We found a home for the next few days on the banks of the Anchor River

When we awoke, the storm had subsided and only a light mist fell.  While exploring around the cabin, I came upon a large patch of wild strawberries that became our breakfast.  They were the most delicious berries I have ever had, and we shoveled them into our mouths by the handful.  Leaving the cabin, we pulled onto a small gravel road and went only a few hundred feet before Corey stopped the car. 

“What’s THAT?”, he said, pointing down a small gravel trail.

I looked and saw a black creature sitting there, a creature that defied logic.  It was a huge, jet-black jackrabbit, and sitting on it’s haunches it still measured more than two feet in height not counting the ears.  We stared at this strange beast for a few moments, and it stared at us right back.  Finally it hopped off the trail into the thick spruce, and was gone.  I had never even seen a Jackrabbit, let alone a huge black one, so I was utterly amazed by this animal.  Corey had read about the mysterious black rabbits of the Kenai Peninsula.  They were a very rare sight indeed, and not much is understood about them.  Some folks theorize that they are wild descendants of a type of rabbit that was raised by a homesteader in this area long ago, which escaped from captivity.  Apparently Tyler built his cabin in the vicinity of this old homestead. 

After our encounter with this bizarre creature, we skidded and splashed our way down the muddy trail.  We turned onto the highway, and traveled for a long time before realizing that the ocean was on our right when it should be on our left if we were traveling North toward Soldotna and our relative’s house.  We turned the wrong way onto the highway, and were now getting low on gas and headed for the village of Ninilchik and the river bearing the same name.  The Ninilchik river hosts good runs of coho and chinook salmon, so we decided to give it a look.  When we reached the river, a few natives were cleaning clams in the current.  This area is well-known for its’ excellent clamming beaches.  The river itself was small, yet deep and fast.  We waded it for about a mile,  and saw only a few smallish chinooks.  Having not caught any kings yet we figured it was worthwhile to ply these waters, but in the end our efforts produced no fish.  There just weren’t many fish in the river.  After chucking streamers into a brackish estuary near the river’s mouth, we gave up and headed back to the car. 

The village of Ninilchik was an old Russian town, and had no modern buildings let alone a gas station.  Colorful domes of Russian churches stood on the cliffs overlooking the ocean.  In desperate need of fuel, we got back on the highway and kept heading South hoping the Corolla would make it to a station.  Well after the low fuel light came on, finally we pulled into a Tesoro mart and breathed a sigh of relief.  After filling up on gas and Pringles, we looked over the Atlas.  The Anchor river was not too far off, and this was a river that we really wanted to fish.  A decision had to be made.  We could either head back to Soldotna to pick up supplies and visit our Aunt and Uncle like we had originally planned, or head to the Anchor River.   The Anchor won out.

We sped down the Westernmost highway in the United States, headed for the town of Anchor Point.  After crossing the river on an old iron bridge, we pulled into a small campground right on the riverbank.  Peeking through the streamside bushes, we saw a shallow, gravelly river filled with large numbers of gigantic chinook salmon.  A few anglers were fishing here, but it didn’t stop us from gearing up and hitting the water.  Angry hippos could not have stopped us from fishing for these kings.  Standing on a gravel bar, I tied on a bright pink bunny leech as a dozen or more huge, red chinooks splashed noisily and chased each other not thirty feet from me.  I was awestruck.  However, as I swung various flies in front of these fish it became obvious that they weren’t really interested in my offerings.  All of my fly changes were met with indifference.  Finally a fish took my egg-sucking leech in a deep slot, and I jammed the hook home hard.  The fish fought well, but didn’t have the weight that one of the big chinooks would, and I slid a small salmon onto the gravel bar.  At first I didn’t know what it was, but quickly realized that it was a bright hen chum salmon.  I had never caught this species before, so I was very happy and Corey snapped a few photos.  After releasing the chum, we both agreed that the chinooks in this area were not falling for our flies.  They had probably seen a lot of pressure from anglers, and continuing to drift flies past them would be an exercise in futility.  We had to get off the beaten path and find some more willing fish.

Heading downriver, we saw chinooks everywhere.  Giant red fish up to four feet long and weighing probably sixty pounds were sloshing, cutting the current and digging redds often with their backs out of the water.  A half-mile downstream, we now found the solitude we were looking for and also found a bunch of fish in a deep, fast run flowing through a field of giant boulders.  The problem was, these fish weren’t interested in smacking our gaudy streamers either.  A different approach was needed, so I singled out a solitary fish and began drifting a small egg imitation right past his nose.  After about fifty drifts, the fish finally turned it’s head and took the fly. 

“Fish on!”, I yelled, and the fish tore out line heading downstream.  I battled this fish up and down the river, but lost it when the hook popped out.  However, I believed that I had figured out a tactic that worked, so I picked another fish and began drifting again with the small yarn fly.  This fish wouldn’t take, and eventually spooked.  I then targeted a hen holding in the tail of the run, and she took the fly on the sixth drift past her nose.  After a tough toe-to toe battle with this fish in the fast, shallow river, I managed to grab her by the tail and land her.  My first chinook!  It was a dark red female of about twenty pounds, and she spilled eggs as I held her for a few photos.  The fish was released, and she swam back into her chosen position in the run to resume her spawning activities.  Corey battled a big king but lost it late in the fight, then we decided to drive downstream a ways and look at the river.

We parked at another small campground and found that the Anchor had a completely different character down here close to the mouth.  It was wider and deeper, much bigger overall, and there were no giant boulders in the river.  It was strange, flat grassland down here nearer the ocean.  A thick fog closed in around the tall, grassy banks and we were on constant alert for Grizzlies.  No salmon were observed in this part of the river, only a quarter mile from the ocean.  No fish were caught until I switched to drifting a bead, and then I got into some good dolly varden fishing in a very swift run.  I landed four dollies and lost a few when they leapt high in the air.  These fish were dime-bright dolly varden that had just entered fresh water.  Some still had crab-like sea lice still attached to them, and these parasites generally fall off after only a few hours of freshwater exposure.  Although they were only 13-14 inches long, these fresh sea-run char fought incredibly well for their size and would be a blast to catch on lighter tackle.

Corey and I were very impressed with the Anchor river.  It’s rock and gravel substrate and shallow flows offered excellent wadability, and the campsites spread along the river sweetened the deal.  Considering the numbers of huge chinook salmon currently residing in the river, along with ocean-run char as well as a few chums, we decided to fish it for another day.  We pitched our tent at a nice little campsite right next to the run I caught my first chinook from.  We had three fresh dolly varden for dinner, which were stuffed with fireweed blossoms and dandelion greens and wrapped in foil.  Cooked on the coals of our campfire, they turned out perfectly and were quite possibly the best fish I have ever eaten.  Their bright orange flesh was an absolute delicacy, and it was perfectly accompanied by Pringles potato chips.  We sat around our campfire until it finally got dark around midnight, then turned in.

It got chilly overnight, and everything was damp from the constant mist.  To save space I had brought only a light fleece sleeping bag liner to sleep in, and it only came up to my waist.  This was not adequate for sleeping in a wet tent at 40 degrees.  I didn’t sleep well, but this assured that I was up and on the river at the crack of dawn.  I brought my 5 weight flyrod down to the run just below our tent, and began drifting a bead through the currents.  Energetic dollies gobbled up my egg imitation, and I caught well over a dozen in two hour’s time.   They averaged about a foot in length.  Corey was up and had a pot of coffee brewing, so I joined him around a small campfire and waited for the java  to perc.  The sun was just getting high enough to add a little warmth to the chilly air, and the fire felt great.  There was no real sense of urgency about anything.  We had a few cups of coffee and ate some granola bars, then decided to get after some of the big chinooks we could hear splashing loudly in the river.

Corey hooked up first, and got into a fight with an angry 25-pound king.  Playing the fish with authority, Corey managed to land him and I snapped a few photos.  It was his  first chinook salmon, and he was very happy to have caught it.   We landed a few smaller kings, then I hooked into something bigger.  This fish made a run far downstream, and I had to apply some muscle to turn him.  After a tug of war battle I got him close, and he then made a long, bulldogging run upstream through the boulders.  This was a powerful fish, and I had to wade after him to gain some line back and try to avoid getting fouled on a boulder.  I scrambled after the fish, and he would not give up.  Occasionally he would move up onto a shallow gravel bar, and with the top half of his body out of the water he would churn his tail and spray water and gravel everywhere, digging his way to the next chute of deep, fast water.  Finally the big fish tired, though, and I led him into the shallows where he proceeded to flop around and cover me with slime and water.  I had to sit on the fish to keep him under control so I could unhook him.  While not as big as some of the fish in the river, it was still the biggest fish I had ever caught and weighed between 35 and 40 pounds. 

After a lunch of salami sandwiches and Pringles, we decided to head back down by the mouth of the river to try for some more chromer dollies.  We caught dozens of the feisty char, but most were rather small.  Three 14 inch fish and a beautiful silver 17 inch fish that Corey caught were kept for our dinner.  A nap sounded like a great idea to me, so we headed back to our camp around 3 and took a snooze.  After waking we made a trip into the town of Anchor Point to pick up some supplies, then got a roaring fire going back at camp.  Polishing off a six-pack of Kokanee beer, we cultivated a fine bed of coals and cooked three char in foil.  It was a big meal, which made us lazy.  After considerable chatting around the fire, Corey decided to turn in early and hit the tent at 9:30.  Quite a bit of daylight remained, however, so I grabbed my big flyrod and headed down to the bouldery run to tangle with some kings before bedtime.   There were a lot of fish around, and  I hooked five but only landed two of 18 and 28 pounds.  I lost one king after a long and crazy battle that would have pushed fifty pounds, and after this I headed back to camp and crawled into the tent.  The sky had cleared up, so I knew it was going to be another chilly night.