Adventures in Alaska
Enchanted Lake Lodge
September 2005
By
Jamie Anderson

I heard a splash loud enough to be a bear diving feet first into of school of spawning sockeyes, but when I looked up stream I saw my friend Steve battling one of the biggest rainbows I had ever seen in my entire life. As he backed up, keeping pressure on the big rainbow, he stumbled over a dark three-foot high boulder, one of thousands that had  been left behind from an ancient glacier, and plunged into Moraine Creek, going in well over his head. As Steve fought to get his feet back underneath him, it looked like a fire hydrant had busted under Steve's G3 guide jacket, with water gushing out in every direction.  With the massive fish still on, Steve's smile was as big as the bend in his rod. Like Brad Pitt in a River Runs Through It, Steve went to all measures to keep the monster on. Finally, the 30-inch leviathan rainbow launched out of Moraine Creek like a bomb from a mortar at your local 4th of July fireworks display. The grand finale was a cartwheel landing in a gigantic explosion of water that sent Steve’s bead rig flying back at him. The monster rainbow was gone, but nothing could wash the smile off Steve’s face. This was what we had traveled to the Alaskan wilderness to find – huge rainbow trout.  As I stood in the stream mesmerized by what I had just witnessed, I began to think about the strange chain of events that brought me to this enchanted wonderland...

A strong set of winds from the early September Montana storm, had blown down lots of big branches at our Livingston home, but some of the largest had landed on our garage roof. When Dad and I went up to remove them and inspect the roof, we found a few holes but worse yet some soft spots, where water leaking through the old rolled roofing, had caused enough damage that we would have to replace some of the plywood underneath and do another rolled roofing job.We enlisted the help of Dad’s friend Manny, whose previous expertise as a housing contractor made a big job look easy. By lunchtime Dad and Manny had all the plywood work done and a lot of the rolled roofing laid down.

When I came home from lunch, Manny and my Dad were sitting on a bunch of boxes that looked more like cases of beer than rolls of roofing paper. At this point, doing the roofing job ourselves seemed like a good way to save some money. Little did I realize that on my dad’s last trip down from the roof, he would slip on the top step of the rickety ladder, sending the ladder flying one way and him headed for a twelve foot fall, slamming into the ground and badly tearing the rotator cuff in his left shoulder. 

As with everything, there are two sides to the coin. For my Dad, Rickety Jones meant immediate surgery, slings and ice packs, pain without sleep, deductibles and hospital bills, not to mention the months of physical therapy ahead. Tough guys heal quickly, but this was a bona-fide accident, not just a chance to malinger the duty of catching 30-inch rainbows.  As for my side of the coin, Rickety Jones meant the chance of a lifetime: big bears and monster rainbows, float planes and lodge luxuries, squishy walks over tundra, the aroma of dead salmon, a chance to learn some new fishing techniques, and the opportunity to see a ecosystem that is only found in Alaska and Russia. I didn't think I would ever have the opportunity to fish Alaska until I was at least 50, yet as luck would have it, I became the new leader for this year's Yellowstone Angler 2005 hosted trip to Enchanted Lake Lodge.

Prior to my Alaskan experience, I really had no knowledge of the unique ecosystem that is supported by the Bristol Bay Area. On the plane from Salt Lake City to Anchorage, I re-read a print out from our Fly Fishing Travel page that my Dad wrote on Alaska. That was great because not only did it explain the rivers we were going to fish, how we would be fishing, and the tackle we should bring along, but it got me excited to catch some of the biggest rainbows in the world. Then I started to wonder why they were so much bigger in Alaska than anywhere else, even Arctic Russia.  Enchanted Lake Lodge was everything my Dad had told me- the ultimate Alaska fishing lodge. A glass of brandy served to us from a silver tray as we stepped off the floatplane, hors d’oeuvres to die for, gourmet meals, free drinks and superb wines with dinner, beautiful sunsets, and best of all, those cigar sessions on the deck before and after dinner.

After dinner I returned to my Cabin where I read the Katmai National Park brochure. I learned that there are 15 active volcanoes in the park, making it one of the world's most active volcanic centers. I learned how scientist Robert Griggs, after seeing thousands of smoking fumaroles, named this land the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes. The map of Katmai showed me about the famous streams and rivers I’d heard about the Naknek river system and Brooks River, Lake Iliamna and the Kvichak River that drains this huge natural lake, The Alagnac system comprised of streams we’d fish like Moraine Creek, the Battle River, the Big Ku, and Kulik river.  But what interested me most was the information written on the salmon.

"A predictable eruption occurs here annually as salmon burst from the northern Pacific Ocean and into Katmai Park waters. Sockeye, or red salmon, return from the ocean where they have spent two or three years. By a homing mechanism they return to the exact headwater gravel beds of their birth. Their size, averaging 5 to 7 pounds, varies proportionally to how long they spend feeding at sea.”

“The salmon run begins here in late June. And by July's end, a million fish may have moved from Bristol Bay into the Naknek system of lakes and rivers. Salmon stop feeding upon entering freshwater, and physiological changes lead to their distinctive red color, humped back, and elongated jaw that they develop during spawning. These sockeye salmon spawn during August, September, and October. Stream bottoms must have the correct texture of loose gravel for the eggs to develop. The stream must flow freely through winter to aerate the eggs. By spring the young fish, called smolt, emerge from the gravels and migrate into the larger lakes, living there two years. The salmon then migrate to sea, returning in two or three years to spawn and begin the cycle once again. Salmon provide food for the bears, bald eagles, rainbow trout, and directly or indirectly for the other creatures that forage along these streams. They also have been important to Katmai people for thousands of years, and commercial fishing-outside the park-remains the mainstay of today's local economy." (Katmai National Park brochure).

Reading about this cycle of life was fascinating, but to actually see it unfold right in front of your eyes was truly an amazing experience for me. I remember seeing my first dead sockeye on the banks of the upper Moraine and thinking it was unusual enough to take a photo. The next thing I know, I'm standing in an eddy on the backs of 50 dead salmon while fishing a riffle just below the Funnel Creek confluence. Like giant red banana peels, you had to watch your balance as you waded through them. At first it felt like I was in the middle of Nature's fish holocausts, but the more I learned about what they do for the environment, the more beautiful I found their cycle of life. Not only do they supply a critical food source for brown bears, their eyes and flesh feed the seagulls, while their eggs, smolt, and even the dead flesh feed hungry rainbows, grayling and dolly vardens. Whatever is left to decay gives back nutrients to the land. It seemed that everything before me benefited from these noble red crusaders.

The Kulik River was packed with nice rainbows as usual, but this year there were plenty of hot 4-6 pound fish to deal with as well as the normal two to three pounders. I was excited to go to the Kulik as our first day’s group that went there reported catching forty fish over twenty inches each! But even more interesting for me were all those sockeyes. When I told the guides I wanted to catch one they all laughed, because most people do everything they can to avoid them. Seeing them first from the floatplane was impressive. Untold thousands of sockeyes blanketed the river in red. Running up the river in our jet boat, sockeyes were flying in all directions, getting out of the way. They were everywhere, and within them swam hundreds of hungry egg sucking rainbows. 

Jeff had gotten 53 rainbows to the hand and about 80 on before we made him stop for lunch. Last year my Dad had nicknamed Jeff the Predator, as he just didn’t want to give it up, even to stop for a quick lunch.  Finally Jeff waded over to get a hot cup of delicious soup the lodge would send with the guides each day. He also didn’t want to miss out on the Lodge’s famous homemade chocolate chip cookies. He ate so many we didn’t know whether to call him the “Predator” or the “Cookie Monster.”

It was nice to take a break for lunch and let our wrists cool off for a while after landing so many rainbows and dragging in the occasional snagged sockeye. Before long we could no longer resist and were back in the water.

"There's some of that 'ole Anderson heat,” Rick yelled as
I skidded a 20 inch rainbow towards me like a wake boarder. If I had caught the same fish in Montana I surely would have taken my time to land him and taken a photo. But here on the Kulik, all I wanted to do was get him off and catch another one. "Rhino Junior," Scott chuckled as I tossed him back into the pod of hungry rainbows. He knew I was a lot like my Dad, who it was said, had caught and released over one hundred and fifty trout in one day on the Kulik. A friend had nicknamed Dad the “River Rhino” after watching him wade Montana’s Bighorn River, and seeing the aggressive techniques he used in trying to catch every good-sized fish in the river.

It was cool to talk to the guides at dinner because they were a wealth of information. I asked why they thought Alaskan rainbows get so huge. They explained to me that these rainbows feed on a high protein diet year ‘round. In the winters, the rainbows retreat to one of the many large lakes in the river systems, where they aggressively feed on salmon smolts all winter. They move into the river systems in May to spawn themselves and feed heavily on the available aquatic life that includes mayflies, caddis, midges and lots of big sculpins. As the salmon runs begin in late June, the rainbows move in below the spawning salmon and pig out on the spawned salmon eggs. Eggs from Sockeyes, pinks, silvers comprise the majority of their food throughout the summer and fall. Talk about a high protein diet! Between the smolt, eggs, and salmon flesh, these bruisers might as well have be snacking on protein shakes all day long!

One day on the Big Ku, Jeff Carder and I decided to become their personal trainers, (Hanz and Franz to be exact). We were determined to give these big bows a workout whenever they chomped on one of our placebo protein pills disguised as beads pinned on our leaders accompanied with hooks. "Yah Franz! Dat one's lewking a littal heff-tee ya! Yoos bettar leta me get da neght!" In the end, I'm not sure who got more "pumped up", our forearms or the fish! Talk about some real wrist burners. We laughed talking about how these rainbows were much like the ones we catch in Montana, just ten inches longer! They were also as fat as any trout I’d ever seen. The larger fish we were hooking were in the 25-27 inch class, six to nine pounds, but those 28-29 inchers that weighed in excess of ten pounds were the big boys we were really after. 

At the head of one long boulder strewn straightaway, Jeff hooked a monster bow on a black string leech with a pink bead slid down next to the head of the fly. The big fish tore off downstream on an impressive run. Jeff’s line was gone and the backing was emptying off Jeff’s reel in a big hurry. Jeff’s only choice was to run along in the shallows after the fish hoping not to get spooled, while I grabbed the boat net and ran along behind. A couple of thrashing jumps showed us what a ten pound Big Ku rainbow looks like, and Jeff was even more worried about losing it. Ten more minutes of slugging it out and I slipped the net under the massive 29 inch rainbow. The barbless leech pattern fell out of it’s mouth and we both stared as the monster bow swam slowly back through the shallows until it reached the main stream and disappeared. On our flight back to the lodge, we had our pilot call in with the message to get the sauna fired up. After our memorable day on the Big KU, it would take a half hour in the hot sauna to rejuvenate our tired wrists and arms!

Each morning one of the girls would come down to the cabin and knock on the door. "Coffee's here!" My roommate Steve was a little faster at getting out of bed than I was, and would get the tray of coffee, tea, and mugs. "Don't get used to it," he would joke.  For breakfast you could keep it healthy with the lodge’s great granola cereal, but with all the walking we would do, I always opted for the day's special: freshly picked blueberry scones, pancakes, oatmeal, ham and cheese omelets, quiche, or French toast with powder sugar and real maple syrup. 

After breakfast, it's down to the docks to meet the guides and load into the Beavers for a majestic morning sunrise flight. As I was waiting to hop up into the plane, one of the guides patted me on the back and smiled, "Living the dream..." I had to agree.

Every time our pilot Dan landed smoothly he would turn around and smile, "Another lucky one!" After he dropped us off at the notorious Crosswind Lake, a lady ranger came out of her tent to check our licenses. After hearing about the bear who killed the "Bear Whisperer" and his girlfriend, I remember thinking, "Man, I don't know if I would want to camp out here all by myself. Props to her! We said our goodbyes and she said good luck as we followed Scott across the tundra towards Moraine Creek. 

We traveled in line on a heavily trodden bear path that was probably created thousands of years ago. Sometimes while talking side by side, one of us would walk on the squishy tundra. It was a strange sensation to walk on, with each step sinking about 3 inches. It was almost like walking on that Swedish Aerospace therapeutic foam. As we were hiking, someone plucked a patch of light green lichen, and explained that it was the same stuff people used in their model train landscapes. Well, there was enough lichen within a mile of camp to supply about a billion model train sets! Rick, a veteran of past Enchanted Lake trips, pointed
out a patch of low bush wild blueberries and told us they were wonderful eating before the first hard frost got to them, but to be careful not to eat the reddish or blackish moss berries. As we continued across the tundra in unison wearing our suits of waders and vests, carrying our weapons - soft 4 piece rod bags and backpacks, I couldn't help but think of the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs. Then I looked towards the rising sun and scanned the mountainous wilderness around us. This was the Alaska I had dreamed about.

Our stroll across the tundra lead us to the steep cliff banks of Upper Moraine Creek. As soon as we could look over the edge we caught our first glance of a huge boar brown bear slapping a sockeye onto the grass. He made skinning a fish look as easy and normal as folding your socks. Head guide Scott Keller let out a vocal call so he was aware we were there, "Hey... batter, batter, batter..." Before I could get my camera out, the big bear took his snack back into the bushes and disappeared. Apparently the older males are safer than the 2 year olds. They don't want to see a confrontation anymore than we would. Scott explained that it was the younger, curious, adolescent bears that can give you trouble.

Jeff Carder photo

A mile hike down river brought us to the “low cutbank run”, perhaps the best late season run on Moraine Creek. While I rigged my rod, Rick double hauled a long cast across stream, fishing his bead rig with a couple of split shot while watching the floating yarn indicator. Like Grendel in Beowulf, a terrifying brute of a rainbow came flying out of the mere. The leopard spotted beast made a tail walk that would have made a tarpon proud. Accelerating faster than an F-14, the king of the river kicked in his afterburners and went smoking downstream before catapulting again in the distant horizon. Beowulf (Rick) insisted on taking the dragon down alone but Wiglaf (myself) went to his assistance. I grabbed the net and ran down stream praying not to trip on one of the many boulders and do a face plant before I could net Rick’s giant bow. This powerful monster wasn't throwing in the towel yet and made several round 2 and 3 runs when he saw me trying to get him in the net! The result however was picture perfect... the match up of a fish of a lifetime with the smile of a lifetime.

The Killer bead rig and a new way to fish streamers

From reading my Dad's article on our website, I knew that the best way to catch these colossal creatures was with beads, but I still wasn't really sure how the setup worked. So when head guide Scott Keller kneeled down that morning on the rocks of Moraine Creek to rig me up I paid close attention. With all the bears walking around, it was hard to focus but well worth it. 

At the end of a five-foot long butt section of 25 lb. Maxima, Scott tied in a large yarn indicator. Then just behind the indicator he tied in a five foot mid-section of 1X fluorocarbon, then added a final two-foot tippet of 2X fluorocarbon. Two beads were threaded on the tippet, and a short shank hook like a TMC #105 in size 6 or 8 tied in on the end. Then Scott pinned the beads to the tippet, using a toothpick or pieces of heavy fluorocarbon to jam the bead to the leader, keeping it in place. The best set-up was to use a pale pink bead on top to imitate a drifting “dead” egg, with a more peach colored egg that imitates a freshly spawned egg, closer to the hook. Scott pinned the peach egg 2-4 inches above the hook, with the pale pink egg 5-6 inches above the first egg. All that was left was to add 1-2 BB split shot just above the tippet knot depending on the water speed and depth and I was in business. 

Fishing the bead rig was just like nymph fishing back in Montana. The trick for me was to get the beads to the right depth- usually close to the bottom, but still get a nice dead drift. Adjusting the amount of weight was critical, and using casting techniques like a reach cast, or curve casts helped to get the line and leader in the best position to get a perfect drift past the fish. In many instances, I could fish visually to the fish I could see, watching the fish move over, open up his mouth and suck in the bead rig. Then it was up to me to set the hook quickly or miss the strike. In deeper water, it was just a matter of watching the indicator and setting the hook when it got pulled under hard.

The other technique that was new to me in Alaska was the streamer fishing. On the Yellowstone the idea is to cast to the bank and strip your streamer back towards you, giving it action with your rod tip to make it look like a wounded sculpin or minnow. But the first time I threw on my sink tip and fished a flesh fly using this kind of strip, Scott kindly suggested, "I don't know if I would keep stripping it like that so much... Try letting the water do all the work and just let it swing. And if you feel a tug, try not to strike right away." Scott grabbed my Windstopper and tugged it a little and then really held on and pulled it, "Wait until you feel the weight of the fish before setting the hook."

That made a lot sense, so I cast directly across from me and let the current move the fly downstream as I swung it below me. Nothing.  Hmm. Just before I was about to cast again Scott recommended that at the end of the swing you leave it swim in the current for a few seconds.  He said sometimes a big rainbow will follow it all the way until it stops moving, then pounce on it. Sometimes they even try to smack it and kill it (possibly the little tugs we feel) before they move in and devour it like a Tyrannosaurus Rex  (the heavy weight that we feel). Again, that sounded smart to me, so I looked up to enjoy the unbelievable scenery surrounding us. I was about to get my camera out when I felt a tap... tap... TAP.... BOOOM!  My Rod nearly got jerked out of my hand!

My jaw dropped as I realized I was attached to the biggest rainbow I had ever seen, other than that pellet-fed slug of a fish that I caught in a friend's private pond. No sir, this was a bona-fide into your backing in three seconds, high jumping, palm thumping, arm pumping, wild Alaska rainbow.    I could see that I was going to have to adjust my thinking and fishing technique to meet the challenges of this new fishery in the wilds of Alaska.   

The Kvichak lives up to it’s reputation for big fish Iliamna is the largest lake in Alaska, and the river that drains it, the Kvichak, is famous for some of the largest rainbows around. Tales of twenty-pound bows are common, even if fish that large are not. Still, it’s one place you can go and honestly have a good chance to hook a fifteen pound rainbow on your next cast. 

My day on the “Kweej” (people pronounce the Kvichak, “Kwee-Jack” but locals just call it the “Kweej”, didn’t work out quite the way I had envisioned. All I seemed to hook up were dinks, or grayling while my partner Rick pounded out a couple of nice twenty-six inch “chromers”. Jeff and Steve were kicking butt in their boat too. Jeff hooked one fish that was obviously big but after each jump it kept looking larger.  In the net it measured thirty inches!

It was our guide Rob’s birthday, so I gave him my rod and rowed the next drift, while Rob and Rick fished. It didn’t take Rob long to tie into another beautiful twenty-five inch bright chrome rainbow, right out of Lake Iliamna. These “chromers” are a lot like steelhead, and they look just like
steelhead except being a lot fatter than your average steelhead. Rob got back behind the oars, wanting to see me tie into that Kvichak monster, but it was not to be. As we came across a productive shelf in the river I hooked up with something that went ripping back upriver, peeling all my line and a lot of backing off before Rob could get the jet motor started. We never got a look at the fish. Pretty soon it was all over. I was broken off before we could do much about it. On the flight back to the lodge, I was still wondering if I had hooked the monster of the Kvichak or just snagged a big sockeye salmon.

"Smooth as butter," our guide Dave said as the Beaver made its invisible transition from air to the smooth surface of Enchanted Lake. Then he put his hand on the pilot's shoulder, "Why do they call you Scooter? ha ha ha." Our day on the Big Ku had been spectacular by any standards. We had landed some of the largest fish of the trip so far. When we taxied back the dock Helen was already waiting there with a tray of Brandy and a big smile. I tried to offer Scooter a drink, but he smiled and joked that he already had a bunch.

We thought our tales of big fish would rule the cocktail hour, but were shocked to hear that Jack Honch had had landed a 30 by 17 inch rainbow at the Kvichak that day. No one had their chins on their chest kicking the dirt that night, but there was one cigar smoker who held is head a bit higher than the rest. 

Of course the rest of the week we referred to Jack as “Kvichak Jack”.  The rest of the week was spent trying to knock the king off the hill.  Kvichack Jack certainly dodged some bullets with Jeff Carder's 30 by 16 inch rainbow and Mike Davis' 29 by 18 inch rainbow. If we had gone by weight alone, there would have been a lot of kings trying to crown themselves into office - including myself. But at last, the tape keeps you honest….

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