A Fishing Yarn

By Missy Whitmire

We were at a crossroads in our life and our relationship, and decided to head north to Alaska for a couple of months, to get a different perspective on our situation.  After packing a pop-up camper to the brim with supplies, at the last minute we added fishing gear, just because you never know.  I brought my late father’s fly rod and reel, circa 1940.  Steve went out and bought a new fishing rod that was capable of landing a large salmon, should the opportunity arise.

We hitched the camper to a Ford F-150, and on June 9, 2000, took off north to Alaska.

I’m not sure when the journey turned into a fishing trip.  Neither of us knew much about the sport, and Alaskan salmon fishing was something we read about in travel magazines.  I think it was when we passed the Russian River in the Alaskan Kenai Peninsula, and heard about combat fishing.  As we watched the crowds of energetic anglers in the wild river standing shoulder to shoulder waiting for the salmon to run, I noticed a maniacal light in Steve’s eyes.

After a couple of detours we camped at Crooked Creek, which branches off the Kasilof River into a cove area.  Word was the salmon run up the Kasilof, and some of them take the turn into the Creek.  The Creek is combat fishing lite. It’s shallower and safer than the river, and the cove has a sandy beach, perfect for chairs, coolers, and picnic baskets.   Whole families were there, settled in for a season of fishing.

We secured the camper, hauled our gear to the creekside, and fishing began in earnest.  After awhile, many hours in fact, nothing was happening.  Salmon were being caught, just not by us.  I gave up, and sat back with my feet up, watching the activity.  Steve continued to fish, and finally exhausted, put down his rod.  I decided to head to the camper for the night, but the sun doesn’t set in Alaska in the summertime, so it was bright as day.

Steve began talking to the combat fishing veterans.  One grizzled old timer asked him was he was using for bait.  He showed him the expensive bait he had bought just for salmon, and the bright shiny lures.  Naw, you won’t catch em with that, he observed.  The salmon ain’t hungry, they’re mad.  You want to throw something in front of them they will attack, to get it out of their way.  They don’t wanna eat, they wanna fu_**!!   Then he reached out and pressed a wad of something into Steve’s hand, and said “try it and see.”  Steve opened his hand and saw a ball of tangled orange yarn.  Thinking he was being made fun of, he laughed, thanked the guy, and headed back to the camper.

The next day we were back at the creek, me with the cooler and lunch basket, and Steve with his fishing rod, orange yarn dangling from the hook.  After a few attempts at casting, he finally got the yarn-hook to float on out into the current.  It wasn’t long before his rod began to bend in two, and he was being pulled out into Crooked Creek, towards the wide, fast moving Kasilof River.  The fisherman next to him began to be pulled out into the creek, too.  Next thing you know it was a jumble of rods, fishermen splashing, and salmon jumping.  Steve managed to make it back to the shore, and reel his salmon in.  He was a king salmon beauty, and the orange yarn trailing from his mouth did not clash with the red color of his skin!

We took Mr. Salmon to a 24 hr processor nearby, and filled our cooler with fresh frozen filets.  Our next stop was Denali National Park, where we camped for a week in the wilderness, in the shadow of Mt. McKinley.  There we dined on salmon filets, drank red wine, and planned the next chapter in our lives – a move to Charleston, SC.