Woods and Waters Adventures: Adak Silver

Typically I’m not the man who is in the right spot at the right time. But that day, as I stood waist deep in the frigid Bering Sea casting a pink and silver streamer across the gently rolling surge of tide, I had no doubt my time had come -- and without question -- I was that man.

Behind me a nameless Aleutian stream emptied itself into the salt water and my eyes, as they so often do when I find myself at the edge of the ocean, scanned the horizon. Abruptly, several hundred yards in front of me, the swelling sea erupted in total chaos. A school of salmon a thousand strong broke the surface of the ocean like a wild swarm of bees, vaulting and leaping in an unbelievable display of aerial acrobatics.

Instantly, striking at the heart of the school, a killer whale tore through them like a crazed torpedo, busting out of the ocean with his wide mouth opened in a toothy grin, his gullet filled with salmon. A wall of water pushed out around him and in its surge rode hundreds of fish, appearing like silvery minnows against his huge black bulk. His body cleared the ocean completely and then smashed down onto the school in a great crash.

Then, just as quickly as the frenzy began, the ocean with its ever rolling surge, swallowed them all, hiding its’ turmoil down below.

In disbelief I stood there for several moments. Often I had seen a pod of killer whales cruise the edge of the island, slowly rising and sinking as they hunted the shore, but never had I seen anything like this. Here it wasn’t me with my fly rod who was top dog to the salmon, it wasn’t the eagles with their crushing talons, it wasn’t the seals, or the sea otters – it was the killer whale.

For an hour I stood in the sea casting, hoping the whale would move the fish in close. But there was no more schooling salmon, no more killer whales, only an empty open ocean and a gray cloudy sky. The cold water became unbearable and my legs felt like boards attached at my hips. Fishless and cold, I turned my back on the sea and moved into the stream.

In August, at the peak of the pink salmon run, fish were everywhere here. I spent many summer evenings wading in the cold crisp water wearing my arms out catching them. It was easy to lose count of the fish I caught. With hundreds of salmon waiting out in front of me, I simply forgot about the one just released and started immediately thinking about catching the next one.

I quickly learned how different these cold water fish were from their warm water brothers I caught back home in Indiana. Back home if a fish was foul hooked and released, chances were it wouldn’t survive. Soon it would be back on the surface gasping its’ last breath.

These salmon were warriors. Some I caught escaped the powerful talons of eagles – punctures wounds pierced them from side to side. Others managed to wrestle away from the hungry grasps of sea otters or seals – deep gashing claw marks ran down their bodies and chunky bits of flesh were bitten out of their backs. But, still they fought as hard as any salmon I caught.

On that day in September the harsh Aleutian winter signaled its’ approach. The green tundra grass stood a dull brown. During the night, under the cover of cloudy darkness, the snow had crept further down the mountains. Though the temperature held seasonable, the wind blew in off the ocean with a cold foreboding chill.

The pink salmon run was dead and I became even more amazed at those fish. More than likely born in this stream, they had spent years in the ocean, travelling thousands of miles and somehow, against great odds, made it back to their birth place to spawn and die.

The salmon didn’t know or perhaps they didn’t care of their destiny. They littered the stream. Everywhere I looked, they were there – hundreds of bodies of decomposing, hanging flesh. Some more skeleton than fish, yet still they attempted to swim. Their bodies had lost the ability to go where their minds told them to so instead they floundered on shallow banks and gravel bars. There they waited patiently for the ravens and fox.

On that day they were not why I was there. I was after my first Alaskan silver salmon – just like the one’s I had seen disappear in the mouth of the killer whale. I had been told they moved into the stream when the pinks were finished. I’d also been told they were twice as big and twice as fun to catch.

I worked up into the stream wading from hole to hole looking for the silvers, but finding none. I was glad to have the rotting pinks for company because among them were beautiful dolly vardens and rainbow trout gorging on their living corpses, and they kept my line busy.

In front of me the stream curved in a gentle sweep. In the bend of the stream the years of slow moving water had gnawed away at the fragile bank and created a deep undercut hole. A tall knoll rose sharply above the bank and upon it perched a mature bald eagle. For a moment, my attention drifted from the stream and onto the big bird and I strayed carelessly close to the hole before my eyes caught a vague movement of something in the water.

I stared straight at them for several seconds before I realized what they were. They moved in a shifting silvery wave in the current, their bodies big and shimmering bright -- fresh from the sea and perfect for catching.

The salmon were schooled below the undercut bank, all but those on the very edge safe from the eagle above them. I couldn’t resist trying to get a better look at them, so I climbed out of the stream and slowly worked across the bank on my belly and lowered my head over the side. With my eyes inches from the water my heart started to race. Directly under me were over a hundred salmon and some of them were giants. The biggest ones were well under the bank putting them out of reach to my cast.

Cruising under the salmon were several dolly vardens that made the two-pounders I caught earlier look small. Underneath my nose was a salmon that would go eight pounds. For a moment I wished I was that eagle because with a quick grab of a talon he would have been mine. With my face almost in his world I looked down on the salmon and decided then and there somehow that fish would end up on the end of my line.

For thirty minutes I casted to the fish, my fly drifting too far into the middle of the stream for it to drift past the salmon, or my line carrying too far up onto the bank and snagging in the tall tundra grass. More than once I had to lay my rod down on a gravel bar and sneak around the hole to free my line.

Then, at that moment when I was just going through the motions, something different happened: I made a perfect cast; my fly carried in the current to the waiting salmon; as if on cue I noticed a flare of the salmon’s gills; my fly line stopped where one hundred times before it had drifted past. Instantly I raised my rod and with a whoosh my line lifted off the stream sending thousands of tiny water droplets spraying into the air.

My rod doubled over and the salmon glided slightly to the left. Feeling the bite of the hook he exploded and bulldogged his way to the head of the pool. With a great leap the fish was out of the water twisting and shaking, sending its power surging through my rod down into my hands.

Instead of running away the salmon brought the fight to me and I recovered line as quickly as I could. With no place to go but back into the pool or downstream the salmon made a run for the sea. His muscular silver body split through the shallow riffle at my feet throwing water on me with his powerful tail. In an instant he was past me and my reel was into nothing but backing. I decided if I wanted to land this fish I better get after him.

I let out a war whoop and gave chase down the middle of the stream. By the time I caught up I was completely drenched and out of breath. Luckily the salmon was just as tired and was soon swimming at my feet. Gently I lifted the fish from the water, snapped a picture, removed my fly and returned him again.

The salmon edged to the side of the stream and held in the slack water. I gathered my rod and walked back upstream to the grassy knoll and began to climb. Halfway up I waved my arms and yelled. The big eagle vaulted from his perch and soared into the distance until his form melted into the gray cloudy sky.

“Today,” I said, “this salmon will be caught only by me!”