It was a foggy, rain-soaked day in King Salmon. One crusty looking grumpy guy in hip boots was clearly the ringmaster of what appeared to be a five-ring circus happening in front of me. An entire fleet of float planes were tied off to a massive wooden dock on the Naknek River. Dormant. Grounded due to the fog that socked in right down to my boots. Pilots were yelling at dock hands to get the planes loaded and the ringmaster just looked on with what seemed like surly disgust. Apparently, the tower was going to give special clearance for a few airplanes to fly. This fleet had been sitting for a couple days and everyone was anxious to make the planes do their job. It wasn't a time to be late to the party. I sat there with my head down, staying out of the way, and waiting to be told to load up. I didn’t know a soul. I didn’t have any friends there. No family. No one. I was as alone as alone could be. The crusty looking grumpy ringmaster just called me “the kid from the south.” He finally came over to me and said “well kid, looks like I’m gonna have to fly you out to the Branch. Go ahead and load up in that 206 down there. I will be there in a minute.” I didn’t have the guts to ask what a 206 was. I knew it was an airplane but obviously it was a different airplane than the others. I knew that he knew I didn't know but, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of delivering more surliness my way. Instead, I asked the dock hand that was getting yelled at the most. He was glad to load my two duffel bags and backpack in the right airplane. When the ringmaster returned, I quickly loaded up per instruction and that was it. Off to the Branch. Just like I had done it a hundred times.
That was not only my first day in Bristol Bay but, it was my first day in Alaska. Almost 20 years ago now. I had no clue how much it would change my entire life. As the years and seasons rolled on, the grumpy ringmaster stopped referring to me as “that kid from the south.” I earned my spot in the Bristol Bay community and made friends. In later years as my interest in aviation grew, the ringmaster would message me asking about weather conditions at my location. I became a part of an inner circle that once again, changed my life forever. I am grateful for all of it.
By the time I started working in Alaska, I was no stranger to the duffel bag life. Living out of a couple of bags and a backpack was normal for me. I had just never done it in a location as remote as Bristol Bay. I read somewhere once that people who go to Alaska for work are either running from something, looking for something, or they are just too stupid to get a job anywhere else. I was all three. Maybe not too stupid to work somewhere else, but I was checking boxes on my resume. I needed Alaska experience to go where I really wanted to go. Trouble was that I had inadvertently fallen in love with Bristol Bay. She turned out to be the dirtiest mistress a fishing guide could have. The one that I couldn’t walk away from. The one that will kill you if you stay too long and ruin you if you leave too early. Bristol Bay has a way of doing both, no matter what you do.
If someone wanted to know exactly which part of Bristol Bay kept me returning for almost two decades, my answer would be “all of it.” Alaska is, without a doubt, the biggest adventure anyone can have. I’m sure somewhere in Siberia there is a bigger adventure but none of us are going there to do it any time soon. At least in my lifetime it seems that will be the case. Alaska has a certain captivating quality which speaks to those who are in fact, running, looking, or lost. Fishing fixes most everything and float planes fix everything else. Alaska has that in spades.
But honestly, as I sit here today trying to find a way to put in words that justly convey my experiences, the one thing that keeps coming to mind is the salmon migration. I lived for the days of hunting fresh, dime bright, chrome salmon straight in from the bay. No matter if I was up late studying weather patterns and maps trying to find a way to fly or if I was running a jet boat 50 miles one way down river to tidewater, it was the same rush. The satisfaction of watching waves of fish push a wake while migrating upriver, just as they have done for thousands of years. I lived for it. Dreamed about it. It’s the only thing I miss. This is the first summer in so many years that I have not been there for the migration. A couple nights ago, I dreamed about it. I was in the hip deep tidewater of the lower Branch. Fishing with my favorite 14’ spey rod. Chrome kings were streaming by, pushing wake. The tides were right, the skies were overcast and there was just enough wind to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Life was perfect.
In my dream, I just stood there watching the wakes push upriver. Not fishing, not casting. Just puffing on a cigar and watching the whole thing happen. The dream was clearly a ridiculous romanticized abomination. Probably forced into my thoughts subliminally by some social media algorithm that doesn't really want people to fish, only act like they fish. Anyone that knows me knows that I can't smoke. It makes me deathly ill the next day. Worse than a hangover. I wish I could smoke cigars. It looks really cool. Most importantly though, the same people that know I can't smoke also know that if I’m breathing and capable of standing in the lower Branch, there is absolutely no chance I am not gonna swing for kings on a fresh high tide. No chance. Not now, not ever. It’s the one thing that will bring me out of retirement. Maybe next season..........