As August starts to slowly glissade (“butt scoot” for those of you who consider outdoor recreation as playing “Big Fish” on an iPad) itself down the slippery slope toward fall, there’s still time to add to your stash of smoked, canned, frozen, fermented, pickled, honey cured and super secretly preserved fish that only you and your acutely deranged cat can stomach.
It’s true that the weather can get pretty nasty this time of year, but don’t forget, good fishermen know how, when and where to go after their prey.
Flat Island and Point Pogibshi have been heating up for silvers lately, so maybe those reports from boats fishing elsewhere and claiming things have been as exciting as a 20-mile speed-lumbering race for sumo wrestlers when it comes to finding the aggressive aerialists are about to change.
Lately there have been growing rumors about silvers lurking outside The Fishing Hole.
Until noon Monday I thought those tales were being generated by fishermen walking too close to some of the campsites in the area that have more smoke pouring out of bongs than their campfires.
I scouted the lagoon area around high tide for jumpers but it was deader than a porcupine Frisbee on the Sterling Highway until an angler arrived to hit the outgoing tide.
This summer the “Reeling ‘Em In” gmail inbox has been busier than a confessional booth on the day after Mardi Gras.
There have been questions about fishing techniques, how to tell the difference between certain species and when and where to fish. We even had a request for directions to a great burger joint because they were down here for the scenery and preferred landing their fillets in a supermarket where they wouldn’t get fish scales on their Birkenstocks.
Anyone cruising by the Fishing Hole recently must be thinking they would come across more people if they dropped in on a private Pebble mine, executives only, appreciation party for the Alaska Wilderness League. What can I say? It has been so slow that you can find more action sitting at home watching dandelions convert your lawn into the mother of all puffballs.
The vast staff here at the headquarters of “Reeling ’Em In” has received a plethora of inquires as to when the first silvers are going to make their summer debut at The Fishing Hole.
How in the *&*%^ should I know? We thought that this year’s batch of kings would start trickling inside around the last of May and then kick things up throughout June. We were way wrong. If they had been any later they would have been next year’s run.
Heat and I get along like a snow cone in a sauna, so last month was no chocolate éclair on the buffet of life for me. Most of the 30 days seemed like something resembling that particular dessert that I inadvertently stepped in rather than enjoyed.
Yeah, yeah, I know there are a lot of you who relish jumping into a vat of sunscreen and then marching off into your gardens to breed vegetables so massive the Jolly Green Giant would be sporting a truss if he tried to pick one up. I get it.
By the time you read this, the tides should be almost perfect for cutting some respectable critters out the growing herds of halibut cruising around Kachemak Bay and Cook Inlet.
The flats will be looking for trouble by trying to filch sushi from the holiday-week buffets being served up on circle hooks dangling just above ocean floor. It could be a lot of fun out there.
Take a cosmic bucket full of solstice time, dump in huge tides along with hordes of panicked bait fish firing out of the water while dodging creatures trying to turn them into pureed protein and wadda ya get? Some honkin’ size halibut and a fleet of boats on the water with bent sticks wielded by semi-sane and seriously pumped fishing fanatics, that’s what.
It’s been a long time since the weather has been hotter than the fishing around here. With all of the fans blasting inside the cabin, it’s like stepping onto a wind tunnel
when the mutts and I crawl back inside from a scouting expedition.
The Fishing Hole has been an interesting enigma so far. The lagoon can be deader than daylight at a vampire hostel and then all of sudden a few kings will slide in to give napping anglers near seizures when they slam their bait.
The king run at The Fishing Hole has been fluctuating from being on the verge of comatose to somewhat entertaining with patient fin hunters nailing a few hungry chinooks entering with the tides.
The kings are relatively undersized and could have used a few more years at sea to add some heft to their fillets by wolfing down small schools of corpulent herring along with a side order of roe-wrapped candlefish when they felt the need to feed.
The first part of this season’s premiere column will be dedicated to those of you who scour wilderness beaches hunting the infamous Alaska clam.
Memorial Day weekend should be primo for those who are addicted to rooting around in the mud and sand for a creature that’s as swift and elusive as a rock with the mental capacity to match.
I can always tell when spring is skulking behind the mountains across the bay. First, a pitiful glimmer floats below the backside of the peaks glowing like a TV Special 2-4-1 LED lantern whose batteries are dying faster than its half-day warranty.
Back when a few of the geezoids currently running our Congress had just started to teethe, some stoner ancient Mayan nerds, after quaffing one too many kegs of a brew of toxic psychotropic green honey called Balché, declared the world would be burnt toast on Dec. 21, 2012.
They blew it.