It had been thirty years since I had been to this spot and cast my line into these waters. Excitement and anticipation filled the air; not only because I was returning to the Kenai River in Alaska with my brother and my sons, but because Alaska fish and game had just increased the limit from two to five fish per day. We waited our turn on the dock as fishermen and women lined the riverbank, spaced apart just far enough to cast upriver, and then allow their hooks to drift down river waiting for the familiar tug of a sockeye salmon “strike.” Of course, the salmon don’t really strike because they have a singular focus at this moment of their lives: spawning. However, there are so many making their final return journey to their birthplace that anglers are bound to hook one in the mouth. There was the sound of splashing and a reel whirring off to my left as a fishing line pulled tight. The angler was determined to overcome both the power of the river’s current and the strength of the freshly hooked sockeye, hoping to bring the bright silver and red delicacy into his net.
I realized that I had to creatively maneuver over a deep hole, or the river was going to spill into my waders. After several clumsy casts, I saw my son Luke still on the dock, anxiously waiting his turn. The correct technique was not like riding a bike and I wasn’t picking it up quickly after thirty years, so I called Luke and offered him my spot. This was Luke’s first time salmon fishing or even using waders, but I really wanted him to hook into a big one. He almost ruined his chances immediately: As he was struggling to get to his spot with hip-deep water tugging at him, the deep hole that I had narrowly escaped earlier pulled him in and the icy water went over his waders and down into his boots. He wouldn’t have long until the chill of that water forced him to get out and warm up.
He began to cast his line in synchronization with the person to his right and to his left, then let it bump along with the current trying to feel the difference between bouncing along the bottom and bumping into the head of a sockeye. Within five or six casts his line went tight, the tip of his pole made an arc that required significant force, and his line began to sing. “Fish on!” Luke reeled in, only to have more line pulled out as the fish made a run. Luke used the leverage of his pole to regain the line the fish had taken. The exhilaration of a fish that size on the other end of a fishing pole is indescribable. Luke slowly gained the advantage and soon the fish was close enough to see. At that point it jumped completely out of the water and made another run. I watched anxiously, hoping Luke would win this battle so he could have the experience of catching his first salmon. Tired out from the fight, the fish came in easier this time around, and as we dipped the net in the river it emerged with a beautiful silver sockeye salmon.
Fortunately, Luke landed the salmon in the first few casts because soon his teeth were chattering, and his body was shivering uncontrollably. The water in his waders was too much. It was time for him to get out.
After our group caught four more, we had enough for dinner and we headed back to my brother’s house to clean, filet, and, of course, grill our catch on cedar grilling planks. It was a beautiful day, wrapped up with a beautiful meal and the celebration of a first catch.
Success!