I woke up in a really cozy bed, but where was I, and what was that noise above me? It took me a few minutes to figure it out: I was staying in a fishing lodge on the Kenai Peninsula, and the noise was rain pounding on what must have been a tin roof.
We’d had a fair amount of rain already in Alaska and were pretty used to it by now, but it was really unfortunate that it was pouring today because we had booked a private guide to take Dave fly fishing. This was something he really wanted to do in Alaska, and we had made a special excursion to the Kenai just to do it. I wasn’t planning on going, but somehow I found myself putting on my waterproof clothes at the crack of dawn.
Because we had gotten in so late the night before, we had declined a tour of the property. How complicated could it be to find the breakfast room? More complicated than we thought, because we followed some people into what we thought was the right place, then they turned around and said, “Excuse me, but this is our cabin.” We found the right building and grabbed a bite, then headed to the nearby general store to buy some packed lunches. It was still pretty dark out.
We drove a mile down the road to Kenai Cache Outfitters, where we met our guide “Fly Bob.”
Dave and I were given waders to carry; Fly Bob held onto the rods. We got in a truck, drove a few miles then the three of us were dropped at a trailhead, while the guy from the Outfitters drove back. By this point, thankfully, the pouring rain had tapered off to a drizzle.
After we had hiked about half a mile, Fly Bob pointed out a tree: “This is where we lose cell service. On the way back, when we get to this tree, I’ll turn on my phone and call for our ride back.” We walked another few miles, passing one backpacker headed the other way. Fly Bob asked him how the fishing was and he said, “Fine, until a bear decided to fish in the same spot.” We reached a platform overlooking the Russian River Falls. Here we are on the platform, sporting our totally waterproof Alaska clothes:
This is where we saw the first of the scarlet salmon. By this point in our Alaska trip we had seen A LOT of salmon, but none of them could hold a candle to these beauties. The river was absolutely thick with them.
We hiked on and eventually scrambled down to the water’s edge. Dave is an experienced fly-fisherman, so Fly Bob outfitted him first and sent him on his merry way. I was a whole ‘nother story. Never having fly-fished before, it took some instruction to get me going, but pretty soon I was casting away. And I was hooking those salmon like crazy! It was really pretty easy; the salmon were so thick in the river that they were bumping up against my legs, and it seemed like every time I cast my line I hooked one. Yet Fly Bob did not seem pleased with me, and I thought I was doing so well. Finally I figured it out: We were not fishing for salmon. We were fishing for trout. No one had told me that! On the drive to the trailhead, Dave had asked Fly Bob what we were fishing for, and Fly Bob said, “Dolly Vardens.” How was I supposed to know that Dolly Vardens are (basically) trout? I thought Dolly Vardens were the scarlet salmon. But no, the Dolly Vardens were darting between the salmon, eating the salmon eggs.
Here’s Fly Bob with the kind of fish we were supposed to be fishing for:
I spent the rest of the time trying NOT to catch the salmon and trying to understand how to catch Dolly Vardens instead (and I did catch some). I also caught several tree branches and Fly Bob’s suspenders. Fly Bob was pretty weary of me after a while.
Dave, meanwhile, was catching plenty of trout. He fishes at the Second College Grant in New Hampshire every year, and he caught more trout in the one day at Russian River than in several years’ worth of Grant trips. So he was having a grand time:
Note the salmon in the background, and perhaps you will understand why I was having trouble avoiding them.
And I was having fun too. I was stunned when I realized it was 3:00 and we had to start heading back. I had been standing in the river for hours, and the time just flew. Tragically, there are no photos of me in my waders. I have not yet forgiven my husband for this oversight.
While we were fishing we had moved quite a distance along the banks of the river. Fly Bob informed us that instead of hiking back along the river, we would hike straight up the hill to take a short cut to the main trail. This trail was reminiscent of Cascade Creek Trail (see Day 6), except even muddier.
And while our guides on the Cascade Creek Trail were sprightly Alex and laid-back Paul – both incredibly fit – our guide for this one was…. Fly Bob. The trail was straight uphill, and Fly Bob took frequent breaks to sit on the side of the trail and wheeze. During the breaks he told us about the bears he had encountered on this very trail, as well as a huge bull moose.
Fly Bob did not seem well. Fly Bob was in his 70’s, and kind of lame: He had broken his foot some time earlier and it had not been set right (we learned about Fly Bob’s lack of health insurance), so one of Fly Bob’s feet was perched at a jaunty angle compared to his leg. As a result, it wasn’t all that easy for him to walk, let alone climb a muddy hill. And the wheezing was quite troubling. I started worrying that Fly Bob was going to have a heart attack on this trail. Then what would we do? It turns out I was not alone in that fear. Dave told me later that he had it all planned out: If Fly Bob had a heart attack, he (Dave) would take Fly Bob’s phone and run the several miles back to the tree where cell service started. Fly Bob’s phone would have the number of the Kenai Cache Outfitters programmed in as a Favorite, and Dave would call them. My take on this plan was: So you were going to leave me there to administer CPR to Fly Bob on a steep muddy trail with the bears and the moose?
Luckily, none of this came to pass. We made slow but steady progress up the hill then back onto the main trail:
Fly Bob was not moving very fast by this point, so I had plenty of time to take pictures of mushrooms.
We reached the tree where cell service started, and Fly Bob called for a ride. After saying our goodbyes to Fly Bob back at the Outfitters, we hit the road, driving about an hour and a half to Seward. Much of the drive followed along the pretty turquoise Kenai River:
I will tell about Seward in the next, and final, Alaska blog.