British angler Michael is pleased with his
29-pound Sapsuk River king salmon.
pulls, culminating in a deep rod arc before I
finally jabbed the hook home with a simulta-
neous sharp yank on the line and swift lifting
of the tip. A series of violent headshakes,
followed by the hair-raising sensation of being
attached to an unstoppable moon rocket, en-
sued as the big buck powered across the hole
and sought safety amidst the boulders lying in
the tailout. I barely managed to turn him us-
ing maximum reel drag and pressure from the
stout 9-weight; he eventually returned to the
depths of the main pool, seesawing back and
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forth in the current as I constantly changed
rod angles in an effort to confuse him and
shorten the fight. Following a 10-plus min-
ute tussle, Joe arrived with the net, and we
successfully landed, then gently released, the
25-pound, mint-chrome male chinook.
After concerted efforts from all three
anglers yielded no additional takes, we
motored up to the Weir Pool, named for the
sockeye salmon counting structure placed
at its head by State fisheries managers (used
to collect data for monitoring returns of this
commercial important species). Hundreds of
chinook can be found here during the peak
of the run, rolling on the surface and causing
startling disturbances akin to catapulting giant
stones into the flows. A reluctance to negoti-
ate the sockeye weir, however, also slows their
upstream passage; thus, kings tend hold here
for lengthy periods after arriving, becoming
darker and disinclined to strike; we therefore
hoped that there would newer fish available
to bend our rods.
Switching to my 8-weight Spey outfit, I
began to work the top of the hole with a series
of concentric swings. After casting the heavy
9-weight for hours each day during the prior
week, using the lighter rod was a welcome
change, and provided some relief to my sore
wrist and overly strained forearm … until that
berserk henfish grabbed my blue and black
Prawn and sprinted off downriver, as if all of
the seals in the Bering Sea were chasing her.
I did manage to land my next hookup—an
18-pound, super bright buck—and all of us
continued to have grabs by chinook in the
Weir Pool throughout the morning, along
with an occasional sockeye that somehow
managed to stuff the outsized fly into its
smallish mouth. Strong gusts would fre-
quently buffet us, and I strained to cast into
the stiff headwinds, which at times caused my
cast to pile into a tangled heap atop the water.
Finally, after a couple of consecutive passes
yielded no strikes, we decided to rest the hole,
returning to the parked boat to eat Kathy’s
tasty sandwiches and homemade cookies,
washing down our meals with strong coffee.
While enjoying our lunch, I spied wakes
from newly arriving chinook entering the
lower tailout, which provided sufficient
enticement to resume our efforts post-repast.
Swinging our flies past these fresh fish re-
sulted in jarring, arm-wrenching strikes, and
swift, greyhound-style dashes that emptied
our reels. Sudden changes in direction by the
salmon caused large loops of slack to form
in our lines, and frantic retrieving to regain
contact and a semblance of control were often
futile. Joe sprinted up and down the length of
the Weir Pool, netting one fish, then huffing
away to land another. With the hot and heavy
action, the afternoon sped by quickly, and
we return back to camp, elated with our first
day’s successes.
As the week progressed, river levels con-