Adventure in Alaska
by Barry Gibson
It was quiet, like the calm before a storm. The boat sat motionless on a glassy surface that reflected the cloudless afternoon sky and deep greenish-blue of towering spruce trees crowding a rocky point just a few yards inside of us. The only sound came from a small bird somewhere in the woods that scolded us with a shill "kA-kA-kA." The air smelled of pine needles.
Our
guide
and owner of Elfin Cove Lodge, Dan Baxter, finally broke the silence. "Just
don't bring its head above water, whatever you do, " he cautioned Dan Caruso in
a half-whisper, "or it'll go crazy." He slipped a rope loop around his wrist and
grasped the shank of a 14/0 shark hook tied to the other end, all the while
keeping one eye on the desktop-sized halibut lying perfectly still a few inches
beneath the surface.
Baxter leaned over the side of the 30-foot catamaran and carefully positioned the point of the shark hook just inside the cooperative halibut's mouth. Then, with a might heave, he yanked the fish halfway out of the water.
I wasn't prepared for what happened next. It was as if someone had dropped Baxter, Dan Caruso, and the halibut into a giant blender full of salt water and then switched it on full blast -- without the top on!
A blur of frigid spray erupted, and I wheeled around to protect my camera despite my lofty perch on the cabin roof. Baxter, literally handcuffed to the halibut, grimaced as his elbows beat an involuntary and painful tattoo on the gunwale as the enraged fish shook its head and slammed its powerful body against the side of the boat. Dan Caruso grabbed a hardwood billy and, holding his rod out of harm's way above his head with one hand, thumped the fish into submission. Then 90 pounds of halibut came aboard with a slippery slap-thud and slid across the deck. Our 144-quart cooler suddenly looked awfully small.
Caruso lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. A charter boat skipper
from
Maine, he'd spent years out on Atlantic grounds yet had never boated a big
halibut. But here, in southeast Alaska, he took this Pacific beauty on our
second day of fishing, and would deck another that pushed the 100-pound mark a
few hours later.
As usual, I groused under my breath. I certainly deserved more than the succession of five-to-20-pound flatties that hammered my jig in the 60-foot depths. Little "rat" halibut like these were treated with indifference by our guide, and were tossed back unharmed. Only those better than 50 pounds generally wound up in the box.
For a couple of New England bottom fishermen, it was paradise. But "Angler's Paradise" had indeed been Dan Baxter's claim when I spoke to him on the phone last spring. "You've got to try it, " he told me emphatically. We haggled over dates, and settled on early September. "You won't believe our fishing!" he continued with confident enthusiasm. "The silver salmon will be up in the river, and of course we have the bottom fish. And kings? Should be a few 30-plus-pounders around...."
He sounded suspiciously like one of those resort-area Chamber of Commerce hucksters, the type who always tell you "The big ones bite here every day!" But how true his words would ultimately ring!
For Caruso and me, getting to Elfin Cove was a day-long project, but would be considerably faster for anglers who live in the West. We flew from Boston to Seattle, then boarded an Alaska Airlines jet that took us directly to Juneau. Here we were met by Dan Baxter, the lodge owner and our guide, and Dave Brown, who runs Alaska Coastal Airlines. Dave and Baxter loaded our luggage into a van, and we swung around to the rear of the airport where several dozen seaplanes were docked. The gear was stowed in Dave's mint-condition 1955 DeHavilland Beaver, a coveted workhorse of Alaska skies that newer floatplanes can't match, and within minutes we were airborne and heading west over a magnificent green and silver carpet of mountains and shimmering straits. Forty-five minutes later, just at dusk, we touched at Elfin Cove, some 85 miles west of Juneau.
The lodge is a modern, three-story building situated at the foot of a dock where commercial boats and seaplanes tie up. A spacious relaxation room, complete with satellite-dish color TV, and a newly constructed outdoor deck occupy most of the first floor, while four comfortable bedrooms with individual baths are on the second. The dining room and kitchen are on the third floor. No matter where you are in the lodge, you can look out and see the magnificent Brady Glacier and Fairweather Mountain Range some 30 miles away, although they appear much closer. It's spectacular!
The following morning Dan Caruso and I and another guest, Oregonian Franz Dutzler, who makes his living sculpting beautiful trout and salmon out of native woods, headed off with Dan Baxter in the lodge's 30-foot 'Tom Cat' catamaran for some bottom fishing in nearby South Inian Pass. We worked eight-ounce cannon ball jigs tipped with small herring on 30-pound outfits, and were optimistic despite gray skies and a persistent drizzle. However, we managed only a half-dozen small halibut, topped by a 30-pounder Franz took in 80 feet of turbulent water near a rocky point. After breaking off a couple that would have gone larger, we headed back for lunch.
The bottom fishing being slow, it was unanimously decided to head to the Dundas River, which is in Glacier bay National Monument, for some salmon fishing for the rest of the afternoon. We transferred our gear into the aluminum river runner, a 20-footer powered by a 150 hp Johnson outboard equipped with a Jet drive that can run in just a few inches of water. Off we went, with Baxter at the wheel.
Less than an hour later, Baxter slowed the jet-boat at the mouth of the Dundas, a huge, shallow bay veined with underwater ridges of silt deposited over countless years. He studied the natural cuts and channels carefully, jockeyed the boat into position, and hit the throttle. We leaped onto plane. Raindrops stung our faces as we raced up the river, zigzagging to follow the deepest parts, which at best were covered with just a foot of water.
We slowed down several miles up and coasted to a stop on a sandy beach near a bend where the river was about four feet deep and 30 feet wide. Just then the rain stopped, and the sun peeked out through a blue hole in the grayness. I stood, agape. Hundreds of motionless salmon suddenly became visible, torpedo-like shapes finning in the air-clear water, all pointed upriver and waiting for darkness to continue their journey up to the part of the river where they had been born. Then, they'd spawn.
In the meantime, we caught them. We started out with eight-pound spinning gear and Pixee spoons with fluorescent plastic centers, and took a silver (Coho) or dog (chum) salmon averaging ten pounds on every dozenth cast or so. Although these fish were not feeding, minds intent solely on spawning, every so often one would attack a lure through reflex or, perhaps, a vague memory still imprinted on a tiny brain after a life of feeding in salt water.
Franz
took some nice fish on his fly gear, so Baxter and I soon switched over. We
flicked garish pink streamers to the opposite bank and allowed them to sink down
among the stacked-up salmon. A slow, methodical stripping sequence, with
occasional twitches of the rod tip, seemed to be the key to getting strikes. We
could see them hit. The power, speed and stamina of these solid fish in the icy
river, fed by glacial runoff, was truly impressive. We release all but one
silver that had taken a lure deep in its throat. It was an afternoon to
remember!
As spectacular as the salmon fishing in Dundas River was, it was the bottom fishing that really intrigued us. The third day dawned clear and calm, so Baxter ran us out to Yakobi Island, about 35 minutes from the lodge. Here, in 60 to 120 feet of water, we found a veritable smorgasbord of bottom species to wrestle with on 12 to 30 pound tackle and leadhead jigs tipped with soft plastic tails.
Dan started off with a 30-pound lingcod. A few minutes later I took a twin of his, and then Baxter winched up a ten-pound yelloweye rockfish on his 20-pound spinning outfit. Dan Caruso, though, soon developed a problem with Irish lords, pound-sized members of the sculpin family and considered a nuisance. Just about the time he was gingerly unhooking his fifth "Caruso Cod," Baxter and I scored with a quillback and China rockfish respectively. But Caruso sprang back into action with another nice ling of about 20 pounds and a vermilion rockfish. Somebody boated a 20-pound halibut.
One of the real treats we encountered here were the schools of black rockfish cruising between the surface and mid-depth, near underwater peaks. These six to eight pound gamesters, similar in appearance to fresh water largemouth bass, would smack Buzz Bomb jigs and small spoons tossed on light spinning and plugging outfits. Determined fighters, the blacks repeatedly strained our tackle to the limit, providing tremendous sport. The action off Yakobi was some of the fastest of its kind I've experienced anywhere, and the variety of colorful and tasty bottom species was simply icing on the cake.
But I still hadn't caught a monster halibut like the two Dan Caruso had taken at Lisanski Inlet, and I wanted one. So, at noon, we cranked up and headed for Three Hill Island, about halfway back to the lodge from Yakobi. The water was flat calm and bright blue.
Baxter maneuvered the boat to within a few yards of the rocks, and we began jigging. Caruso quickly took an eight-pound silver salmon that nailed his halibut jig right on bottom, and I followed with a 12-pound kelp greenling. I pinned it on my jig and flipped the reel in free spool. Minutes later, my California-style standup rod bent double from the powerful strike of a big halibut, then snapped straight again. Broken line. We idled back in towards the rocks to get another bait. This time I was lucky, in more ways than one. I lowered the fresh greenling to the bottom on an 8/0 hook, set the rod in a holder, and began rummaging through the cooler for a sandwich. All of a sudden Baxter and Caruso started hollering.
I stood up abruptly, banged my had on the cabin doorway, and lunged for my rod. The tip top was already in the water, and the shaft was making little snapping noises like it was about to break at the butt. I wrestled it from the holder and hung on. The fish took 20 feet of line in an initial burst, then dogged deep. I pumped, carefully. It took a while.
Back
at the dock, the big halibut weighed in at 126 pounds.
There's
no doubt in my mind that Dan and I could have taken many more big ones,
especially on live bait, but since we already had all the meat we could lug home
we decided to leave the outsized flatties alone for the rest of the trip.
Actually, bottom fishing is productive in many areas that lie only a few minutes from the lodge. The unusual aspect, at least for those of us use to traveling great distances out to sea to find good fishing, is that much of the best action takes place just a few scant yards from the shoreline, and in flat-calm water. Lingcod, a half-dozen varieties of rockfish, halibut, and salmon make up the bulk of the catch.
Salmon fishing is Elfin Cove's feature attraction, particularly in salt water. All five Pacific species can be taken. Kings (Chinook) running to 50 pounds are at the top of the list and are most abundant in May, June and July, although they can be taken into September as well. Silver (Coho) run from July through September and average eight to 12 pounds; some 20-pounders are often taken late in the season. Pink (Humpback), dog (Chum), and reds (Sockeye) start to show up in June and provide action through July. Mooching or trolling herring is effective, as is jigging with artificials.
All the tackle you'll need for bottom fishing and salmon trolling is supplied, and the outfits are top-of-the-line brand names. There's no need to bring a lot of gear, but if you have a favorite jigging stick in the 30 to 50 pound class (for halibut), bring it. Terminal tackle is also supplied, but feel free to experiment with your own lures. For salmon in the river, bring a six to nine-weight fly rod and some fluorescent pink streamers, the fuller and gaudier the better. Six-to-ten pound spinning gear is also ideal, and include a selection of Pixee or Daredevle spoons.
One of the real pleasing thing about a stay at Elfin Cove Lodge is the blend of scenery, abundant wildlife and genuine hospitality. There are hundreds of miles of coastline along the inlets, straits and bays, and you can troll for hours without seeing a sign of man, just lush forest of huge spruce that pill down from the mountains to form an uneasy truce with the rugged, rocky shoreline just above high water mark.
Wildlife is everywhere. It's nothing to sight a pair of bald eagles high in the trees at the mouth of a salmon creek, you might see dozens in a day. Swing in close to shore a Inian Island and you'll see, hear and smell, a colony of sea lions, huge animals that will roar at you for intruding, and then waddle awkwardly from sun-warmed rocks and slip reluctantly into the frigid water.
One day we took a trip to Port Althorn, a wide bay that is home to dozens of shy sea otters that wouldn't let us get close enough to photograph them. Then we idled up near the mouth of a tiny brook, raised the outboard and drifted in, only to inadvertently spook hundreds of pink salmon queuing up to start their spawning trek upstream in two inches of crystal clear water. We saw sign of grizzly bears every time we stepped ashore yet, uncharacteristically, we never did spot one. We looked over our shoulders a lot though!
The food at the lodge is first rate, prepared by their gourmet chef. You can gorge on freshly-caught (maybe by you) salmon or halibut, even savory Dungeness crabs that Dan Baxter catches in his own trap. Steaks, turkey and pork add to the variety, and plenty of thick sandwiches, fruit and snacks are packed up and sent down to the boats each morning. You won't go hungry!
On the last day of our stay we set out to troll beautiful Idaho Inlet for kings, and the weather was perfect, mid 60's, sunny and flat calm. Around noon we stopped and jigged up a five-pound halibut, then beached the boat at the mouth of a dried-up creek. Baxter filleted the fish as Dan Caruso and I gathered some dry wood. We placed the simple wire grate we had brought along on top of some rocks, and lit a fire. Baxter collected some mussels from the shallows and placed them on the grill with the sizzling fillets.
We ate with our fingers, until everything was gone, then sat back against an ancient fallen-over spruce and soaked up the early afternoon warmth, occasionally poking the sand at sun-bleached skeletons of ten-pound dog salmon that that swum this tiny brook to spawn, only to die and drift back down to sea. Hectic city life seemed light years away. That evening the three of us chartered a floatplane for a sunset flight over the Fairweather Mountains and Brady Glacier Ice-field. It was a truly awesome and humbling experience that words cannot begin to describe. You just have to experience it yourself!
But all too soon it was time to leave. Halfway home from Seattle at 30,000 feet, Dan Caruso tossed aside the magazine he'd been reading and stretched back, hands behind his head. He stared at the plane's ceiling.
"Do you suppose," he mused, "that those guys up there really know what they've got? Where else can you go these days to experience fishing like that? It's like, well, an angler's paradise. Isn't it?"
He got no argument from me. Baxter had been absolutely right!