I am not a combat fisherman. I’m a conscientious objector when it comes doing battle for room with more than two anglers especially if they are within sight, so I move around a lot and fin hunt during the darker hours of the early morn or after the sun closes its eyes on the western horizon.
For those of you who have been crossing various appendages in hopes the Spit’s fishing hole action will pick up, there is finally some good news.
Well, that was an interesting Memorial Day weekend.
The long Memorial Day weekend is but hours away and the initial runs are starting to ease in, so it’s launch time for our annual series of fin-related reports.
Well, it’s that time again. The sunset of summer is beginning to slide further into the expanding dusk of fall. The raucous calls of gathering cranes will soon disappear as they embark on their southern journeys to warmer climes deepening the silence left behind by the erstwhile departures of the birds of song.
It is also time again to close out Reeling ’Em In for the season.
It has been another great ride and I want to thank all of you who have provided tips, tales and the multifarious inputs that are so important in making a light-hearted fishing column like this work.
Whoa! August just shot by like a peregrine falcon in a free fall attack. Suddenly we’ve tumbled into September where the cranes amp up pounding carbs and protein for their sojourn south and anglers switch gear as the fish runs slide into their fall mode.
Last Saturday, the Anchor River was down and clear enough that the dollies went nuts. Silvers also joined the party along with a few steelhead.
Sunday was pretty righteous also.
A few days ago, a buddy, JT, gave me a call from his boat while being pounded by so much rain he claimed he’d probably feel drier if he fell overboard.
He was fishing in about 90 feet of water trying to get four of his seasoned citizen in-laws into some flats when he spotted jumpers headed his way.
They were popping out of water like exploding kernels on a hot skillet.
Last week the Olympics offered a diversion when the fishing in some areas started gearing down to a semi-conscious crawl.
Things became so bad at one of our normal hot spots that the small schools of silvers cruising by acted as if they required fillets of lightly smoked Norwegian herring soaked in fermented sturgeon oil before they would even consider a courtesy nibble. Arrogant @%^*&^s. I hate it when they cop an attitude.
I’ve done a little less scouting this week due to the fact that the Summer Olympics have kicked into gear. When our outstanding U.S. athletes are on the air my lures aren’t flying through it.
My bride has even commented that I’m suddenly showing enough sense to come in out of the rain once in a while.
Personally, I think The Fishing Hole holds endless possibilities for an Olympics of its own.
Fish could be scored for their finesse in synchronized swimming, aerial gymnastics and scrum avoidance skills involving rabid seal dodging.
There has been a plethora of stories written over the years about family vacation visitations. Some are humorous. Others reveal the real scientific explanation for premature graying.
Like everyone else, when company rolls in, we try to make sure our guests are exposed to as much of the dazzling sightseeing, saltwater delicacies and warmth of the Alaskan soul as they can handle during the brief time they have to share with us.
Last week was no exception.
Things have been a bit gloomy and wet as of late but that’s just fine because no one wants some brain stem mishandling a slash burn or campfire that would give a new meaning to a front yard barbecue.
There have been a few uneasy weeks where temps were set on roast while the flora was dry enough to flare by just the thought of striking a match.
Fortunately, things have cooled off for a while.
Unfortunately, just the opposite has occurred to some of the salmon fishing depending upon whether you are beach flinging or floating.
Once the dipnetting for reds took off this summer, I starting receiving requests for some tips on how to fillet a fish without turning it into something more suitable for stew or soup.
It is astounding how many processing challenged individuals you’ll find chopping away at carcasses splayed out on cleaning tables with everything from dull pen knives to implements more suitable for logging.
I was scouting for jumpers along the east and west side beaches of the Spit when I overheard two men squabbling about a fish one of them had just landed outside the entrance to The Fishing Hole.
One squawking rooster was adamant it was a silver while the other had steam rolling out of his cranial orifices because he was convinced that it was a king.
When they detected I was sitting on a rock listening to their martial arts dust up of words, they took a breath and asked if I was a local.
I did a bit of scouting over the holiday weekend in hopes of spotting a silver or two hurtling out of the sea around the Spit. Nada.
Why? Because I have received numerous inquiries as to when I think the first coho will make their summer debut at The Fishing Hole.
So, at the moment, how can I put this delicately? I don’t have a ^%$#*&@ clue.
I’m a bit more cautious now about throwing out pompous prognostications after what happened a few years ago.
Last week was amazing for numerous fishing fanatics pursuing fins on the lower peninsula — especially if they were able to drag their gluteal regions out of the horizontal position at quasi-dark-thirty.
Unless you have a vampire dangling from a branch of your family tree, it won’t kill you to start flinging lures around dawn’s early light.
Turk and Willie went after the silver beasts gliding up the Anchor on June 22, and claimed they stepped through a time warp straight into the halcyon and nostalgic days of primo fishing.
I usually don’t fish on the weekends because it’s a great time to cruise the river accesses and The Spit to determine what’s being nailed, where and how, while listening to “scout’s honor” tales told ’round the cleaning tables.
Besides, being the size of a mutant Wookie, it would take a majorly modified shoehorn to fit me into some of my favorite spots when the hordes descend on the Kenai.
Last Saturday was a prime example of The Spit and its infamous fishing lagoon returning to the days when parking spaces and elbow room were at a premium.
ow, what an incredibly gorgeous Memorial Day weekend even though the wind and overcast chilled things down on Monday.
For those of you who can barely recall it, fishing for the major part of three days was downright respectable for competent piscatorians and rather dismal for those doing shooters while flinging beat up bass lures so nasty looking they gave bottom feeding sculpin coronaries.
Now that we are beginning the slow tumble into the deep fall season where land hunts rule, don’t forget the stunning silvers and steelhead swaggering into some of the streams.
The attitudes of these gleaming finned missiles have a tendency to morph into ravenous pack-stalker mindsets around the crack of dawn and the pre-snap of night so you might want to give them a shot instead of blowing up a duck.
Well that was a pretty wild weekend. High tides, high winds, a dash of termination dust and snagging opened at the Nick Dudiak Lagoon.
Surfers off Bishop’s Beach were riding what looked to be walled up waves while other high cresting lips spread debris along the Homer Spit Road.
At the Anchor, coho flaunted wicked attitudes when the glimmer of dawn suffused the river’s flow with a gossamer patina of silver.
The frenzied bite dimmed as the first light brightened.
One of the golden perks associated with writing this column is the cornucopia of remarkable posts that land in the R.E.I. gmail inbox.
Sometimes the missives are so colorful that their only printable components are the quotation marks. Others have run the gamut from palpably 90-proof enhanced rants to hysterically funny yarns worthy of “Depends recommended” status.