I went to Kenai with Grandpa in late summer. It was my second time fishing in AK and his first although he had been here before to work. The trip started with a delay, the starboard engine on the 737 wouldn’t start so we moved to another flight. The flight from Seattle to Anchorage is beautifull. It follows the inland passage. Looking east you see the endless mountains of British Columbia. Rugged, white and impassable. To the west are are the islands of the inland passage and the names of their rivers float across my mind like poetry. Nimpkish, Gold, Campbell, Stamp….. I translate between Grandpa and the flight attendants over the roar of the engines and we both try to rest a little. We get into Soldotna late, eat at Buckets (a burger joint) and make arrangements with the guide.
The next morning we get to the boat launch early. There’s only one other vehicle there and it belongs to a guide. I walk down and ask him what’s up and he tells me that our guide (Rick) will be along shortly. We meet him and the other two guys that we’ll be fishing with. They’re a father and sone from North California who are staying at the lodge that the guide works out of. The guide tells me that the first fella there saw some bears when he first arrived (right before Grandpa and I), a mother and cub. I walk back up the hill to the parking lot singing loud and nervous… Welcome to Alaska.
We board the jet sled and cinch up our hoods as Rick takes up several miles up-river. Rick pulls us over to a good spot and sets us up to back-troll kwickfish. His favorite colors for the day are called Tammie-Fae, big purple eyes and pink mouth. 10 minutes in and my rod bounces…. A big 26 inch Rainbow that is carefully released.
We fish through the hole and come back up to the top again and our boat-mates each take a fish. Several hours we sit and watch our rods as Rick skillfully guides the boat back. Grandpa takes a five pounder by the end of the afternoon. Rick tells stories about emergency landing his Piper Club after losing 18 inches of prop and working construction across the inlet. He tells us stories of the other guides going by and how every year they have a trip for all of the state congresspeople as they lobby for the commercial fishers to get less of the catch. About how he upstaged another guide who had a film crew in his boat and then they later became fast friends. He’s on his cellphone every 20 or so minutes talking to other guides and checking to see where the bite is good. He calls his wife and checks on his 3 week old baby.
At the end of the morning we pull up to a guide shack and relieve ourselves. We talk strategy, the coho bite is better in the morning so we switch gear for trout and plan on doing the same routine tomorrow morning. We jet upriver again and throw slinkies and beads for rainbows and dollies. I hook the first rainbow again and Grandpa brings in the biggest one. We’re using light gear now and the rainbows of the Kenai put our lowland lake fish to shame with their fight. We rest on an island for a few minutes and get back to it. I haven’t fished this hard for years and both Grandpa and I start to get punchy.
Later on, drifting through a pool where kings are known to spawn grandpa hooks a huge fish. he fights it 20 or so minutes and can’t even get it to come up off of the bottom a little bit. It runs up and down river until the line breaks. Grandpa smiles. We catch more trout, that by law have to be released, and Grandpa keeps shaking his head. What a shame….
We return to the ramp and go back to our hotel. Completely tired and sleep until dinner time. We eat and go back to bed. The next day is basically the same. Grandpa gets another coho and I get one right at the very end of the afternoon. We watch our boat-mates put three more in the cooler and then fish for rainbows again. Tired and exhausted we sleep and eat again and then drive North to see Eagle creek and look for fishing there. We’ll be on our own the next day and so we scout out the water and talk to the other fisherman. I see one steelhead hooked and landed and hear about several more being caught. The next morning we drive in early.
We fish Eagle creek for several hours walking about a mile of the river splitting up for a while. Then we catch back up with each other and fish down along a cliff for a while. We both sit and rest and on a rock we just watch the water. We’ll never see this water again, not even in teh same place. It goes by as we watch and just like Thoreau says it would. We go to Homer that day and ask for gallery contacts for Grandma. Grandpa drives us back to Soldotna and we talk. We talk about a lot of things and none of them will be recorded here. We talk like we have never have had a chance to talk before and in the words I find the wellspring of my self. The source and the beginning that hasn’t been interrupted from Grandpa, to Dad and then to me. We’re all three so very much the same and to have heard what he has known over seventy four years now is the greatest gift of that trip. I’ll never forget any of it.
We drove South at one point to try and find the site where he worked so long ago. The three liquified natural gas tanks that he helped build. Stories of his friends and workers, how they built the tanks and how they walked miles to a tavern and his long walks in the Tundra every Sunday, alone with naught more than a pistol. Men to whom fighting was part of their livliehood because that was how you settled disagreements and to whom hardship and being away from their families was natural. We pull down the road and don’t see the site and so pull over and ask at a convience store. Grandpa comes back out, gets in the truck and says “Well, he says they tore it all down and moved the tanks years ago. That’s alright, it’s not important I guess.” It’s important to both of us though. I pull out to the road and look further South. “Well Grandpa, maybe you’ll recognize the site down there at least. Let’s go look”, “Well, it can’t hurt” he says.
South two more miles and a refinery starts to take shape along with a bunch of tanks. We look and Grandpa seems unsure. “Well, he says, those are probably the tanks”. We look and I pull out South again. “No! That’s them there. Those are the three that we built. None of this other stuff was here then”. We pull over and he looks, his memories coming back quickly. The site sits at the top of a beach that looks out over Cook Inlet and the mountains on the opposite side. More stories and I smile. “Well, I’m glad it’s still here!” he said. Me too.
I’ll go back to Alaska again. I’ll go back for the fishing and hopefully I’ll go back with Grandpa too. He told everyone around through most of the trip that this would be a one shot deal for him. He related how he loves this wide-open country and misses it. For me it’s not just the fishing though. It’s the feel of someplace that is still somewhat wild. This is the earth as the Dinosaurs and the first people must have known it. Somehow both very very old yet very very young. The tundra grows across the land like the first mold on a newly dropped apple. The stunted spruce grow up around the peat bogs and then the maples and alders start to fill it in. The mountains still carve out the land with their glaciers and moose and bear live in a land of plenty. It doesn’t feel right that people are here somehow. I look down from our flight and see the creeks drain into the inlet, weaving their fractal paths through the mud below. I see the deep, perpetual snow on the upthrust mountains and think about the months of darkness that will fall with the uncaring and hard winter and I feel a youth that is deeper than I’ve ever known.
Grandpa looks at me on the plane as we head home. “Maybe next year we’ll come back in July and try for the kings!”.
The next morning we get to the boat launch early. There’s only one other vehicle there and it belongs to a guide. I walk down and ask him what’s up and he tells me that our guide (Rick) will be along shortly. We meet him and the other two guys that we’ll be fishing with. They’re a father and sone from North California who are staying at the lodge that the guide works out of. The guide tells me that the first fella there saw some bears when he first arrived (right before Grandpa and I), a mother and cub. I walk back up the hill to the parking lot singing loud and nervous… Welcome to Alaska.
We board the jet sled and cinch up our hoods as Rick takes up several miles up-river. Rick pulls us over to a good spot and sets us up to back-troll kwickfish. His favorite colors for the day are called Tammie-Fae, big purple eyes and pink mouth. 10 minutes in and my rod bounces…. A big 26 inch Rainbow that is carefully released.
We fish through the hole and come back up to the top again and our boat-mates each take a fish. Several hours we sit and watch our rods as Rick skillfully guides the boat back. Grandpa takes a five pounder by the end of the afternoon. Rick tells stories about emergency landing his Piper Club after losing 18 inches of prop and working construction across the inlet. He tells us stories of the other guides going by and how every year they have a trip for all of the state congresspeople as they lobby for the commercial fishers to get less of the catch. About how he upstaged another guide who had a film crew in his boat and then they later became fast friends. He’s on his cellphone every 20 or so minutes talking to other guides and checking to see where the bite is good. He calls his wife and checks on his 3 week old baby.
At the end of the morning we pull up to a guide shack and relieve ourselves. We talk strategy, the coho bite is better in the morning so we switch gear for trout and plan on doing the same routine tomorrow morning. We jet upriver again and throw slinkies and beads for rainbows and dollies. I hook the first rainbow again and Grandpa brings in the biggest one. We’re using light gear now and the rainbows of the Kenai put our lowland lake fish to shame with their fight. We rest on an island for a few minutes and get back to it. I haven’t fished this hard for years and both Grandpa and I start to get punchy.
Later on, drifting through a pool where kings are known to spawn grandpa hooks a huge fish. he fights it 20 or so minutes and can’t even get it to come up off of the bottom a little bit. It runs up and down river until the line breaks. Grandpa smiles. We catch more trout, that by law have to be released, and Grandpa keeps shaking his head. What a shame….
We return to the ramp and go back to our hotel. Completely tired and sleep until dinner time. We eat and go back to bed. The next day is basically the same. Grandpa gets another coho and I get one right at the very end of the afternoon. We watch our boat-mates put three more in the cooler and then fish for rainbows again. Tired and exhausted we sleep and eat again and then drive North to see Eagle creek and look for fishing there. We’ll be on our own the next day and so we scout out the water and talk to the other fisherman. I see one steelhead hooked and landed and hear about several more being caught. The next morning we drive in early.
We fish Eagle creek for several hours walking about a mile of the river splitting up for a while. Then we catch back up with each other and fish down along a cliff for a while. We both sit and rest and on a rock we just watch the water. We’ll never see this water again, not even in teh same place. It goes by as we watch and just like Thoreau says it would. We go to Homer that day and ask for gallery contacts for Grandma. Grandpa drives us back to Soldotna and we talk. We talk about a lot of things and none of them will be recorded here. We talk like we have never have had a chance to talk before and in the words I find the wellspring of my self. The source and the beginning that hasn’t been interrupted from Grandpa, to Dad and then to me. We’re all three so very much the same and to have heard what he has known over seventy four years now is the greatest gift of that trip. I’ll never forget any of it.
We drove South at one point to try and find the site where he worked so long ago. The three liquified natural gas tanks that he helped build. Stories of his friends and workers, how they built the tanks and how they walked miles to a tavern and his long walks in the Tundra every Sunday, alone with naught more than a pistol. Men to whom fighting was part of their livliehood because that was how you settled disagreements and to whom hardship and being away from their families was natural. We pull down the road and don’t see the site and so pull over and ask at a convience store. Grandpa comes back out, gets in the truck and says “Well, he says they tore it all down and moved the tanks years ago. That’s alright, it’s not important I guess.” It’s important to both of us though. I pull out to the road and look further South. “Well Grandpa, maybe you’ll recognize the site down there at least. Let’s go look”, “Well, it can’t hurt” he says.
South two more miles and a refinery starts to take shape along with a bunch of tanks. We look and Grandpa seems unsure. “Well, he says, those are probably the tanks”. We look and I pull out South again. “No! That’s them there. Those are the three that we built. None of this other stuff was here then”. We pull over and he looks, his memories coming back quickly. The site sits at the top of a beach that looks out over Cook Inlet and the mountains on the opposite side. More stories and I smile. “Well, I’m glad it’s still here!” he said. Me too.
I’ll go back to Alaska again. I’ll go back for the fishing and hopefully I’ll go back with Grandpa too. He told everyone around through most of the trip that this would be a one shot deal for him. He related how he loves this wide-open country and misses it. For me it’s not just the fishing though. It’s the feel of someplace that is still somewhat wild. This is the earth as the Dinosaurs and the first people must have known it. Somehow both very very old yet very very young. The tundra grows across the land like the first mold on a newly dropped apple. The stunted spruce grow up around the peat bogs and then the maples and alders start to fill it in. The mountains still carve out the land with their glaciers and moose and bear live in a land of plenty. It doesn’t feel right that people are here somehow. I look down from our flight and see the creeks drain into the inlet, weaving their fractal paths through the mud below. I see the deep, perpetual snow on the upthrust mountains and think about the months of darkness that will fall with the uncaring and hard winter and I feel a youth that is deeper than I’ve ever known.
Grandpa looks at me on the plane as we head home. “Maybe next year we’ll come back in July and try for the kings!”.
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