Our first view of the fish camp was from the float plane - a few small temporary looking buildings on the banks of the Nushagak river - and as we landed I thought of all the times my high school friend Dave Heller and I had talked about an Alaska fishing trip, and how it was finally really happening. The plane taxied to the bank and as we got out three aluminum boats with outboard motors came up to take us down the river to the camp - run by River King Outfitters.
The camp itself, about 50 river miles from Dillingham, was run by the owner Jon, his helper, Chris, and a young woman who did the cooking. Dave and I had our own cabin, which was a plywood building with two platform beds, each with a thick sponge rubber pad on which we put our sleeping bags. There was a two-seat outhouse, and a bath house with hot showers. The dining room was a large tent on a wooden platform with a single long table with twelve chairs for the twelve guests. The whole thing felt like boy scout camp without the boy scouts.
Dave and I put our stuff in our cabin and walked out to a point of land and picked up two fishing poles left there, put in our lines, and in a minute I had a fish on. I landed a nice small chum salmon, about eight pounds, and was congratulating myself when a boat roared up, coming out of nowhere it seemed, and a young state trooper, a bit full of himself, demanded to see our fishing licenses, which we had left in our cabin in our enthusiasm. He puffed himself up and said if we had landed a chinook he would have written us a ticket. It’s good they enforce the laws, but someone so far from town should be a bit more friendly.
We had our own boat to use whenever we wanted, which was pretty much all day everyday for five days. We got up and went fishing, came back for breakfast at 9:00am, then fished until lunch time - 1:00pm. We then rested, took a shower, and went back out fishing until dinnertime at 7:00pm. After dinner we fished some more, and since it stayed light until well after midnight we had lots of time to fish.
The river was very wide and smooth, and we would drift down the river with spinners and fish eggs bouncing off the bottom, watching the world go by until a big salmon hit the hook, and then the fight was on. The fish would strip out line, jump out of the water, dive deep, and generally fight as if its life depended on it. They were beautiful salmon, bright chrome color, fresh from the ocean. We must of caught fifty fish each, about ten per day, but we only kept four chinook each, the legal limit. The others we released.
My biggest fish was about 25 pounds, Dave’s biggest was about 35 pounds. He is an expert fisherman - a self described all around angler. I’m just a novice, but I still had a great time.
The other ten guys at the camp - all guys - were older men who loved to fish. They were Republicans, members of NRA, sellers of genetically engineered seed. I liked them. Really. Four of them were fly fisherman, and they would spend hours and hours standing in freezing water up to their waists casting and casting - and catching big salmon on light lines. Real fisherman.
Chris and Jon filleted our fish for us, vacuum packed and froze the pieces, and we each took over 40 pounds of fillets with us when we left. Now my freezer at home is full of frozen chinook salmon, and my head is full of great memories.
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