EMAIL TO A FRIEND PRINT ARTICLE

800 Miles to Empty

May 1, 2008

Cooper Landing…9/11/02?
WILL: After dinner, back through the valley we went, following the Kenai River, a body of water that seemed plugged into a 120-volt outlet. The electric blue glowed like a neon sign that read Fish Here. The river led us to the crossroads of Cooper Landing, a collection of a few bars and restaurants, a motel or two, tackle shops and a general store.

We parked at Alaska Troutfitters—a flea-market complex of drift boats on trailers, a guide shop and a motel—sometime after midnight, the sun still staring out from behind the mountain rim. I couldn't sleep, though anglers in other rooms challenged the integrity of the building's foundation with a hallelujah chorus of snores. I'm convinced there isn't an outdoorsman in the world with a clear nasal passage.

Early the next morning we met our guides, Billy Coulliette and Jason Rand, better known in those parts as J-Rock. John, sipping a cup of coffee and plugging his lip with chew, looked like the only one who'd gotten any shut-eye.

JOHN: Our first day with Troutfitters (907-595-1212; aktroutfitters.com) started on the Upper Kenai, at a launch near what is called the Combat Zone. Here anglers stand shoulder to shoulder during the sockeye run and beat the river to a froth as they attempt to catch their daily limit of the prized fish. Knife fights have broken out in the past when one fisherman didn't reel in his line fast enough for a nearby angler who was fighting a salmon, causing the fish to break off. We marveled at the crazed beasts and took off downstream for a less populated stretch of water.

Will and I have both lived in New York City since before the attacks of September 11, and it seems that everywhere we go to hunt or fish, someone asks, "Where were you on 9/11?" So it wasn't surprising when Billy and J-Rock brought up the subject soon after we launched their drift boat. What was surprising was the way the conversation progressed.

"So, were you guys in New York for 9/11?" J-Rock asked as he lit a Camel.

"That was, what, 2002, right?" Billy asked idly between strokes of his oars.

Will and I looked at each other, stunned. As far as we're concerned, "September 11" and "2001" go together like "peanut butter" and "jelly." Apparently this isn't the case everywhere.

Before either of us could correct Billy, J-Rock was on the spot. "No, man, that was 2001. Remember? That was the day of that killer egg bite."

"Oh, that's right, man," said Billy, ashamed he'd forgotten the date of such a legendary day of fishing.
Neither of them meant to be insensitive. They're just so consumed with fishing that other things in life happen only as they relate to angling. In Cooper Landing, fishing is life, and nothing else really matters a whole heck of a lot.

WILL: A fellow named Cooper (obviously) founded Cooper Landing while he was speculating for gold. In search of the shiny stuff, he let millions of salmon eggs float by. Turns out the eggs were the metaphorical gold. Each guide has hundreds of little beads painted to represent the roe in its various stages, and these patterns are protected like nuclear secrets. And for good reason: What the guides get in return are huge fish and repeat customers.

All of Billy's guides carry large tackle boxes filled with eggs painted every possible shade of pink and orange, each pattern representing a different phase in the artist's life. The orangish ones are from Billy's avant-garde years. The light pink is when he dabbled in photo-realism. It took Michelangelo just four years to complete the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; Billy's crew has spent 15 perfecting the egg.

JOHN: J-Rock got us started with a beautiful Dolly Varden he handled masterfully and had in the net after just a five-minute fight. I didn't fare as well with the first rainbow I tied into. After a solid 10 minutes of runs into the backing and skillful boat work by Billy in the quick current, the fish came off. A tirade of expletives spewed from my mouth. I don't like to lose fish. Luckily, it wasn't long before a 23-inch Dolly Varden was doing all it could to permanently turn my forearms into triple knots of muscle. That fish eventually succumbed and landed in the net.

WILL: I don't choke on fish. If a trout breaks off, it's the equipment's fault. While John sulked over his missed opportunity, I watched my indicator nosedive underwater. With a swift jerk, it was fish-on!

When the big 'bow first surfaced I didn't see it, but Billy did. "Oh, man, that's a pig!" he yelped.
Now, I'm used to flattery from guides trying to stroke your ego. You'd think they were chatting up some girl at a bar the way they go on. So, of course, initially I didn't believe Billy.

Then the brute swirled again and everyone  uttered a collective "ohhhh!" The 25-inch 'bow teased and ran, but we got her to the net, made a few memories with the camera and sent her back to the river.

JOHN: After our first day on the Kenai we headed to Hamilton's, a dark, smoky little bar across the street from Troutfitters. Hamilton's is the kind of place where everyone in town shows up at some point during the night to see how everyone else did that day. After six hours of bull, the bartender had to ask us to leave. We had drunk her out of beer. So we walked out of the bar into the bright midnight sunshine and ambled back to the motel to crash.

WILL: Fortunately we had plenty of time to shake the hangover the next day as we waited in line to fish the upper Russian River, a sockeye spawning ground. The Russian River Campground can accom­modate only a limited number of vehicles, so you arrive early, queue up and hope to get in before dinnertime.

After 45 minutes of waiting, we pulled into a spot at the head of the Russian River Falls Trail and suited up. Our guide, Mike, checked the rounds in his sidearm. The splashing of salmon up the river signals a buffet for grizzlies. Just a few weeks before, Mike had been approached by a bear. His life was spared, but the bruin took a few practice casts with his fly rods and left them shattered on the bank.

Mike, a Wisconsin native in his mid 20s, had been guiding in Alaska for just two seasons. Despite his limited experience, he acted like a veteran. Everything was understated. Are you worried about bears? "Eh," he'd answer. Show him a seven-pound trout: "Not a bad fish." We liked him. He put the gun in his belt.

"Thirty-eight?" I asked.

"Nope. Forty-four. Thirty-eight wouldn't do much."

Truth be told, neither would a .44, but like a home-security system for the lonesome housewife, this was our peace of mind. Off we went down the trail, just over two miles to the falls.

Salmon stacked up like books on a shelf, nudging each other upstream—a scene straight out of a nature documentary. We intended to lure savage rainbows with yarn flies and egg patterns, and we were equipped with six-weights to do just that. But the sockeyes were just begging to be caught. Six-weight rods are as stout as dry spaghetti when it comes to spawning sockeyes, but we weren't about to let thousands of fish go untouched. Mike stood on the shore nervously waiting for more of his precious rods to be broken, not by bears, but by a far more destructive force: salmon-hungry magazine editors.

NEXT
Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3

Comment on This Article Your Name: Enter the following word: Your Comments: Please keep comments focused on the subject (and profanity-free) or we may delete your post. Do not enter more than 10 lines. If you see inappropriate language, e-mail us.

We require all participants in interactive areas to accept the terms of the Bonnier Corporation subscriber agreement. Please read the agreement before making comments. When you click on the button above to submit your comments, you are indicating your acceptance of and are agreeing to adhere to the terms of the subscriber agreement.