![]() In fact, if I’ve learned anything about the Chinook salmon in Alaska, first would be that 50-pound fish are a lot rarer than some would have you believe. This isn’t typically the type of fishing I prefer, working with bait and sinkers the size of my big toe, but then these are kings-and kings tend to make the rules. It’s my first king of the year, a 25-pound chrome hen that scratches more than one of the itches that develop over the course of an Alaska winter. Near the outlet of Crooked Creek, at the edge of the line between glacial and clear, the rig goes down and stays down. Drop.īack-bouncing through one hole, then another, then through a long riffle, we make our way down the Kasilof as the early-summer sun burns through and the day begins to take a bluebird shape. The labor is rhythmic-lift the weight, set it down. Set against a carrot-colored dawn, snappish morning air pulls fog from the river, punctuating an angler’s silence: less babble than burble, current breaking over boulders and gravel bars and lapping against the boat, oars at work. ![]()
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