it, except keep casting and praying for a significant weather change.

The highlight of the weekend was being graced with the presence of Team Texas on Sunday morning. This roving band of hearty tourist anglers put down their G&Ts long enough to slap on the Simms and show us how it’s done. Well, Hunter’s wife did just that by landing the biggest fish on the trip that morning, a dandy 16.5-pound buck that annihilated her pink Arctic Spinner and dragged her and Hunter up and down the beach.

AS THE GRIND CONTINUED into Monday, we came to our senses and called it quits early that afternoon in order to meet for dinner at one of our favorite places on Douglas Island, the Island Pub, for pizza, beverages and more stories than we bargained for, including how Hunter’s parents met on a flight. Oh, the people you meet while wading in Alaska.

Now, there is a good reason why we typically plan our Alaskan expeditions so there’s eight or nine days of fishing, as the weather doesn’t often cooperate and we just want to be there for that two- to three-day window when all hell breaks loose. And that was about to happen, as all the hard work and countless casts to fishless water were about to pay off.

A lovely low-pressure system formed on the Gulf of Alaska and was due to roll into Juneau any day. When it finally arrived, so did the fish. The atmosphere just felt fishy when the weather arrived, and on that first incoming tide, there were more jumpers in that first hour than we had seen in the entirety of the trip to that point.

It was happening, and these fish were kind of eager to kick anyone’s ass in their own way. The trip crescendo happened on Thursday; we hit a few fish during the first-light period on the remnants of the outgoing tide and waited for the turn to bring the fish to us. The tide was back to its normal routine, as the water moved with force this time around.

We could see the choppy water coming down the channel towards us with jumpers out ahead of the wall of moving water. When the water hit the edge of the bar, the first wave of fish was seemingly at our rod tips. The bite was fired up and didn’t quit for a few hours. During this melee, I had the fish fired up on a pink and white squid spinner that I’d built using a Flying C blade repurposed from a rusted-out lure I found years ago at low tide.

One particularly angry coho decided to hit at my rod tip, and I broke off my one and only hot spinner. We laughed about it over dinner and drinks that evening, but secretly I was a bit pissed, considering it was the only one I had built up. But, as fate would have it, on the next morning’s tide change I caught a glimpse of something bright as I walked down the beach towards the point where the action had been the day before. And there it was; sitting on the rocks and exposed kelp was my spinner. Fortunately, it had fallen out of the fish’s mouth the day before, and I was overjoyed to be reunited with my old pal!

WHILE THINGS WERE LOOKING bleak early on, a couple good days with full ropes of teener coho had the meat piles adding up quickly. After some sketchy math while having a few pours of fine Kentucky happy juice, Eric and I figured we just needed a couple fish each to top off our boxes. Huh. Funny how that changed once we got on the water. Friday was our last day to fish for fun and the freezer, so we set out with high hopes, albeit a bit late after a night of “one more pour.”

All week, we’d made a point to get to the parking lot before our local pal, Euming Suewing, the self-appointed mayor of Juneau. He was taken aback a little and probably a bit disappointed that we weren’t prompt on our last day. But we didn’t miss much, as the water once again went gin clear and the coho reverted back to their normal state of weirdness.

Euming’s pal dinged a couple fish on a whole herring, and the fish went back to thumbing their fins at our usual offerings. So we all dug deep into our tackle boxes trying to fire up the bite. Well, except for Hunter, who fishes with two, maybe three flies on a trip. He stayed with his beloved black and white Dolly Llama for an easy limit while we all scratched our heads.

But never underestimate those dudes with a few gray hairs; while we may not move at the speed of light, we have many tricks up those crusty old sleeves. Yours truly got things fired up on the gear front by slow-swimming an old pink Tadpolly (Google that antique plug young salmon padawans).

I followed that up with a pink and purple bunny strip jig that the fish found particularly attractive in the clear water. Meanwhile, Eric and Euming fired up their jig bite, switching to black and white after watching Hunter’s earlier beatdown. It was all coming together as the tide turned and wind picked up.

I had four average fish on the rope and said to hell with it and put on my recycled pink and white squid spinner to finish off my limit. First cast in and bang: Fish on! I looked to my right and Euming was hooked up as well, on the pink Arctic Spinner I’d given him earlier that morning. Not to be outdone, Eric completed the triple with a dandy male of his own.

It was a fitting way to end the morning after a grind to start, followed by plenty of laughs, anguish and redemption that one can only experience in Alaska. AS

Sidebar: BONDING WITH NEW SOUTHEAST ALASKA FRIENDS

As I mentioned before: You meet all sorts of folks while fishing your way around Alaska, all with the same desire to catch fish and enjoy the surroundings.

The Drozd family is a perfect example of this. I met Hunter Drozd during my 2020 trip when we had to jump through Covid hoops just to get there. He took the opportunity to work remotely at that time and lived in Juneau for a year.

We met while casting for silvers, and he stuck out like a sore thumb with that west Texas drawl and Cheshire cat grin. We hit it off and have been friends and travel fishing pals ever since. And with Hunter comes the rest of the crew, including the matriarch of the family, the one and only Jeri “Mama Tex.” This Ohio native is a force of nature; meet her once and you’ll never forget Mama Tex. Hell, the usual crew at Sheep Creek all get a smile on their face when she rolls out, usually late, to show us how it’s done.

Now, there were some legal wranglings after yours truly supposedly disparaged her over a high-tide rescue event, but that’s in the past. This year she happened to fill her waders on another “tide event” situation, but she managed to pay off the witnesses and I cannot comment further on what actually transpired.

All joking aside, these are the moments and people that make every trip such a pleasure. Take it all in and enjoy everything that happens along the way, especially the after-fishing-hours shenanigans at the local watering hole. BK