One of the most common saltwater fishing questions that I get asked or that appears on The Drake message board is some variation of, "I have to go to some stupid/gay/waste-of-time/soon-to-be-divorced-anyway  wedding/business conference/family reunion down in Cancun. I'm

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For those sad souls who can't get the angling monkey off their backs and have chosen to live well above the seasonal freezing line, winter can easily slide into a cornucopia spilling over with bountiful excuses. Much like the traveling charlatan preacher for whom the mind is willing but the flesh is weak - we want to fish, but all that whiteness, especially when it's traveling horizontally past the window, is a daunting thing.

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6/14/07

There are two (silly, I admit) number goals that I set for myself each season.  I'm not a numbers guy (anyone who has spent any time at all guiding cringes at that term) but I do like having quantifiable accomplishments that I can get excited about.  I want to have a client catch a trout over thirty inches and I want to have a double that measures at least four feet combined.  Much of this is luck and if I do not reach these arbitrary benchmarks I do not lose any sleep.  But if nothing else, it gives me something extra to hoot and holler about on the river and getting demonstratively excited is one of the things that keeps me vibrant and upbeat throughout the long season.  Today both of those goals were attained in the span of an hour. 

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8/12/07 

The fishing has been nothing short of spectacular lately. I dream about opening week, a season full of promise, a fresh perspective not tainted by previous weeks, previous clients, the consistent early mornings,...sockeye season. The first week is pure. The fish are active, relatively untouched, aggressive and huge. This is when we see our hogs. So far none of my guys have stuck the thirty incher. I've been waiting two seasons for it, but none yet. We usually get one or two a year, three if we're lucky but we get lots of fish between twenty five and twenty eight.  So far, I have been seeing plenty of those, but the pig remains elusive.

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If I've had better domestic fishing trips, I can't remember them. Blitzing Albies, fish from the beach, pool and locol luches at the BT, fantastic food and one questionable movie night. Others have made posts on the forum, but now, you get to the REST of the story... 

 k:

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6/8/07

Our first day of guiding clients on the river and, as might be expected, it began as an absolute cluster. Most of the luggage did not make the plane so people are scrambling to find waders, jackets, fleeces and equipment. Guides are bickering about who's going where, which boat is being taken by whom, basically just a month of pent up frustration being vented upon one another. Being the lowest ranking guide taking clients the first day, I wind up getting switched out of my boat at the last minute and scrambling to put together seats, flares, PFD's etc. I just want to get on the river.

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Confessing a love for chasing chum salmon is kind of like of admitting I used to be an altar boy - something I generally only reveal to close friends.

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6/5/07                                                                                                               We continue to run boatloads of supplies from town like drug smugglers with second mortgages.  We have not reached the point of running both high tides in a day but it has been discussed.  We all resemble extras from the original Night of the Living Dead; dirty, bedraggled and wild eyed but we're managing to stay on schedule to have most of our leg work done before the clients arrive.

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6/2/07

I've spent the past three days in town without shoes, pants, a change of underwear or a toothbrush and I can say with great assurance that I wish to spend no more time there.  The sunset greeting my return atop fresh memories of "civilization" have fortified my confidence in career choice.

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5/22/07

This fact was excruciatingly obvious today.

The fifteen foot beam dropped like a sprung bear trap and roughly tapped me on the shoulder.  I crumbled to the floor of the unfinished yurt, writhing and moaning in the manliest voice I could muster.  A few inches to the left and I would have taken it right on the noggin.  Something tells me that my paint-stained cap would have done little to deflect the impact.

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