Alaska Road Warriors

We slept well. Highway noise wasn’t too loud. Awoke to more rain. Not a surprise though, as we had seen the forecast. And, as you no doubt know by now, the forecast grim.

We spent the morning reading and drinking coffee in bed. I caught up on writing and Dave is trying to figure out the next week of FUN ACTIVITIES to entertain me. It will be raining a lot, that much we know. 

He landed on spending the bulk of the time around (but not in) Anchorage. Though — and I may not have mentioned this — we DO have another date with an Amazon locker! This time, to pick up the gas regulator for our bricked gas grill that has traveled over 5000 useless miles so far. Dave wanted to buy a new one, but I wouldn’t let him. Instead, using my new Amazon locker skillz, I ordered one almost two weeks ago to arrive in Anchorage this week. What do you know! 

So, we’ll troll around Talkeetna, Willow, Palmer, etc and try to entertain ourselves. A reader from out east suggested the Anchorage museum and we plan to do that when we swing through to pick up the regulator.

I was busy trying to get a blog posted since we had service, so I wasn’t doing my usual excellent job of reading to Dave about every mundane gravel turnout detailed in The Milepost. I had my head down much of the time. So it was with astonishment that when I DID lift my head, upon coming into the town of Talkeetna. I was stunned speechless. It looked like Dan Patch Boulevard at the Minnesota State Fair. Literally TEEMING with people walking both sides of a cute, kitschy/touristy village. 

Honestly. You come out of what feels like the back woods where you’ve seen few people, few cars and then BAM. Where did they come from? Where are they STAYING? It’s crazy.

(Spoiler Alert: a bit of the mystery was solved the next day when we saw a Princess Cruises bus leaving town packed with cruisers!)

We parked the rig on a back street and got out to walk around and check out the campgrounds I had read about.

The first was quite literally near the end (but not quite AT the end — which would have helped) of the busy street. It would be like parking the pod next to the giant slide on September 5th. I mean… definitely no naked potty run in the middle of the night.

So we walked up the street and became distracted by the good smells coming from the restaurants — which all looked pretty good. We stopped in to the Denali Brew Pub, sat outside all bundled up and under the awning where we stayed nice and dry — if a little chilled to the bone. We ordered some delicious beer and decided to eat a late lunch: fish ‘n chips for me and chowder and brisket for Dave. Yum. Stuffed.

We then waddled to the second campground, about a 15 minute walk away. It was dark and dank. Muddy and puddley… But there were a few spots with nice big rocks to park on instead of puddles, muddy pot holes under a dripping canopy of spruce. These were out in the open along the Talkeetna River. Not wanting to drive anymore and just wanting to be done, I sat at the site (so no one could take it) while Dave ran back to get the rig. 

The camper has developed an INSANE squeaking sound that we think is coming from the springs on the suspension. We talked to the techs at Escapod and they believed we needed to re-grease the ports so Dave drove about 15 miles to a hardware store, bought a grease gun and set to work. 

It did nothing. 

We aren’t super concerned but it’s annoying — and a little embarrassing — as we squeak our way through pot-holed campgrounds scoping out sites. It doesn’t make the sound when we are going fast — or at least we can’t hear it.

The camper next to us had the same generator as us and since his was running, we decided to run ours too. Generators have always driven us absolutely CRAZY, so we are SUPER self conscious about using them. Because, you know, it makes us supreme hypocrites… We ran ours for about 45 minutes and turned it off — while neighbor kept his going for another couple hours. In one of my random conversations with passers by, I motioned to the camper next to us and said, “I wish this guy would turn off his generator…”

And I only tell you this because the guy I said it to (and his family) went back into their rental camper (never to be seen again) and turned on their generator for the REST OF THE NIGHT. They turned it off sometime after we fell asleep and turned it back on again at 8am. They never even emerged in the morning. I was so annoyed. I am getting so intolerant of noise as I get older. A real curmudgeon. But in my defense, most campgrounds have rules about when and how long you can run your generator — and it isn’t for 5 hours straight or past 10 pm. So there.

Dave made a valiant effort at a fire with our horrible firewood. It took him forEVER to get it going. We did our usual rotating around the fire to try to avoid the smoke while we talked to almost everyone who went by: two different groups from Colorado. A group from Wisconsin. And one or two others I can’t remember. 

We were so flippin’ full from lunch that we just had cheese and crackers for dinner. 

Well, and some whiskey, too. 

And called it a night

It was still rainy in the morning, but Dave made us ham and egg sandwiches for breakfast that were a 10/10. I, of course, ate mine in bed. What’s the point of getting up and sitting in the rain?

We had decided to fish at Montana Creek based on a recommendation I got from a few guys I met at the boat landing connected to the campground. I have mentioned before about the rivers being huge and silty, right? Well here is a pic of the Talkeetna River that these guys were standing on the banks of with their fly rods:

So I approached them and asked where they fished. And one guy said “Not here, obviously.” This river is like the dirtiest opaque chocolate milk/latte color. Clarity zero. It’s not actually dirty though. It’s glacial silt. There are, apparently, salmon in there, but “fishing” for them isn’t possible. (Though snagging them is.) I still don’t understand Alaska fishing:

OK I lied. I don’t have a picture of the Talkeetna River. But here is a picture someone else took:

When he said, “not here” I wasn’t even 100% sure if he was teasing me. As in: “Don’t fish here because it’s our secret spot.” I thought he might mean that because right after that he said that, he continued: “If you want to fly fish, you should go to Montana.” —What happened to friendly Alaskans?? I laughed and said, “Well I’m from Colorado, so I know all about Montana fly fishing…” And HE laughed and said, “No, no, no. Sorry, I can see how you thought that. No, I meant Montana CREEK — it’s just down the road.” Alaskan friendly is safe and sound.

Armed with our insider scoop, we set out for a 20 minute drive to Montana Creek with plans to hike up a trail that paralleled the main fork — we wanted to get good and far from other fishermen. As we parked and got ready, three trucks pulled up on the bridge behind us and piled out of their cars like ants. I can’t tell you the anxiety that causes us. We tried to make double time… but then a pickup truck with a single guy pulled up right next to us and hopped out. We were being all grumbly and spastic* — hooks getting caught everywhere, tripping over our own feet… and the pickup guy beat us to the river. But he went straight into the brush toward the main fork and not along the trail, clearly not as COMMITTED and HARD WORKING fishermen* as we are.

We set out on the trail — a well signed and official trail that shows up on maps — which quickly degraded to the size of a game trail, fording multiple streams, over dead trees. There was no way you could have done that trail without waders on. Especially when it came to an actual river — one that even we, with waders on, couldn’t cross because it was too dangerous. As we were contemplating our next move, who walks by us from upstream but that dang guy from the pickup! Where did he come from?? He told us there was no where to cross so he was going back to the main river. 

No where to cross, my ASS! We are HARD CORE. We will find somewhere to cross. Where there’s a will there’s a way, man.

We bushwhacked. Through what I think must be similar to the Amazon Jungle. I do NOT like walking through stuff like that. It grosses me out. It’s scary. It’s hard. It’s stressful. You can take a step and fall into a hole. You can fall over an unseen tree covered in moss. Your rod gets stuck in branches. Waders are REALLY hard to climb in. 

It was a serious mental and physical effort.

We disagreed about where we were. Dave INSISTS on using his maps app in SATELLITE mode. So he was struggling to even SEE the creek we were trying to follow and eventually cross… 

Am I sufficiently describing the scene? Are you getting the picture? It was no bueno.

We ended up, what seemed like, a long way upstream. We fished some good looking runs here and there. But, at this point, we are totally clueless. It was worse than being a beginner flyfisher. We were constantly yelling back and forth to each other (futilely because the river was so loud) “WHAT ARE YOU PUTTING ON?” Of course there would be no answer. Only an irritated look meant to communicate, “What in the SAM HILL are you screaming about.” — Which didn’t stop the screaming. It only intensified it. 

EVENTUALLY we determined there are NO FISH in this fork of Montana Creek and we needed to go to the main fork. (Hopefully anyone reading this will know the ridiculousness of this thought. If there are fish in one fork, there are surely fish in another that is nearby.)

We commenced another long bushwacking trek. It was awful. I silently promised myself “never again…” After another round of tense navigational “discussions.” We pop out on the main creek. —And let me explain another Alaska-ism: their “creeks” are our rivers. They are… HUGE. Half mile wide. Bigger than the Mississippi. 

Dave goes upstream to take a cast and I hear… is that a car door? Is that a dog barking? I cast a few times. I get snagged. I look upstream to see if Dave sees my snag and I see that SAME GUY FROM THE PICKUP standing right above Dave casting into the water we so strategically picked to fish next.

Here we think we are at LEAST a mile into the back country where literally NO ONE ELSE would ever think of venturing and we are apparently on some main thoroughfare? Within the next thirty minutes I saw a guy with his dog on an ATV. Six more fishermen in four different groups. Two kids running through the creek barefoot, seemingly unsupervised, with a net — in water I was struggling to stand up in and not die.

It was a day.

We walked out along a FRICKEN ROAD. It was actually pretty funny if you can get over the fact that we both felt like we had hiked 8 miles. 

All either one of us wanted at that point was another beer at Denali Brewing. The sun had come out toward the end of the afternoon and it was LOVELY! We sat on the deck in the sun and drank it up (the beer).

I noticed a t-shirt on a guy at the next table and asked if he was from Minnesota. They were not only from Minnesota but from Norwood Young America (near Watertown). When we learned that he grew up in Waconia, Dave asked him if he know Randy and Julie Sicheneder (great friends from Watertown). The guy goes “We ARE Sicheneders. Randy’s my cousin.” 

Again — what are the FLIPPIN’ CHANCES of THAT?

We talked to them for a long while. His son lives in Wasilla, is a pilot, owns, not one, but two planes. Lives with his girlfriend who also owns a plane. They keep them in their “garage” and “drive them down the street” to the runway. Did you know that planes have right of way in Alaska? Neither did I.

Fun afternoon.

We went back to our gravel-pit-circus-pizza campsite, ran our generator along with the rest of the RVs. I guess we are fully “those people” now… We weren’t terribly hungry,  because — oh yeah — in order to sit in the SUN at Denali Brewing we had to order some food. And one order of chips and salsa just wasn’t enough. So we had two…

But I didn’t think we could have crackers and cheese again, and Dave told me I HAD to use up the rest of the hamburger from tacos 5 days earlier, so I made literally the worst patty melt hamburgers I have ever eaten in my life. They tasted like NOTHING. It didn’t stop me from eating the whole damn thing though. 

Why?

We logged another game of cribbage in the bright sunlight at 9:30pm and went to bed at 10 (still in the bright sunlight). In fact, the sun hadn’t even yet gone below the tree line. We hadn’t seen much actual sun so far and it was really, REALLY nice.

*Spastic. FisherMEN: both words I’m not sure I’m supposed to use anymore but I’m using them anyway and hope dearly I haven’t offended anyone. 

The weather held and the morning is beautiful! Looking good for our flightseeing tour of Denali at 11 am. We planned to take showers up at the registration building for $5 each, walked up there, but it was locked. We searched hard for a bathroom but could only find what I believe cannot possibly be the actual outhouses for this huge campground. I’ve spotted only three and each of them look like they would fall down if you pushed on the sides. Your foot would fall through the floor. The door is hanging open, askew — I doubt if it would close. I was going nowhere NEAR any of them. I remembered seeing an ACTUAL outhouse near the boat landing and headed that direction. 

We killed time until 9 when we hoped the building would open. It did. No pictures, but it wasn’t pretty. It DID, however have AMAZING water pressure. So I just closed my eyes and enjoyed it. 

I sucked 7% of noisy, generator-gained battery blow drying my hair and we were off to Zee Plane! Zee Plane! (Remember Fantasy Island?)

The flight was spectacular. Truly a treat. We had the best conditions possible. The plane circled Denali and eventually landed on a glacier and we got to get out and walk around. We plied the pilot with questions. We had heard it was a once-in-lifetime experience and it really was. Prepare for photo dump:

We planned to go to the Hatcher Pass area next. The road follows Willow Creek, reportedly one of the better trout streams in Alaska which also has great views and hikes. It’s an area that is very-much hyped in all the guide books. The pilot told us about his favorite hike there and generally agreed with all we had read, so that was good.

It was only a couple hours away. But it was lunchtime and we were going to going right by the MAIN Denali brewing facility where they do wood fire pizzas that are supposed to be really good.

We sat outside IN THE SUN, shared a mid-day beer (I am going to need to detox when I get home) and each had our own pizza (I am going to need to fast when I get home). It was DELIGHTFUL. We had cell service, made some check-in calls with friends and family… Verrra verrra nice. 

Hatcher Pass…

…Was an ATV Mecca. No offense to the ATV crowd. I mean… we are a Polaris family, after all! …But with all the rain in Alaska, the trails are pure mud. And in Alaska, the ATVS don’t seem to stick to the trails. The campsites are very tramped down. There is a lot of garbage left behind. It’s just kind of sad. 

We were very wishy-washy about where to camp: up high/alpine? Down low near creek…? We drove up. We walked a bit. We drove back down. We drove back up. Jennie was pushing back on Dave’s “Let’s keep driving and find something better” tendency — and only our KIDS will truly understand the veracity of this statement. Back and forth we went. We settled on going back to a spot we had seen — and didn’t love — so we could fish a few areas we liked on the creek. Then move to the higher up the following day. Moving every night is just not that of big deal with the pod

Willow Creek is GORGEOUS. We fished.

And we fished. And we fished. 

We didn’t SEE a fish. We didn’t CATCH a fish. There must be NO FISH.

We had delicious beer. We had delicious food.

I’m not sure what to call it, so I am calling it a Mexican Torte. A tortilla sandwich. Not a tostada, because it had a lid. Canned Chicken (much better than it sounds and the only way I bring chicken camping anymore. But I insist on the Kirkland brand. It’s better.) with Amy’s refried beans (again: these are the only ones I will eat) and melted cheese. Then a fresh salsa on top made with tomato, onion, pepper, lime and cilantro. 

Aside from my own cooking prowess, I am most proud of my ability to not have LEFTOVERS. I fear that I am starving my husband in the process. But still. 

Ok. This has to be documented. Back on Alaska 7 I posted a shot of us having the same hand in cribbage. IT HAPPENED AGAIN!

The only difference is: this time I won. Finally.

We ate some food and packed up with plans to continue over Hatcher pass, fishing here and there and then doing the Reed Lakes hike that the pilot told us about, near the end of the pass road.

We found the most AMAZING water to fish. 

No fish. No see fish. No catch fish. (Once again)

Not that we are great fishermen, but honestly, this feels a bit weird. We don’t know what to think.

As we crested the pass and came around the corner there were suddenly dozens and dozens of cars. People EVERYWHERE. It was crazy! Because until then, it was just sort of sparse. Normal to below normal traffic. It was jarring — and it had me instantly aware of the fact it was Thursday (the new Friday, post covid) and we still would need a campsite for the night…

Anyway.

It was noonish when we pulled into the trailhead, so we rooted around the fridge to find something to eat. And what do I find? The leftover hamburgers that Dave insisted I make with the meat he worried would go bad (*eyeroll*).

Given how awful they were the first time around, I planned to season the heck out of them to make them more palatable. I used the sad container of honey mustard we had dragged all the way from Glenwood Springs when we fished the Colorado River with Loren the day before we left on this trip. It looked battle-weary, but it was the ticket that allowed us to be able to get that hamburger down.

Fueled for the hike, we set out — not certain how far we would go because Dave continues to have trouble with his neck/shoulder. Walking seems to exacerbate it, sadly.

The hike was one of my favorites. To some degree, a hike is a hike is a hike. But this one kept me entertained. I truly didn’t even feel the 2000 foot elevation gain. I did feel it going DOWN though, that’s for sure. I’m thinking this might be the number one age-revealing indicator: when “going down” becomes worse than going up.

I remember, so clearly, my parents saying going down was harder than going up and thinking they were truly insane. Not wanting to sound like my parents, I try never to say it out loud. But I’m thinking it, man. I’m thinking it.

We did 90% of the hike. Dave’s neck was getting sore, so I booted it up another .5 miles to the falls by myself but stopped short of going to the end — the upper lake (isn’t a lake a lake a lake??). Then I ran (yes, you heard that right, I RAN) back, thinking that maybe if I ran one mile on a trail it might make up for the case of beer I’ve drank and the 20 out of 23 days I’ve not worked out.

Thoughts?

We were both pretty tired by the end. Because, you know, it’s HARDER going DOWN.

We picked some of the sourest blueberries you could ever hope to meet and skeedaddled to find a campsite.

Thankfully we had service, because the gigantic DeLorme Alaska atlas we bought for this trip sucks. It shows like 10% of the actual campgrounds. Google maps has been our best tool for finding campgrounds, but obviously that only works when we have service. (Which, thankfully, we did.)

However, it brought up a very tired subject that is now 5,600 miles long.

Dave: “Why don’t we have StarLink?” *

Jennie: “Because it’s too expensive. We don’t need it.”

Blah blah blah.

We start round number six of debating StarLink…. And, if I could go buy fricken StarLink in Anchorage, I would.

Score one for Dave.

It doesn’t help that L I T E R A L L Y every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the campgrounds has one. 

Anyway. I found a little State Recreation area that was just fine for the night and we used up the last of our food in the fridge. Pasta with Italian sausage and chopped cabbage, butter, lemon and Parmesan.

People. I KNOW you are cringing at that description, but I’m telling you: I’M ON TO SOMETHING WITH THIS CABBAGE THING.

For some strange reason, I didn’t sleep at all. Maybe it was the jet-skiers on the lake going full bore until midnight… Or maybe it was the people in the site next to us that pulled in at 1:57 am… But I don’t think so. Sometimes it just happens. 

And it stinks.

It rained all night.

And we are out of food.

And we didn’t know where we were going next. But we couldn’t stay in the site we were in for the next night because it was reserved… so we had to move anyway…

So we decided to take the camper and go have some breakfast, grocery shop, and talk to someone at an ACTUAL FLY SHOP and regroup. If we needed to, we could come back to that same campground and grab one of the first-come sites that were still open. Remember, it’s Friday now and we are basically in grand-central station for Alaskan tourism. Palmer, Alaska is just north of Anchorage and lots of people base out of it. Plus, we are learning the ins and outs of Alaska and it seems all the locals are on the big rivers trying to get their freezers full of salmon. So… I get kind of antsy about where we are going to stay. Definitely no dispersed options anywhere at all for probably the remainder of our trip. (But I’m not sure of that. Alaska keeps surprising me.)

Breakfast out at the Noisy Moose was… noisy. But good. I had to talk Dave into staying and waiting for a table because there were like 25 people jammed into the waiting area and that’s not his jam (haha). We passed a McDonald’s about a quarter mile back and neither of us is above a delicious egg McMuffin — and we definitely debated it — but I said let’s just give it ten minutes. And voila! We got a table. We ate WAY MORE than is reasonable and headed to the fly shop down the road in Wasilla.

The guy at this fly shop was…

AMAZING.

Yes, yes, we bought a shit-ton of stuff, so you could make the argument that he was really just a very skilled salesman/film-flam man, but even if he WAS that, he was a REALLY NICE flim-flam man.

NOW WE HAD THE TICKET TO RIDE!

Look out trout!

The only problem was…

He told us our only options to fish were…where… we had already fished. 

What??!!

“Willow Creek and Montana Creek. That’s it,” said A.J., the flim-fam man. They’re the best trout water this state has.

???

When we told him we already HAD fished Willow Creek and Montana Creek he said, “Well… What were you fishing with?”

And that’s how we ended up with all the new gear.

“Beads, man. That’s it. You need beads. It’s really not fly fishing. It sucks. But once you start catching the rainbows, you’ll get it. The good news is, it’s all cheap stuff.”

So, how we spent $249, I don’t understand, but does it really MATTER?

Now, we are gonna SLAY THEM!

But first, we need a place to camp. A.J. had told us of three different options, and having come from Talkeetna (which we were now going to be headed back towards) we knew it would be crowded. So we decided to systematically stop at each place and hope to find a spot. The first was Willow Creek State Recreation Area. This is basically a parking lot with picnic tables. And, as proof of just how far we have fallen, we backed into a spot on the end and paid our fee for the privilege. 

Our new gear required an hour of two building the rigs. 100% my wheelhouse. I could sit at that picnic table and build those rigs forEVER. Not Dave. But that’s ok, cuz I’m so fast I could make 4 to his 1. I get in the ZONE doing repetitive tasks. I absolutely love it. 

While I finished rigging the beads, Dave loaded us up and we headed to Willow Creek (again). But this time we knew to fish closer to the bigger river — less high and far up the road. Cuz “there’s nothing up there,” said A.J. But after our forays, we coulda told HIM that. 

Of course there were 3 or 4 other cars there. It’s basically a circus everywhere you can access the river. Our Colorado mentality of having to fish alone needs to be completely scrubbed. It’s still hard though, because as much as we want to fish alone, we also don’t want to screw anyone else’s fishing up by tromping past them in the water. Or feel like we are horning in on their water. Again. We need to get over that. Because we are CLEARLY the only ones worried about that. 

We are also learning from multiple people that these fish are not easily spooked or “line shy” so I guess you don’t have to worry about ruining an area like you do in Colorado, just by tromping through the water up the river? I’m not sure I believe that yet…

We wanted to fish the confluence of Desperation Creek (an apt name for a creek for us at this point) where it meets Willow River, but so did everyone else. We walked upstream hucking our new (heavy) rigs of a simple pink plastic bead above a hook with a heavy sinker and a giant gumball bobber upstream and letting it dead drift. We saw a LOT of sockeye salmon in the river for the first time which was REALLY cool. They are absolutely UNINTERESTED in our beads, which we already knew — but it was still interesting to witness. And all the googling in the world has not helped me to understand how you actually CATCH a Sockeye (Red) salmon (besides by snagging it). Anyway. We aren’t trying to catch them, but we are paying close attention to where they are in the river because the rainbows are supposed to school up behind them looking for tasty eggs to eat. 

We got some of those…

Much casting ensued with not a bite. 

The water is so big that it’s deceptive as to what is wadable and what is not, and, at some point Dave got ahead and across from me and I was unable to go further up without backtracking. You know how I hate backtracking… Besides, I was on attractive water… and I was, frankly, kind of sick of the whole futile effort… So I just stayed there. And, as I moved up a bit, I suddenly had a fish on! With, thankfully, no witnesses to my buffoonery as I tried to land it — easier said than done when you have 10-plus feet of line below the bobber (in fly fishing we call that an INDICATOR because we are fancy like that) so you can only reel the fish in so far — it’s still 10 feet away from you. And my arms weren’t long enough to net the rather large, very strong fish… Eventually, and miraculously, I did land it. And I even managed to get a picture. 

Subsequent casts had me hook three more in quick succession, but only one more made it to the net. The SCARIEST and UGLIEST fish ever!

I googled it to try to figure out what it was, but it was only at the parking spot where I asked a local guy who was at his car what it was and he said “That’s a king salmon. But it’s called a Jack.” I researched that and learned that it was mostly likely a King that had yet to go out to the ocean. They spend a year or two in the river after hatching before going out to sea where they get gigantic. Kings are pretty rare these days, so that was cool — but still ugly.

Dave, sadly, didn’t not get any. And he is NOT a happy camper. 

We were very tired. We don’t know WHY we are so tired, but we are. And it was late, so I pulled out my ace-in-the-hole for dinner.

Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, baby. Not one box but two. And I gotta say, it just might make it onto my top ten. It was delicious.

We FELL into bed. With dreams of trout biting our lines soon.

You will be relieved to hear that our “end unit” in the parking-lot-turned-campground still allowed for half-naked middle-of-the-night potty runs. I know. I was relieved, too. In more ways than one.

I had a LOT of writing to catch up on and tried to make some progress on that while also ordering Dave around: “More coffee, please.” “Can you make me some yogurt?” Blah blah blah. 

When I sensed Dave could take no more, I got dressed and we headed out to slay those formerly-elusive trout. 

Trying hard to remember ALL that A.J. had taught us during his 30 minute soliloquy of words and fishing advice, we made our way back up the Parks Highway. There were three creeks before we’d hit Montana Creek (all the way back to Talkeetna). We knew Montana would be busy, based on the fact it’s Saturday and it was a zoo on Thursday. We were hoping to find some good fishable water before that.

First up was Little Willow. As we pulled into the turn-out and surveyed the many cars already there — several of which had trailers attached — I conjured up one of A.J.’s many, many sentences… “if you see a boat trailer, keep moving. That water is blown out.” I repeated it to Dave asking him, “Did A.J. mean *this* river?” Dave, too, recalled him saying something along those lines, so we kept moving.

The next river was Sheep Creek, which required a drive down a 2 mile side road to get to the access point followed by a quarter mile hike down a steep path. It was weird: lots of fishermen, most with spinning gear, but a few with fly rods… all headed to the main river (Susitna) to fish for — we presumed — salmon. Honestly, we have no idea. Even armed with everything we learned from A.J., we still are 85% in the dark about all of this. 

Regardless, we geared up and headed down to the Susitna with plans to hike around the point to the mouth of Sheep Creek — where we figured we’d find fishable water. But it was still silty and deep and fast. We made ten casts from the bank — only because we were already there — and left.

Next on the map was Goose Creek. But A.J. did not talk about that one or indicate any access points. But as we checked it out, it looked fishable, there was a turnout, and there were fewer cars. So we stopped. We grabbed our rods and headed down to the water — very quickly coming upon the first group of other fishermen. Again, in our SUPREME RESPECT for their water, we scrambled up the steep bank and headed into the thick brush to give them a wide berth. Shortly thereafter, we saw ANOTHER group. So we continued to bushwack through the jungle. Right about the time we thought we were safe, we HEARD another group and had to continue on our death march.

It was AWFUL. “Never again. Never again. Never again.” I said to myself as I tried to keep up with Dave. At some point I tumbled into a gross, unseen hole filled with orange water, barely managing to stay dry. I didn’t cry. But I was close. 

Yes, yes. We finally popped out on to the creek and miraculously there were no dogs, no cars, no atvs. There WERE chainsaws running somewhere nearby, but that made sense because there were a few houses on the creek. In Alaska, you legally fish the high water mark, so — as long as you stay in the water — you can keep fishing right on by.

We had actually popped out onto a nice bend and were finally able to fish. Dave needed a get on the board, so he took what looked to be the best water, while I casted downstream of him — keeping an eye on Dave’s indicator because his drift looked so good. I wasn’t really paying attention to mine when (of course. it always happens that way) I got a bite that nearly pulled the rod out of my hands. Dave was… exasperated. But also happy for me and, gentleman that he is, even landed the very big rainbow. No pic though, because after I unhooked it, it flopped out of my hands and shimmied through super shallow water to freedom. Dave then moved down and caught two small ones. We were encouraged!

But… that was it for the rest of the day. We fished a lot of really great water. We saw a lot of sockeyes in the water and assumed there were also trout in there, but they were having none of our tantalizing plastic beads. 

I saw a few schools of three to four arctic char (I think) — which have bright orange bellies and a bit of white slashing on their fins like brook trout. They, too, laughed at us as we tried to fish to them.

One of the groups we leaped-frogged continued to press up upstream, but after a few hours we decided to call it a day and turned around, stopping to talk to them on the way. They were fishing streamer rigs and had a couple takes but it didn’t sound like they had landed any. I was bored so I tied a streamer on and attempted to cast it across the river. 100% fail. I hate casting streamers. I am so bad at it.

Dave was eager to get back to that first spot and try to catch a couple more. When I eventually caught back up to him, he had, indeed caught three or four more small ones. He wanted me to throw the streamer in and see what happened. On the first cast, a large rainbow grabbed it, but I probably did it wrong. And it came off. 

We played around a bit more and continued back downstream towards the car.

And to our snacks. I was STARVING.

We made plans to go back to camp and have an early dinner and then try our luck on the Willow near the campground. We have been THOROUGHLY entertained watching the veritable CONGA LINE of fishermen going to and from the Susitna river near our site. It is endless. And MYSTERIOUS. 

While Dave got the fire going for our steak, I went over to talk to one of the families camping near us to try to figure out where everyone was going and what they were doing once they got there. I learned: it’s a mix of mostly salmon fishermen and just a few trout fishermen. Salmon seekers mostly fish the Susitna with heavy rods and simple lures. One guy we talked to caught 30 Humpies (Pinks). Most don’t keep the Humpies. They mostly want Sockeye. There were people are lined up all along the shore casting, casting, casting. Here are some pics of that:

On the Willow River, which, tee’s into the Susitna near the campground, you are more likely to catch trout. The guy I talked to said to reach the main fork of the Willow just “Cross at the boat launch. Go ‘UP AND OVER’ to the next tributary. So that was our plan…

But first, back to dinner.

We cooked our dinner (steak on the campfire, broccoli and polenta) and made our plan. Dinner was interrupted by John, who wanted a tour of our camper. Super nice guy. Super fast talker. Super big into teardrops. We learned more about fishing in Alaska and how it is different from Colorado. (More confirmation that sneaking up on fish is 100% not necessary.) Also interesting: they don’t talk about 3x or 4x or 5x tippet. It’s 10lb and 12lb test — more aligned with spin fishing. Important info if you don’t want to look like a green-horn tourist!!

So off we headed to the boat launch to walk “up and over” to the main fork of the willow, just like I was told.

We went up and over. And we walked. And we walked. And we walked. Through bog and marsh. Through wild rose bushes and fallen trees. Through willows and spikey spruce. Through ankle deep mud and holes of inconclusively deep water…

“Never again. Never again. Never again…”

We KNEW there had to be a path somewhere. There was NO WAY those chubby guys from across the campground with their chubby kids could have done what we were currently doing…

I had layered up for the evening of fishing because there also was “no way I was gonna be cold!” 

I wasn’t cold. I was sweating from head to ass crack. And when we FINALLY came out on the creek there was — no surprise — three visible groups of other people. When we asked them how they GOT here, one of the couples vaguely gestured to the marsh and said, “oh we just followed a maze of paths over there…”

I was fricken SWIMMING back before I was going back the way we came.

Nevertheless, we were there to fish. And fish we did. Futilely. The only good news being that no one else was catching anything either.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Way up the river, we saw a group of 5 guys catch 2 or 3 — what they were I don’t know, but I assume salmon, because I COULD see the flashy lures from where we stood. And there was a raft way down at the mouth of the river that appeared to be sight-fishing, as they would stand for a long time looking into the water and then make a short cast and catch one. Maybe they were snag fishing? 

Again. I have not one single clue. 

Since we were now way down at the mouth, we decided to follow a very well-trodden path that went around the point and back up to the boat launch fork.

Go figure. All of the bushwacking. All. Of. It. …Has been 100% unnecessary.

Defeated and exhausted — but surprisingly not at all unhappy — we got back to camp and put everything away so we could leave early the next morning. 

Given that it was 11 pm (and the sun hadn’t even set) when we went to bed, it probably wouldn’t be THAT early — especially since that the family with the GIANT RV, which had parked right next to us sometime during the day, didn’t even get back to the campground until midnight and then proceeded to make a roaring fire — I no longer know what is early and what is late anymore.