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“Trust me, I’m pretty good at this part,” I said. “And you are completely absolved of all responsibility. If I miss a bite, it’s totally my fault and I will put the rod in the holder the rest of the day.”
To his credit, Joe let me hold the rod…which I know from experience is very hard to do as a guide. He just made me swear that I’d give it a “three alligator count” before I set the hook.
As I clicked the marlin reel into free spool and let my gear back for the first drift, I popped my feet up on the gunwale and settled in for a relaxing day on the Kenai. Who cared if the fishing wasn’t any good? I was going to enjoy the sunshine, the conversation and fact that I was on one of the rivers of my dreams.
At 45 feet, I threw the reel into gear and the diver caught the ripping emerald current and dove for the bottom. What happened next is a bit of a blur.
My bait had been in the water a grand total of 12 seconds when my rod slammed down like a passing boat had picked up my line in its prop. Now that boat was speeding like a big rig with no brakes towards Cook Inlet.
Only it wasn’t a boat.
Some unseen leviathan was ripping line off that impossibly tight drag like it was nothing. It had all happened so fast—and with the subtlety of getting smacked across the face with a wet spatula on a cold winter day.
Luckily I was momentarily stunned—that kept instinct from kicking in and me from setting the hook prematurely. My brain was foggy and I could hear Joe yelling something but it wasn’t clear. It was as if I had some of those earmuffs on you wear when you’re mowing the lawn.
Things were happening fast…and oddly enough…very slowly too.
“One Alligator…”
“Two Alligator…”
Halfway through my third reptile count, I closed my eyes and executed the biggest haymaker hook-set of my life. For an instant, nothing happened and I suddenly wanted to puke. But then the rod tip snapped to the water, almost dragging my delirious self with it.
The fight was on…only I don’t remember any of it. None of the runs, the headshakes, the net sliding under it. Nothing, nada.
My next memory is of the fish lying dead on the floor of the boat and me wanting to lie down with it and hug it. For a kid who’d caught his share of dark, inland chinook up to maybe 30 pounds, this animal was something so totally different.
The big hen wasn’t missing a single scale; she had a perfect snow belly and an incredibly beautiful purple back. Joe said somewhat nonchalantly that she probably weighed somewhere in the high 40’s or maybe low 50’s. I couldn’t stop staring. Never had I imagined a fish so big and bright before—and she outweighed the largest hen I’d ever seen by about 20 pounds!
“I don’t wanna burst your bubble, but that’s simply a nice fish around here, not a big one,” Joe said. “When we go back to the dock, nobody’s gonna take a second look. It would be kinda like you taking a 25-pounder to the dock in Sacramento. Guys are gonna say ‘nice fish’ but that’s about it.”
And he was right. At our onshore photo session, I was walking on air, grinning ear to ear. Every time somebody walked by, I’d try to make eye contact to make sure they saw my trophy. No a single person gave my fish a passing glance.
It was then and there that I fell in love with the Kenai River. If a guy could have a gorgeous, huge salmon like the one I had hanging and not get the time of day from other people, I wanted to see what would get their attention!
Sadly, the Kenai has fallen on some tougher times since that day, but it’s still the river of dreams for me. Anytime you drop a bait or lure into that amazingly green water, there’s a chance at something spectacular!