On a bluff bank high above the Matanuska River during the summer solstice, the light is constant. The sun never really sets this far north when the salmon run.
Armed with only a notepad and pencil, I contemplate life and the state of fishing under a bright Alaskan night. Though the source escapes me now, I once read an article linking sleep depravation to paranoid delusions. I mention this only because I keep hearing something in the thick underbrush leading down to the river. Maybe it's the cow moose and two calves which stood on this exact spot only a few days ago. Or maybe not.
A wide sheet of glacial melt fills the river below, producing a dull roar like the sound of a continuous ocean wave breaking against a beach. The Matanuska is just one of a thousand arteries coursing through the heart of the Alaskan interior. The life these rivers bring is salmon, which swim against the roily current in numbers that boggle the imagination, bringing fishermen like me and my two oldest sons north to this last frontier.
A dog barks in the distance, as I remember a story about a grizzly bear that left claw marks on my friend's house located approximately 25 yards behind me. Or maybe it's 40 yards away. I begin to wonder how fast an outdoor writer can move if and when pressed.
Oh, yeah, the bear story. It's a rather bizarre tale involving a pony with snapping yellow teeth, an equally crazed friend named Bernie and a shotgun. I mention it only because there are fresh salmon carcasses piled around a cleaning table not too far from this fire pit - the result of our successful fishing expedition down on the Kenai this past week.
Unable to sleep, my attention momentarily shifts to the upcoming CITGO Bassmaster Classic in North Carolina. In the weeks leading up to this year's championship, pros and pundits have expressed concern about the crowds and the local fishing pressure expected to descend on Lake Wylie this month.
Fishing pressure is always a hot topic at the Classic. In the past, some pros have complained that local fishermen have grabbed their fishing spots, eliminating opportunities for fame and fortune. Others have been overheard whining about the adoring crowds following them throughout the day. And never mind all those intrusive cameras.
Hey, life must be tough when you're a famous bass pro.
There are no bass in Alaska. Lots of moose. Tons of salmon and trout. And more than a few bears who enjoy fishing just as much as the next guy.
Comparisons between bass fishing and salmon fishing are there if you look hard enough. Take fishing pressure, for example. Compared to what happens in the combat zone near the confluence of the Russian and Kenai rivers, bass fishermen really don't have that much to complain about. Try landing a trophy salmon in a crowd or competing with the local wildlife for a few fillets. Last year, an angler was attacked and killed by a grizzly bear in this same combat zone on the Kenai Peninsula. The bloody attack began in the parking lot and ended near the water.
Combat fishing is the term used to describe what occurs in Alaska each summer when millions of salmon rush headlong into the current to complete their lifecycle. "Spawn 'til you die," said Ray Troll. Certainly there are worse ways to leave this earth. Stomped to a bloody pulp by a cow moose while you're alone by a campfire. Mauled by a bear on a bluff bank above the Matanuska. If given a choice, I'll take death by spawning.
Shoulder to shoulder on the Kenai, hundreds of fishermen jockey for casting space and landing room. I'm told occasional fights break out in the combat zone. And the ones between fishermen are far more entertaining than the ones involving the kings. To avoid the Kenai combat zone before moving down to the Kasilof River, we chartered a boat for a day. Neophytes to the king salmon run, we assumed a boat would eliminate the kind of pressure we had witnessed in the public access areas.
As a public service, I'll briefly describe the boating strategies employed by the hundreds of professional guides and local anglers during the king salmon frenzy. The day begins with back trolling. As I understand it, you idle into line and hope other boaters will allow you to merge into traffic. Your lures bump along the rocky bottom under the boat behind you. And so on and so forth. The day ends with a series of chain drifts in other well-known and widely popular sections of the river. In a chain drift, dozens of boats battle for position to become a link in a chain. Once your boat has been carried out of the strike zone by the current, the guide fires up the outboard, charges back upriver to the head of the chain and repeats the process indefinitely until a "take down" occurs, at which time chaos ensues.
In other words, it's kind of like walleye fishing.
A world away from the Matanuska Valley this week, the world's best bass fishermen will face their own type of fishing pressure. In reality, it's the pressure to succeed in this sport's largest and most visible venue - not the type of pressure that prevents an angler from catching a fish or finding a little elbowroom. And rest assured, no fisherman will be attacked in the parking lot by a grizzly bear.
The midnight sun of Alaska sheds a different kind of light on the world. It changes what one takes for granted, regardless of our occasional delusions.