Kings and Calm on the Aniak

Kings and Calm on the Aniak by Jeff Varvil
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Southwest Alaska stands out. It stands out among even the most beautiful, the most rugged, the most pristine areas in the world. It stands out even in Alaska, the Greatland, a state brimming with the beautiful, a state bursting with the pristine.

Completing one of Alaska’s wild rivers can be one of life’s most memorable and rewarding experiences and southwest Alaska is where to go to find them. The mere mention of these rivers evokes an image of Alaska’s most precious scenic trophies. The Andreafsky, Alagnak, and the Kanektok; the Tikchik, Goodnews, and the Nuyakuk: rattle the names off in your head and watch as the parade of visions commence.

Kings barreling upriver, eagles soaring overhead, mammoth brown bears gorging themselves on salmon, and gorgeous rainbows tail-dancing across the water. The Togiak, Stuyahok, and the Nushagak; the Newhalen, Kvichak, and the Naknek: there’s almost no end, just like there’s almost no end to the grace and beauty of the vast terrain they traverse. But of course, everyone has a favorite, and mine is the wild and remote Aniak River.

There is no sway in the hold this river maintains over me. I make two trips a year, every year, the first of which is in search of the toughest fish in the west, or almost anywhere for that matter—the king salmon. Among the idyllic calm of the Aniak, I embark upon my annual quest, intent on putting my best fly rod to the test. It’s me and the fleet of returning Chinook, alone in our battle. Like two heavyweights (and I get heavier every year), we meet and try to outwit or outmuscle each other, and sometimes both.

The flight from Anchorage serves as little more than an appetizer, as I hardly notice the landscape passing beneath the plane, my sights set squarely on the angling to come. The first three days of the float roll along at a leisurely pace, as my fishing partner, Doc, and I gently slip from one side of the Salmon River to the other, catching an occasional rainbow or grayling in the swift and shallow water. The sweepers and logjams that pervade the streams are a nightmare for navigation but provide a most favorable habitat for monster trout and salmon.

Each evening is spent wandering the tundra, enjoying the breathtaking scenery while searching for moose and caribou sheds. The hiking on the tundra surrounding the headwaters is incredible, almost like walking on the manicured grass of a golf course.

Just before the Salmon dumps into the Aniak, I hear the word I’ve been waiting for: “Kings,” Doc shouts, clearly excited. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I leap up and peek at my newfound presents. And there they are, nearly overflowing the shallow stretches near the confluence. At this moment, seeing the hordes of Chinook pooling up to gather strength for another blast upstream, I feel as if we are doing something wrong. This many fish for only two guys? It was too easy.

It wasn’t until we pulled over to the side of the river that our dreams were foiled. Two huge brown bears were just claiming the pool as their own. The brownies on the Aniak carry a native curiosity but tend to keep their distance. Nevertheless, we wisely decided to continue around the corner, but only to see more bears reigning over hundreds of kings. On we went, around two more bends, before finally coming across an unoccupied gravel bar where we could plant our flag. The bears were intent on gorging themselves on the migrating salmon and showed little to no interest in this pair of pesky humans that landed among them. They simply rolled the whites of their eyes and continued going about the business of storing up fat for the long Alaskan winter.

With the bears content to ignore us, Doc and I began to fish with serious intent. After 60 hours of little sleep and constant battles, we finally hit the proverbial wall and pulled the raft into a slough filled with chums. “Too tired to fish?” I asked Doc.

A sleepy smile emerged from under his big cowboy hat, trailed by a casual “Nope.” Then he began snoring. In the morning we would fire up the little Mercury outboard and motor to the village of Aniak. But tonight, for the last time this trip, we would sleep on the raft, under the stars as it was meant to be. I smiled as I dropped anchor, thinking of my upcoming September trip with my son Josh and how someday it would be him describing a trip with his dad—a trip on the greatest river in Alaska . . . a trip on the Aniak.

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