Alaska Sportsman 2017 Edition

SUMMER 2017

IN THIS ISSUE

ALASKA’S MAGAZINE

15c

Dall Sheep•Rainbow Trout•Ruffed Grouse

All photos by Barry & Cathy Beck

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The Alaska Sportsman • Summer 2017 • alaskamagazine.com

CONTENTS

8 KA

LASKA’S BEST EPT SECRET

The ruffed grouse hunting is incredible

16 TF

HAT ARAWAY LOOK

Looking for full curl

24 TM

ORE HAN ONE

A photographic essay

34 E

SUMMER 2017

Classic The Alaska Sportsman

44 K

ODIAK GIANT

From the April 1936 issue

48 G

LIMPSES INTO ALASKA From the April 1935 issue

SSENTIAL GEAR

Your choice of accoutrements matters

38 DT

HE UCK SHACK

Aldo Leopold had his shack, and we had ours

On the cover: Dall sheep (Ovis dalli) ram

Image by: Donald M. Jones / Minden Pictures

A hunter hikes down a mountainside in the Chugach National Forest.

Photo: Design Pics Inc / Alamy Stock Photo

MAIN TRAILS & BYPATHS EDITORIAL BY

M

ORE than eighty years ago, the Alaska Sportsman’s Association decided to create a magazine and published its first issue of The Alaska Sportsman in 1935. For the next thirty-four years, The Alaska Sportsman delivered the world of hunting, fishing, trapping, and subsistence living in the Last Frontier to the rest of North America.

In 1969, ten years after Alaska entered the Union, the magazine became Alaska and began covering general interest as well as the sporting life.

Over the years, hunting and fishing have been featured less and less in Alaska, but Alaska itself is populated with anglers and hunters who either get all their meat from the land, air, and water or at least supplement their diets with game harvested within the state’s boundaries. Further, the Last Frontier is still very much a destination for hard core sportsmen.

In 2005, the editors of Alaska published a special hunting annual under The Alaska Sportsman banner.

RUSS LUMPKIN

This year, we’re bringing you another distinctive issue and have filled it with stories written by some of Alaska’s most wellknown sporting writers, including upland guru Jim McCann, prolific scribe Don Thomas, and Alaskan author Bjorn Dihle.

We also are featuring the imagery of well-traveled photographers Barry and Cathy Beck.

We’re also paying homage. Even though printing technology has come a long way since 1935, we’ve created a cover that mimics the classic look of the earliest issues of The Alaska Sportsman—right down to grain in the photo.

Sportsman The guts of the magazine, too, ring true to the original: stories and photos that detail the thrills of a memorable hunt or joys of catching the fish of a lifetime.

You’ve received this copy of The Alaska Sportsman because you’re a subscriber to either Gray’s Sporting Journal or Alaska— or both. The editors and staff hope you enjoy this special issue.

Small Boat Catches BIG Fish PackFish™ 7

Russ Lumpkin, editor

EDITOR SENIOR EDITOR ACCOUNT EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF PRODUCTION DIRECTOR OF MANUFACTURING PRODUCT MANAGER ART DIRECTOR GRAPHIC DESIGNER DIGITAL CONTENT MANAGER

Russ Lumpkin Susan Sommer Melissa Bradley Mike Floyd Kris Miller Donald Horton Mickey Kibler Ron Vaz Wayne Knight Seth Fields

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4 • The Alaska Sportsman

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The Alaska Sportsman, ISSN 0002-4562, is a supplement of Alaska magazine and published occasionally by MCC Magazines, LLC, a division of Morris Communications Company, LLC. Editorial and Advertising Offices: 301 Arctic Slope Ave., Suite 300, Anchorage, Alaska 99518. Not responsible for the return of unsolicited submissions. Known office of publication: 735 Broad St., Augusta, Ga. 30901. Our trademarks registered in the U.S. Patent Office and in Canada: “Alaska,” “Alaska Sportsman,” “Life on the Last Frontier,” “From Ketchikan to Barrow,” “End of the Trail,” “The Guide Post,” “Main Trails & Bypaths,” “Alaska-Yukon Magazine.” Periodicals postage paid at Augusta, Ga., and additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Alaska, PO Box 433237, Palm Coast, FL 32143-9616.

In Canada, periodicals postage paid at Winnipeg, Manitoba; second-class registration number 9771, GST No. 125701896. Canadian Publications Mail Sales Product Agreement No. 279730. © 2017 The Alaska Sportsman magazine. All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A. Summer 2017.

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Alaska’s Best Kept Secret

The ruffed grouse hunting is incredible.

Story and photos by Jim McCann

We

Alaskans pay winter dues but enjoy wonderful summers when we can play all day and into the night in the Land of the Midnight Sun. For me, I manage to complete some chores around the house, but I spend most of summer fly fishing, and training and exercising my bird dogs in preparation for the arrival of cool weather. As summer wanes in the last days of August, scattered leaves turn from summer green to autumn yellow, a chill fills the air during early-morning runs for the dogs, and the enchanting songs of geese and cranes overhead announce their return from a summer spent raising their young high in the Arctic. These and other signals tell me it’s time to hunt. Specifically, it’s time to begin yet another glorious season following my Brittany pointing dogs in the aspen woods in pursuit of ruffed grouse.

In Alaska, big-game hunting rules—it always has and it always will. When hunters anywhere in the rest of the world think of hunting in Alaska they generally think of huge coastal brown bears, branch-antlered caribou, or 1,200-pound moose with antlers the size of barn doors. Serious upland-bird hunters certainly know about Alaska’s fabulous ptarmigan hunting, but few hunters seem to know about the equally fabulous ruffedgrouse hunting. If I lived in one of the crowded grouse-hunting states in the Lower 48 I’d keep all the secrets to myself, but here, grouse hunters are few and grouse coverts are as large as some entire states; so, I don’t mind telling you... In terms of ruffedgrouse hunting, Alaska offers what you want in numbers and acreage the Lower 48 can’t match.

Summer 2017 • 9

Ruffed grouse inhabit the aspen–spruce forests and alder thickets of Alaska’s vast Interior.

(Right) Clyde locks down on a point.

A

laska’s ruffed grouse are connected to the ruffed grouse found in 39 other U.S. states and each of the provinces of Canada by way of the Yukon River that begins in Canada, flows westward across the Alaska–Canada border, through the vast Interior where most of our ruffed grouse are found, and all the way to the Bering Sea. Other useful conduits for dispersing ruffed grouse in Alaska are the Tanana and Kuskokwim rivers and each of their countless tributaries.

The ruffed grouse has been my favorite game bird since the I first shot one and took home to eat when I was just a young boy living in upstate New York. Since that time so long ago I’ve thought a lot about ruffed grouse, read everything I could find relating to them, studied their woodland environment, and hunted them throughout a rather long upland hunting season (from early August into May in some areas) here in Alaska. Sure, when first coming to Alaska nearly 50 years ago, I too was enamored with the big-game hunting and did my fair share.

I’ll still attempt to take a moose every couple of years because my family loves to eat moose meat, but even when out moose hunting in September I find myself wishing I were instead carrying a favorite shotgun and hunting ruffed grouse with my Brittany pointing dogs.

Like anywhere ruffed grouse are found, Alaska’s grouse populations experience cycles of lows and highs. The good news is that a well-trained bird dog can find a lot of grouse even during low years. During good years, though, a hard-hunting dog will point 20 to 40 grouse in a particular covert, as compared to perhaps only a half dozen birds in low years.

• The Alaska Sportsman

“During good years, a hardhunting dog will point 20 to 40 grouse in a particular covert.”

Summer 2017 • 11

The author prefers a light double gun, in either 28, 20, or 16 gauge, for ease of maneuverability in tight cover.

O

ur first hunt of the season is always special, but this day was made extra special because we were hunting Buddy’s Hill, a covert named after my late friend: a big, tough Brittany who lived to hunt and to be close to me for all of his 16 years.

Buddy’s Hill is a south-facing hillside covert of aspen trees, alder-lined gullies, scattered copses of spruce trees, and stands of highbush cranberries. As a young pup of only nine months, Buddy cut his grouse-hunting teeth here, and his spirit continues to hunt with me and each new pup I introduce to ruffed grouse on this hallowed ground.

It felt good to be in the grouse woods again and carrying a fine shotgun broken open and over my shoulder as I followed a couple of good dogs that were fanned out ahead of me and hunting earnestly. There was a bite to the air, and the ground was wet from a melted morning frost, while the fermented smell of highbush cranberries, decaying leaves, and dank earth filled my olfactory and made me feel at home. Walking the aspen woods along a skinny trail tightly choked in tangled alder, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of how best to maneuver around, over or under the obstacles while still maintaining some visual contact with the two dogs now working grouse scent up ahead of me.

I needed to stay closer to the dogs, but the thick brush took a toll on my efforts, taxed my strength, and impeded my forward progress. These well-trained and highly experienced grouse dogs of mine will find, point, and do their level best at holding a grouse at bay for me, but some grouse won’t sit for long, and in order to get a fair shot I knew I needed to be closer to the action.

• The Alaska Sportsman

Peering through the thick brush at my dogs working scent, I delighted in seeing their stubby tails turning frenzied circles during an exciting prelude to a grouse find. Continuing to forge my way closer, the alder branches slapped me in the face, grabbed at my clothing, and nearly knocked my hat off my head, but momentarily both dogs abruptly ceased all movement and locked up on point, their noses pointing in the general direction of where a ruffed grouse likely remained hidden and unmoving, sorting out this intrusion and planning its next move.

With just a few more yards forward progress I would be in a place where I could again stand upright and be ready for a flushing grouse and attempt a shot, but as I bent at the waist to get under branches reaching out across the trail before me the grouse exploded into flight, leaving me in no position to even try to get off a shot. Mostly that’s what ruffed grouse hunting is, missed opportunity for one reason or another. At least this time it wasn’t because I missed him with my poorly directed shotgun pattern.

Proper gun fit, form, technique, and lots of practice shooting clay birds during the summer will help you shoot more ruffed grouse, but perhaps more than any other game bird on earth the ruffed grouse will most often leave you with two empty hulls in your chambers and no grouse to dine upon after the hunt. Grouse seem to know the best time to flush, such as when you’re high-stepping over a fallen tree or bending awkwardly to get under or through some gnarly brush. Shots at ruffed grouse are to be done quickly and not at all where the

“Grouse seem to know the best time to flush, such as when you’re high-stepping over a fallen tree...” my left. I swung the 16 gauge side-by-side just as I had done so many times over the decades and fired. The grouse crumpled in the air and fell to the forest floor. But at that same moment, a second grouse got up and rocketed off to my right. Not the slightest bit ready, I hardly even raised the gun but focused in case a third bird flushed. Directly, a grouse launched into the air, away from me and uphill. To my delight, this grouse also turned head over tail fan and described a simple arc as it fell to the ground. I sent both dogs off to fetch and soon held two marvelous grouse in my hands.

Throughout the rest of the day the dogs and I moved another six or seven ruffed grouse. I missed some shots, missed some opportunities to even take a shot, and connected on one more bird. The daily limit in my hunting area is 15 grouse per day, but I find that limit too generous and possibly injurious to the local grouse population. Three grouse in one day of hunting is plenty for this hunter, so we called it a day. Back at the truck, I check the dogs for any sign of injury before giving them water and treats, and put them into their comfy kennels for the drive home.

Alaska still holds many secrets for residents and visitors alike, but now you know one of the best-kept secrets: Alaska has some of the finest ruffed-grouse hunting in the world. ~AS Jim McCann has lived in Alaska for nearly 50 years. He’s been following bird dogs for more than 20 years and is the author of Upland Hunting in Alaska.

Tom Halvorson praises Charlie, one of the many fine Brittanies who’ve hunted with and befriended the author over the years.

4 • The Alaska Sportsman

Photo Credit

grouse was or even where the bird presently is, but shots should be fired ahead of the bird, toward the area where the grouse will be or you think it will be in the blink of an eye. Grouse shots are an act of faith, and on those rare occasions when your shot swarm overtakes a grouse and it drops to the ground, you should rejoice in your success and cherish the moment. It’s not likely to happen again anytime soon.

Moving on through the woods I take note of not only the thick security cover provided by the alder but also of the ripe highbush cranberry bushes scattered about in the area. Ruffed grouse love to eat cranberries during the fall season, and since this piece of cover also happens to face somewhat south and provides periods of sunshine for a grouse to bask in after a cold night, it’s a perfect recipe for success.

As the dogs and I gained some elevation and eventually moved laterally along the brushy slope I was again treated to the sight of both dogs sharing excitement over another encounter with delightful grouse scent. One dog moved left while the other went to the right, and within a few short moments both dogs stood motionless, one some 20 yards from a fallen tree surrounded by thick brush, the other dog standing well off to one side and in honor of the dog on point.

With my gun in the ready position I moved ahead of the dogs, knowing how each forward step might possibly be the step that causes the explosive flush. Unable to hold any longer, a ruffed grouse launched itself into flight, heading uphill and to

That Faraway Look

Sheep hunting for Alaska residents is, in some areas, draw only while other areas require only registration. The same is true for Outsiders, who also must hire an Alaska guide.

• The Alaska Sportsman

Premium Stock Photography GmbH / Alamy Stock Photo

By Bjorn Dihle

Following the teachings of their father, three brothers go looking for full curl and meat

IN

early 2014, my older brother Luke, normally an easy-going and reasonable man, suggested an epic hunting adventure for the upcoming fall. He wanted to make two back to back Dall sheep hunts to different mountain ranges. Then, if we had time afterward, we’d hunt caribou before returning home.

“Sounds too easy,” I said as I drank a beer and ate a plate of nachos.

And for me, up to that point, it had been easy. The previous year I’d put my name in the Alaska Department Fish and Game lottery for sheep tags in the Delta Mountains of the eastern Alaska Range.

Luke had put in for the same tag for 15 years with no luck. I got it on my first try—something that made him resent me so deeply that he threatened to kick me out of the family if I didn’t join him and Reid, our younger brother, on this maniacal adventure.

So, late that August, the three of us pitched tents just off the Alaska Highway. As darkness hid the jagged mountains and glaciers of the Deltas, Luke dove into his tiny tent.

“Tomorrow at this time we’ll be in sheep country or darn close!” he hollered.

For my family, hunting is religion, and Dad taught its tenets. When we were kids, we listened raptly to his stories and grew up on the wild meat he brought home. We lived in the northern part of Southeast Alaska, which provided abundant Sitka deer and salmon. Occasionally, though, Dad would go to the Interior to hunt other species—his hunts for Dall sheep affected him most. He’d come home with a faraway look in his eyes, like he was still in sheep country.

Summer 2017 • 17

In the morning my brothers and I set out, following a small river deep into the boreal forest to the ramparts of the mountain range. I cursed all the weeks I’d spent drinking beer instead of training. At dusk, on an alpine plateau, I collapsed and moaned like a sea lion undergoing a botched colectomy.

Wolves began howling from the valley and nervous caribou ran in circles.

At daybreak we moved deeper into the wilderness, and I felt like I was visiting an old friend—I’d wandered many of these mountains and valleys more than a decade ago. My reverie was broken when I spied a few sheep on a shale-covered ridge several miles away. We dropped into the cover of a ravine, skirting flocks of croaking ptarmigan. We closed to within a few hundred yards, and Luke set up the scope and counted six rams. One or two looked like they might be full curl. It was too late to get above the herd so we crept along, crawling at times, making sure to stay out of sight. Gradually, we drew closer.

“Sheep!” Reid whispered, and we crouched to the ground. A ram lay less than 300 yards away. My heart skipped a beat and my body felt electric. Slowly, Luke put the scope on him and then mouthed “Seven-eighths curl.” A ram has to have a full curl, meaning its horns form a full circle, or be eight years old or have the tips of both horns broken, to be legal to shoot. A few minutes later the rest of the herd appeared on an adjacent slope.

“There’s the boss! He looks full but you got to make your own decision,” Luke whispered. I studied the animal through the spotting scope. He sure looked more than full, but I hesitated. What ensued was an anxious exchange of “What do you think?” “Would you shoot?” “Are you sure he’s legal?”

Using a range finder, Luke whispered the distance as the sheep slowly moved away. It was late in the day and storm clouds were appearing on the horizon. This could be our one chance for many days, even the entire hunt. I chambered a round, rested the rifle on a boulder, and held a couple inches below his spine. I exhaled and gently squeezed the trigger.

The ram cringed, ran a few yards, and collapsed as the other sheep scattered into the mountains. We scrambled to the ram, and with elation and a touch of sadness, I knelt beside the sheep, feeling his warmth and smelling his blood. It was humbling to kill such a regal animal. I felt lucky to be in these mountains with my two best friends and this great animal— but I wasn’t sure I ever needed to shoot another sheep.

Herds of caribou swirled around us as we hiked through clouds back to camp. In the morning we traveled through dense fog, frequently running into caribou, as we descended to the river. Our packs grew heavier with each mile. That night we made a fire, ate sheep ribs, and tossed the bones into the river’s current. At Tok we dropped off the meat at a friend’s house and got the horns sealed at the Alaska Fish and Game office, where the biologist cautioned us that there were few sheep where we planned to hunt next. It wasn’t what we wanted to hear, but we decided that even if we didn’t get a ram, the trek would be a good way to spend the days before caribou

8 • The Alaska Sportsman

season opened. We gorged on pizza and nachos at Fast Eddy’s Restaurant and then drove to the edge of a mountain range.

The next morning, we hiked across the taiga and past the corpses of trees burnt by wildfire and antler sheds of moose and caribou. The willows blazed yellow and the air was crisp.

“How far to sheep mountains?” I asked. My brothers had made this hunt eight years prior and Luke had taken a big ram. The hunt was open to registration but the trek was too far and the sheep too few to attract many hunters.

“Thirty or forty miles,” Luke said.

We climbed into the clouds, cresting a mountain top, and descended blindly until the reddened tundra revealed itself. A big bull caribou, flaps of bloody velvet hanging from its antlers,

Bjorn Dihle

Over the course of three hunts, Bjorn estimates he and his brothers hiked in the neighborhood of 150 miles.

tossed his head back and forth. The next morning we woke to heavy winds and snow and remained bundled in our tents. If the snow didn’t let up, we were going to have to retreat. It was late in the year; winter would come to these mountains soon.

A few hours later, when my craving for a cup of coffee outweighed my desire for the warmth of my sleeping bag, I emerged into the white world. The sun was beginning to creep out from the storm.

“You guys want to lie around pillow talking or go sheep hunting?” I hollered. A few hours later, as we followed a caribou trail along the base of an ancient crumbly mountain, Reid pointed.

“Sheep!” he said. Several miles away a herd of ten were high

on a snowy ridge. We made a stalk until we were close enough to verify all were ewes and sub-adults. We hiked and scoped until dusk. Small herds of caribou walked within yards of us as we sat smiling and shaking our heads in wonder. A golden eagle perched on a rock watched us as we made camp at last light.

“This trip has already been worth the effort,” I said, enjoying our standard dinner of instant mashed potatoes, hot dogs, and cheese. Before sunrise we left camp and were soon following a knife-edge ridge. A herd of ewes and young grazed the barren landscape in a valley below. An hour later, Reid, ever vigilant, gestured at tiny white specks on a ridge a few miles away.

“Rams! Two look like they might be full,” Luke said, staring through the scope. Cliffs separated us from making a stalk

Summer 2017 • 19

Left: The oldest brother, Luke, missed out on a sheep tag but made his wife happy with a big caribou bull.

from above so we decided to drop into a valley. Cautiously but quickly, we descended a steep slope of scree, scattering rock ptarmigan as we made sure to stay out of view of the sheep.

Pikas squeaked as we ran past. An hour later we crawled on our bellies to the crest of a knoll.

“The highest ram looks full,” Luke whispered. We continued as fast as we could until we blundered into the view of a sub-adult ram. The other sheep were still miles away but we didn’t want the young ram to run so we froze. After ten minutes, the young ram slowly walked away and we made our way through a stunted forest until we could go no farther without the herd seeing us.

“I don’t think we have a chance,” Reid said. Six rams stood in the way of the two that might be legal, which were still a few miles away, near the top of a mountain.

“Yeah, there’s no way they’re not going to see us. It’s late and it looks like it might storm, too,” Luke said. I was relieved and sensed an opportunity at hand to suggest something insane and not have to suffer the consequences.

“What if we climb another mountain and see if we can loop around them,” I said, already imagining how I would tease my brothers in the future about the time they gave up on a stalk.

The next thing I knew I was cursing myself, my heart and lungs about to explode, as I lumbered after them up thousands of feet of unconsolidated rocks.

• The Alaska Sportsman

When we reached the crest of the ridge, we crawled through snow. We studied two rams that were almost within range but weren’t legal. We moved on, carefully treading across boulders, ice, and snow until we’d made it past all the sheep. Now that we were out of sight, we ran down a sheep trail to a draw.

Suddenly it struck me that we had a decent chance of pulling off the stalk, a notion that seemed so crazy I pushed it out of my head as I watched my brothers leap up the mountain. At the top we paused. The two big rams were near. The electricity in the air was almost unbearable. Luke felt it so strongly he sat down and refused to go on.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I’m so jacked-up right now I might tell you to shoot even if it’s not full curl.”

Reid and I crawled through snow and over boulders until the first ram came into view just over 200 yards away. We stared at each other with wild eyes as I slowly set up the spotting scope. I shook my head—his horns appeared to be a little less than full. Cautiously, we slithered forward a couple yards and spied the other ram. He looked full but I wasn’t sure enough to give Reid the go ahead. We spent the next several minutes whispering whether or not he was full until the two rams started slowly walking away. Luke crept down and looked exasperated.

“He’s more than full,” he whispered.

“Bjorn, would you shoot him?” Reid asked.

Bjorn Dihle

Above: Reid, the author’s younger brother, with a ram killed during the second hunt.

Right: The author with his first, and probably last, ram.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I didn’t want my little bro going to the slammer.

“He’s full,” Reid whispered and, then, took a rest on a boulder and fired. The ram shuddered, took a few steps and fell dead in the snow. The other ram ran to him, nuzzled his nose against his body and then fled. We sat next to the sheep in quiet awe for a while. Luke would later tell me it was within a few hundred yards of the ram he’d killed eight years prior.

“I don’t ever need to kill another,” Reid said.

After getting the sheep back to the freezer, we set out to hunt caribou. We were hunting an area open to registration, where each Alaska resident hunter can get a free tag over the counter for a bull. By this point I looked, smelt, and sounded similar to the zombies on The Walking Dead. We were on a mission though. Luke’s wife had threatened to leave him if he didn’t get a big bull caribou rack for the wall. Being divorced on such grounds is a simple fact of life in Alaska.

After hiking in 12 miles from the road—a distance at which no self-respecting Alaskan hunter on foot would shoot a caribou—I saw the flash of red antlers of a bull caribou. The next thing I knew, Luke was doing somersaults and running half naked through a blizzard. When I finally caught up with him he was sitting quietly with a big beautiful bull. Marriage saved.

He thanked the animal, and we set to butchering and

packing. Late that day, after the three of us had gotten the meat halfway back to the road, we sat watching the sun set on the open and desolate country. Reid shook his head in disbelief.

“You know, it can’t get any better than this,” he said, and then thought for a moment. “Well, unless a young bull came running by right now.”

Less than 30 seconds later we heard the sound of hooves on the tundra and three young bulls appeared forty yards away. I began laughing, Luke shook his head in disbelief as Reid grabbed his rifle and added seventy five pounds of delicious meat to his freezer. The next morning, moving slowly, we hauled out the two caribou. Even Luke admitted he was tired.

Before we descended the last ridge to the road, I stopped and, with a distant stare, looked back at the expanse of snowy mountains and said a bittersweet goodbye to the season. ~AS Bjorn Dihle is a Juneau writer. His first book, Haunted Inside Passage: Ghosts, Legends and Mysteries of Southeast Alaska, is now available most places books are sold. Follow him at www.facebook.com/bjorndihleauthor.

Summer 2017 • 21

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4 • The Alaska Sportsman

More Than One Photography by Barry & Cathy Beck

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ulik Lodge is a short flight from Anchorage, and you can pretty much step off the floatplane, begin fishing, and fish till dinner time.

Or you can explore other options, other waters: lakes, rivers, or streams. And always, keep alert for bears... Even if you don’t see them, there are plenty around.

You’ll probably see more than one.

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ocated in Katmai National Park and Preserve, the lodge is in the middle of the best rainbow trout fishing in the world. But the fishing for arctic char, lake trout, pike, grayling, and all five species of Pacific salmon is also world class. If you’re staying several days, you should experience more than one.

Summer 2017 • 29

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f, however, you want big rainbow trout and only big rainbow trout, this is where you need to be. The front door of the lodge opens to the Kulik River, which is among the best trout rivers on the planet. But here, all the great trout water in a 100-mile radius—including the Moraine, Funnel, and Battle— is within reach. Your dream of catching a genuine trophy, perhaps even a 30-incher, is within reach, too. In fact, you might catch more than one. katmailand.com

Summer 2017 • 31

E SSENTIAL GEAR Success in the field begins with your choice of accoutrements OPTICS

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F I could have only one binocular to use in Alaska—for hunting, backpacking, canoeing, wildlife watching—it would be a Leica Ultravid 8x32 HD. It’s light, compact, extremely durable, and waterproof, and has razor-sharp optics.

It also has an optical coating that sheds water and won’t fog. There may be better binoculars for special uses, such as a higher-powered glass to keep on a boat or a large objective for low light, but these features add weight, bulk, and cost and can be added after you have your basic 8x32—if you still think you need them. An eight-power is more than ample magnification when paired with the quality of glass and coating available from Leica and other European optics manufacturers. It’s better to see a pair of horns in razor-sharp detail than to have higher power and a bigger, but fuzzy, image.

If I was given a Zeiss Victory 8x32 T FL (with LotuTec) instead or a Swarovski EL 8x32 WB, I would not complain. There is not much difference among the top European optics. The Zeiss, Leica, and Swarovski are expensive, but they’re a lifetime investment. If the top European models are too costly, however, then the perfect binocular for Alaska is the very best 8x32 you can afford. ~Terry Wieland, Shooting Editor, Gray’s Sporting Journal

RIFLE

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HE ideal, all-round rifle for Alaska has to be as rugged, powerful, and durable as the land itself—but not as big. Big rifles are a drag. You’ll want a rifle that weighs from 6 to 7 pounds and features a controlled, round-feed bolt action, which is simple, strong, and easy to field strip; a stainless-steel action and 20- to 22-inch barrel, which easy to maneuver and transport; a composite stock that comprises some combination of hand-laid fiberglass, Kevlar, and graphite—all of which are light, strong, and weatherproof; steel open sights in case your scope fails; and a Leupold 2.5-8X36mm VX3i scope in quick-release rings. I suggest a 300 Win. Mag, which is widely available and accurate with everything from big, 220-grain bear stoppers to sleek, high ballistic coefficient, long-range models for minimal wind deflection, maximum retained energy, and deep penetration. Unfortunately, no rifles currently in production meet all these criteria, but the 8-pound Ruger Guide Gun comes closest. Replace its laminate wood stock with a hand-laid fiberglass, and you’re golden. A 6.8-pound Kimber Montana is the lightest but you’d need to shorten the barrel and add open sights. You’ll have to do the same to the 7.25-pound Winchester M70 Extreme Weather. ~Ron Spomer, veteran hunting writer, ronspomeroutdoors.com

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ESSENTIAL GEAR FLY FISHING

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N my opinion, the most essential piece of fly-fishing gear is the rod, and my go-to fly rod for most of my fishing in Alaska is the Echo Boost 790-s. A 7-weight fly rod is a good match for many of the fisheries in Alaska, and while it is a bit light for king salmon (or a tad heavy for small grayling), it is perfect for other salmon and steelhead in Southeast Alaska as well as trout and char in Bristol Bay. The Boost 790-s has a fast-action progressive taper that loads well for short casts with plenty of power to throw 100-foot bombs when needed. In addition to being my favorite twig, the Boost 790-s is the perfect rod for my clients—easy to cast, light enough to fish all day, beefy enough to pull in the trophies but a fun rod to fight fish of all sizes. At only $250, the Boost 790-s is among the best dollar-for-dollar value in fly rods these days, and the lifetime warranty means if you break it, the fine folks at Echo charge you only $35 plus shipping for a new one. For these reasons (and more), the Echo Boost 790-s ranks as number one in my list of most essential gear. ~Mark Hieronymous, veteran Southeast Alaska fly-fishing guide, Bear Creek Outfitters

ACCESSORY

HE Garmin InReach Explorer is a tiny satellite communication and GPS device, and it is a game changer for anyone heading into the Bush for hunting, fishing, or any other outdoor adventure. You can text and receive messages from anywhere in the hinterlands. Throw in pre-loaded Delorme Topo maps, basic weather reports, a digital compass, barometric altimeter, accelerometer, and all sorts of other stuff I haven’t figured out how to use yet and get ready to fall in love again. Want a weather update?

Need to tell your honey you’re going to be a day late getting back from a hunt? On top of a mountain when the fog rolls in and not sure how to find your way back to camp? Want to mark a fishing hole? Break your leg and need to be rescued? Need advice on your love life...well, the InReach Explorer probably can’t help you, but it can help solve just about all your other problems. The battery is rechargeable and has a very long life. During a ten day hike on Kodiak Island, while using my InReach liberally, I used only 30 percent of the battery. ~Bjorn Dihle, Gear Editor, Alaska

• The Alaska Sportsman

Photo Credit

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8 • The Alaska Sportsman

Drew Hadley / Alamy Stock Photo

The

Duck Shack

By E. Donnall Thomas Jr.

Aldo Leopold had his shack, and we had ours.

To

the west, the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Alaska Range—laced with glaciers and lovely to look at but difficult to travel through except by air. To the east, the turbid waters of Cook Inlet—wracked by some of the world’s strongest tides and rich in marine life but challenging to navigate, as Captain James Cook himself found out in 1778 when he probed its shoreline in an unsuccessful search for a Northwest Passage.

Between mountains and sea—a roadless ribbon of wilderness lowlands and tidal flats, close to the modern world as the crow (or duck) flies but farther than the map suggests because of inaccessibility.

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UMEROUS glacial rivers carve the terrain into sections and far more bears inhabit the area than people. The tide flats are an intriguing natural phenomenon. Because of the Inlet’s huge fluctuations between high tide and low the intertidal zone is exceptionally wide. During spring and summer, a fertile plain of green grass sprawls between the trees farther inland and the Inlet’s treacherous mud. Countless small, shallow ponds of varying salinity dot its surface, while the channels that drain back into the sea create an abstract maze of wandering waterways. This conjunction of food and water makes ideal habitat for ducks and geese, and the hunting can be remarkable—as long as you can get there and remain safe from the elements once you arrive.

That was the rationale behind the Duck Shack’s construction. (I’m using capital letters because to us there was only one, making it a proper noun.) Structurally there wasn’t much to it.

We called it a shack and not a cabin or a lodge because that’s

4 • The Alaska Sportsman

what it was: tin roof, plywood walls, two small windows, a bare wood floor built up three steps off the ground to keep it above reach of the highest tides. The unique feature of its location was its proximity to both a pond that could accommodate a Super Cub on floats and a straight strip of flat ground just long enough to land an airplane on tundra tires. Lots of places on the flats offered one or the other, but few provided both landing options side by side. The ability to accommodate different aircraft made the location unique, even if the building itself wasn’t much fancier than a dog house, as indeed it sometimes was.

For both practical and ethical reasons, one shouldn’t hunt ducks without a retrieving dog capable of ensuring that every downed bird eventually becomes a duck dinner. There weren’t a lot of rules at the Duck Shack, but a ban on wet dogs inside was one of them. It was also tacitly understood that this rule was meant to be broken. Sky, my male yellow Lab, provided

Lori and Don Thomas

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During the peak migration, the cast of characters often became remarkably varied. Mallards and pintails, arguably the choicest of ducks on the table, arrived in large flocks. The grass between the Duck Shack and my favorite ponds could fill up overnight with snipe (also delicious, by the way), but the birds could be gone again a day later. We didn’t shoot a lot of diving ducks on those tidal ponds, but there were enough to provide an occasional change of pace. The same was true of geese and even cranes (“rib-eye from the sky,” in culinary terms).

Paradoxically, the only species we never saw were the sea ducks for which parts of the Alaska coast are famous—eiders, harlequins, scoters, and their relatives. There was just too much impassable mud between dry ground and open saltwater, since low tides could move the Inlet shoreline a mile or more from dry land. Those exotic specimens required a trip to Kachemak Bay or Kodiak, and I made one almost every year.

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HIS afternoon I’m sitting on a drift log stranded midway between the Duck Shack and the Inlet by what must have been a monstrous high tide. Sky waits patiently at my side, sitting still and alert as a good retriever should, scanning the gloom overhead for the ducks that he hopes will give him an opportunity to do the job he was born to do. He isn’t seeing many, for this is the week of transition between the departure of the local ducks and the Big Chill in the northern Interior. The low ceiling

LEFT: A large flock of wigeons approaches a decoy spread on an Alaska tidal flat.

RIGHT: Rosy, Don’s female Lab, with a gadwall. A capable retriever is a necessity when hunting Alaska waterfowl.

me plenty of company in front of the oil stove when neither of my two partners was there, and I know their Labs did the same for them.

Duck season began in early September and lasted until the ponds froze for good in early October. That schedule compressed a lot of hunting into a short window of time. Feeling the rush of the seasons’ passage proved almost as memorable as the shooting, for there is no place to experience that phenomenon so intensely as in wilderness Alaska. One could measure the month of September by the pace of the duck hunting as well as by any calendar. Resident puddle ducks provided the early opportunities, and teal often dominated the bag. There was usually more hunting than shooting. But after the lakes in the Interior started to freeze the real show began, as northern birds poured down the Inlet on the way to their eventual wintering grounds. Then, suddenly, it would all be over until next year.

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has obscured what was a spectacular view of the mountains a few hours earlier. Weather is coming; summer is about to depart— and that’s official, for the equinox lies but a few days away. I’ll miss the silver salmon in the nearby streams, but I’ll miss them a lot less if the front brings down some ducks.

Duck hunting often requires sitting quietly in nasty weather, waiting for ducks the way Becket’s characters once waited for Godot. Fortunately, a student of natural history—even an amateur like me—is likely to find something of interest in almost any wetland likely to attract waterfowl.

Today, I’m thinking about brown bears, and not just because I crossed a fresh track on the hike to the pond. The bears here have always puzzled me. During late May and early June, they are all over the flats and plainly visible from the air. At that time of year, I can virtually guarantee visiting friends a look at one with a short flight from my home. But then they disappear, and I rarely see one while duck hunting. Obviously, a seasonal food source—likely some variety of forb—is attracting them to the flats early in the summer. I don’t know what it is, but I’d like to. Bears in June may not seem to have much to do with ducks in September, but asking questions like this is an important part of any outdoor experience even if you never find the answer.

I’m not going to solve the mystery today however, for Sky’s attention has suddenly become riveted above and behind us. I understand his body language well enough to know this can only mean one thing. Pivoting my head slowly and carefully, for we are hidden by nothing more than sparse natural vegetation, I recognize the source of his sudden intensity. A flock of ducks is

4 • The Alaska Sportsman

LEFT: Tough, determined, and immune to cold, a Lab makes an ideal companion on tidal-flats duck hunts.

RIGHT: One bird on the way down, one barrel still to go.

Lori and Don Thomas

inbound toward our decoys, and their silhouettes and wing beat patterns identify them as mallards even in the flat light.

At first an on-shore breeze is blowing hard enough to disguise the sound of their wings setting, but as they draw closer I can hear the jet engine whoosh of air rushing through extended primaries. Then the whole flock is on top of us, orange feet dangling as the birds settle toward the water into the wind. What happens next happens quickly. While many duck hunters prefer automatics and pumps because of the third shot they offer, I grew up enjoying the feel and simplicity of a double and have never kicked the habit. Besides, two ducks from one flock has always been enough for me.

And there they are, two green-headed drakes kicking in the decoys, with the wind pushing them away toward the far end of the pond. I’ve trained Sky to sit at my side until I tell him to fetch, but after today’s long wait he seems to be struggling to contain his enthusiasm. At my command, he launches from the bank and hits the water in a geyser of spray that will obligate me to break my shotgun down and oil it carefully back at the Duck Shack. Both retrieves prove routine, but as half of a well-established team I enjoy watching them anyway.

Those two mallards are the first but hardly the last. By serendipity, I have arrived today right along with the first big push of migrating ducks from the north. After dropping a lone pintail I settle back and take my time with the rest of my limit,

passing up some birds just to watch the show and carefully avoiding hens as a matter of principle. I long for a way to let my Duck Shack partners know what’s going on over here (cell phones have yet to be invented), but then the drone of a Cub on floats assures me that at least one of them has figured it out anyway. Much as I enjoy the solitude the Duck Shack can offer, I’m already looking forward to company other than the dog’s by the time I start to pick up the decoys.

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N 1935, the great conservationist, hunter, and writer Aldo Leopold bought a rundown farm next to the Wisconsin River for $8 per acre. He and his family eventually converted an abandoned chicken coop into a weekend, get-away-from-itall retreat they named The Shack. Leopold wrote most of the classic Sand County Almanac, which did so much to influence the way we think about relationships among land, wildlife, and people, within those walls. The Duck Shack taught me a lot about the same principles The Shack taught Leopold.

Ours was not the only such structure on the western side of Cook Inlet, although it was farther south than most. Friends with duck shacks closer to Anchorage loved theirs as much as we loved ours, but not everyone shared that view. Few of the critics who regarded them as eyesores had ever actually seen them much less had boots on the ground there, but they did have a point. Human development of any kind in a remote

wilderness area inevitably comes at some environmental, ethical, and esthetic cost. We did our best to keep ours clean, unobtrusive, and biodegradable, but I could empathize with the shacks’ critics even though I didn’t agree with their conclusions.

In fact, those structures were something of a necessity for anyone interested in experiencing that unique ecosystem rather than just looking at it from a charter flight or on a postcard.

Unpredictable weather could always turn a day-trip flight into a week-long survival exercise. Absent a reliable source of food and shelter who would go—not just to hunt ducks, but to wonder why the bears were there in May but not in September?

The Duck Shack was more than a means to a waterfowl dinner, although it certainly produced plenty of those. It provided a refuge from civilization and its discontents after a demanding week of work and a beacon of hope after flying out of Lake Clark Pass eastbound into deteriorating weather. Above all, it served as a base camp from which to explore the part of Alaska that really matters.

Leopold had his shack, and we had ours. None of our lives would have been the same without them. ~AS Don Thomas has been fascinated by waterfowl in the field and on the table since his father first carried him to a duck blind more than 60 years ago. Along with his wife, Lori, and their retrievers, he has hunted ducks from the Arctic Circle to the Southern Hemisphere.

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Classic

44 • The Alaska Sportsman

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48 • The Alaska Sportsman

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