OUR DAY BEGAN AT 3 A.M. with a harsh wake-up call, a splash of water to the face, a quick cup of coffee and a drive to meet our river guide. The cold air stung our faces along the Kenai River in Alaska. The sun had not yet risen, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open as my Dad maneuvered through the many twists and turns in the road before us.
In the summer of 2003, my Dad and I embarked on an epic fishing trip in search of adventure, some father and son bonding, and the legendary king (chinook) salmon, for which Alaska is famous. We reserved a cabin on the Kenai over a year in advance in order to ensure that our own little, cozy bungalow would be ready and waiting for us. During the summer, the cabins fill fast because king salmon fishing runs only go from May to the end of July on the Kenai. In addition to the coveted king salmon, the river runs rampant with reds, silver, and pink salmon. The Kenai is home to the world record king, a giant fish caught in 1985 just shy of 100 pounds.
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Main image courtesy: Kenai National Wildlife Refuge
The maximum for kings is just one fish a day, and the guide guaranteed that everybody on the boat would catch their limit. The crew consisted of my Dad and me and two other travelers in search of the big one. Pat navigated slowly down the river, while we hung our lines in trolling for the elusive kings.
Within the first 45 minutes, my Dad felt a strong tug on his line and began the grueling, laborious task of easing in the large fish. Another forty minutes later, Pops was sweating the sweet beads of victory, grinning from ear to ear, as he held up a hefty salmon. It weighed in at just under 25 pounds.
Two hours later, and Jimmy, the insurance salesman from Omaha, Neb., had the same satisfied look on his face after raking in a 27-pounder. The only two left were myself and Frank, a chain-smoking, recent retiree who was on the first trip of his life outside of his home state of Kentucky. He referred to smaller, less-desirable fish as "footballs." My Dad and Jimmy were sitting contentedly in the boat, waiting on us to snag a bite.
Once you caught a fish, you were no longer allowed to have a line in the water, as a precautionary measure to prevent more kings from being seized. So, when a couple more hours rolled by and neither Frank nor myself pulled one in, you could tell Jimmy and my Dad were getting somewhat listless. We finally saw some action when Frank got a bite and pulled in a respectably sized salmon. I began to wonder if I would ever catch one. After many hours on the river, the beginnings of a sunburn and a restless crew on board, I felt that time was wearing thin.
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Osprey - JournAlum - The Lumberjack - KRFH/610 AM - Travel
2008 Travel Journal
Editor-In-Chief & Web Designer - Matthew Hawk
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We met our guide in one of the lowermost stretches of the Kenai, and he quickly grew on us. The foul-mouthed, scratchy sounds of a human, who smoked a pack a day for 30 years, welcomed and ushered us onto the boat where two other men were already waiting to take off. Pat was his name, and he was never without a story of previous ventures on the river: ones that got away, the bears in his backyard, or life growing up in Alaska. He had been a river guide on the Kenai for over twenty years and a fisherman his whole life, born on bait and outboard motors.