Read Online Beyond the Bear by Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney - Free Book Online
Authors: Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney
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fish. Everyone down there about died laughing.
“Do it again! Do it again!” we all chanted.
Jaha, awoolly Wisconsinite like John, was working as a river guide on the Kenai and had been living out of a tent pitched on his boss’s property since the cabin he’d been renting got sold out from under him. It was his day off, and since too much fishing could never be enough, I had no doubt he’d be up for a quick jaunt to the Russian. I was right. His girlfriend, Emily, was game, too. We swung by, they tossed their gear into the back of John’s Subaru and climbed into the backseat with Maya, and off we went to the Russian River with hopes of better luck.
During the height of the salmon runs, there isn’t a spot to be had at the Russian River Campground or its day-use parking lots. Long lines of cars, pickups, and RVs wait at the entrance for hours, and sometimes an entire day, for an opening to come up. We were down there so much and were friends with so many of those who worked there, we had it wired. Sometimes we’d stash the car and go in on bikes. But mostly our strategy was way more obnoxious. We’d drive past the line of vehicles, turn into the “Exit Only” lane, pull up to the information booth, hand over a six pack of beer, and secure for ourselves the next available parking pass while those who’d been waiting their turn annihilated us with their glares.
On the night of July 14, our timing was such that there were only a couple of cars in line, so we entered the respectable, grown-up way, through the entrance. Around 8:30, we pulled into the campground’s Grayling parking lot, built on a bluff above the river. Maya hopped out, put her nose to the ground, and started skimming back and forth like a minesweeper while everyone sorted out gear. I climbed back into my chest waders and dropped extra weights, spare coho flies, and a pair of pliers into my front pocket. I grabbed my pack, which was set to go with a fillet knife, a stringer, a few garbage bags, a thin gray sweater, and a green fleece jacket. Before closing it up, as was my fishing ritual, I tossed in a bomber-size bottle of Midnight Sun Brewery’s Sockeye Red IPA for good luck.
In three hours I’d be blind.
Fishing rods in hand, we headed across the parking lot and down the long set of stairs leading to the Angler Trail that runs alongside the river. The four of us fished together at a spot called the Cottonwood Hole for a while without a single successful flossing. John and I decided to move on to The Sanctuary. New to Alaska, new to the notion of grizzlies being part of the landscape, Emily wasn’t up for that, especially after hearing how many bears were out and about at the time. So she and Jaha stayed in an area where she felt less skittish—closer to the stairs. Given that everyone but John had to work in the morning, we all agreed to meet at the car around 10:30. John and I had hoped to stay longer, but knew it would be wise to wrap it up while there was still plenty of light since bears tend to move in at night, or what passes for night in the height of an Alaska summer. Night was when a lot of anglers preferred to be on the river. Salmon tended to be on the move then, and there were fewer people to contend with. I’d done my share of middle-of-the-night fishing.
John, Maya, and I made our way downriver. It was a Monday night, but when the reds are running, every night is a Friday night at the Russian. We waded across the mouth of the river just below its confluence with the Kenai, while Maya did her beaver impersonation, paddling across the current with just her head, ears, and nose poking out of the water. A little farther down, John and I found ourselves a couple of nice spots to slide into. We took note of the rhythm and joined in.
It took more than an hour to catch those last three fish, for both of us to limit out. There’s nothing easier than to lose track of time when standing knee deep in a river. By the time we packed
“Do it again! Do it again!” we all chanted.
Jaha, awoolly Wisconsinite like John, was working as a river guide on the Kenai and had been living out of a tent pitched on his boss’s property since the cabin he’d been renting got sold out from under him. It was his day off, and since too much fishing could never be enough, I had no doubt he’d be up for a quick jaunt to the Russian. I was right. His girlfriend, Emily, was game, too. We swung by, they tossed their gear into the back of John’s Subaru and climbed into the backseat with Maya, and off we went to the Russian River with hopes of better luck.
During the height of the salmon runs, there isn’t a spot to be had at the Russian River Campground or its day-use parking lots. Long lines of cars, pickups, and RVs wait at the entrance for hours, and sometimes an entire day, for an opening to come up. We were down there so much and were friends with so many of those who worked there, we had it wired. Sometimes we’d stash the car and go in on bikes. But mostly our strategy was way more obnoxious. We’d drive past the line of vehicles, turn into the “Exit Only” lane, pull up to the information booth, hand over a six pack of beer, and secure for ourselves the next available parking pass while those who’d been waiting their turn annihilated us with their glares.
On the night of July 14, our timing was such that there were only a couple of cars in line, so we entered the respectable, grown-up way, through the entrance. Around 8:30, we pulled into the campground’s Grayling parking lot, built on a bluff above the river. Maya hopped out, put her nose to the ground, and started skimming back and forth like a minesweeper while everyone sorted out gear. I climbed back into my chest waders and dropped extra weights, spare coho flies, and a pair of pliers into my front pocket. I grabbed my pack, which was set to go with a fillet knife, a stringer, a few garbage bags, a thin gray sweater, and a green fleece jacket. Before closing it up, as was my fishing ritual, I tossed in a bomber-size bottle of Midnight Sun Brewery’s Sockeye Red IPA for good luck.
In three hours I’d be blind.
Fishing rods in hand, we headed across the parking lot and down the long set of stairs leading to the Angler Trail that runs alongside the river. The four of us fished together at a spot called the Cottonwood Hole for a while without a single successful flossing. John and I decided to move on to The Sanctuary. New to Alaska, new to the notion of grizzlies being part of the landscape, Emily wasn’t up for that, especially after hearing how many bears were out and about at the time. So she and Jaha stayed in an area where she felt less skittish—closer to the stairs. Given that everyone but John had to work in the morning, we all agreed to meet at the car around 10:30. John and I had hoped to stay longer, but knew it would be wise to wrap it up while there was still plenty of light since bears tend to move in at night, or what passes for night in the height of an Alaska summer. Night was when a lot of anglers preferred to be on the river. Salmon tended to be on the move then, and there were fewer people to contend with. I’d done my share of middle-of-the-night fishing.
John, Maya, and I made our way downriver. It was a Monday night, but when the reds are running, every night is a Friday night at the Russian. We waded across the mouth of the river just below its confluence with the Kenai, while Maya did her beaver impersonation, paddling across the current with just her head, ears, and nose poking out of the water. A little farther down, John and I found ourselves a couple of nice spots to slide into. We took note of the rhythm and joined in.
It took more than an hour to catch those last three fish, for both of us to limit out. There’s nothing easier than to lose track of time when standing knee deep in a river. By the time we packed
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