Alaska Sporting Journal - June 2020

FISHING • HUNTING • ADVENTURE

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Volume 12 • Issue 1 www.aksportingjournal.com PUBLISHER James R. Baker GENERAL MANAGER John Rusnak EXECUTIVE EDITOR Andy Walgamott EDITOR Chris Cocoles WRITERS Landon Albertson, Paul D. Atkins, Tony Ensalaco, Scott Haugen, Tiffany Haugen, Conrad Jungmann Jr., Mary Catharine Martin, Brian Watkins SALES MANAGER Paul Yarnold ACCOUNT EXECUTIVES Mamie Griffin, Jim Klark, Mike Smith DESIGNER Lesley-Anne Slisko-Cooper WEB DEVELOPMENT/INBOUND MARKETING Jon Hines PRODUCTION ASSISTANT Kelly Baker ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT Katie Aumann INFORMATION SERVICES MANAGER Lois Sanborn ADVERTISING INQUIRIES media@media-inc.com ON THE COVER Landon Albertson (left) and his wife Jen shared the bounty of this Alaska Range caribou bull on a memorable hunt with Landon’s close friend Reed. (LANDON ALBERTSON)

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MEDIA INDEX PUBLISHING GROUP WASHINGTON OFFICE 14240 Interurban Ave South • Suite 190 Tukwila, WA 98168 (206) 382-9220 • Fax (206) 382-9437 media@media-inc.com www.media-inc.com CORRESPONDENCE Twitter @AKSportJourn Facebook.com/alaskasportingjournal Email ccocoles@media-inc.com

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CONTENTS

VOLUME 12 • ISSUE 1

FEATURES 26

ANTHONY’S STORY

35

SALMON TROLLING TIPS

67

ADVENTURES ON ADAK Since the day he left the Heartland of America for the Last Frontier, Paul Atkins has seen his share of places unique to Alaska. When pal and fellow ASJ correspondent Scott Haugen asked Atkins to join him for a caribou hunt on Adak Island, once a thriving military community but now somewhat of a ghost town with plenty of history, Atkins was all-in. He shares some of the island’s interesting highlights, not to mention its epic hunting opportunities.

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FOR YOU, DAD! Brian Watkins and his good buddy Mark Brown took their dads on a goat hunting adventure on Kodiak Island. Watkins’ dad Tom (right) was celebrating his 60th birthday and wanted to score his first billy to commemorate the milestone with his son. Goat hunting the high country is grueling, but Tom led the dads-andsons brigade in search of billies and later bucks in a story that pairs perfectly with Father’s Day this month.

Our Tony Ensalaco’s annual steelhead trip to Yakutat was a victim of the coronavirus pandemic. But if anyone has perspective about a cancelled trip, it’s Ensalaco, whose son Anthony was recently rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.

It’s the kind of scare no parent deserves, but as Tony writes, it’s taught him a valuable lesson as the country copes with COVID-19.

Trolling is one of the most productive ways to limit on Chinook and coho in Alaska and these days 360-degree flashers are all the rage. Scott Haugen shares tips for running rotating attractors with small salmon-sized spinners. And in her half of the Haugens’ Field to Fire column, Tiffany whips up a savory pancake recipe that utilizes meat off those fillets in a whole new way.

ALSO IN THIS ISSUE 13 14 25 41 55 75 (BRIAN WATKINS)

The Editor’s Note: Memories of Dad Book excerpt: Fishermen caught up in Alaska murder mystery Outdoor Calendar The Salmon State: Companies work hard to deliver fresh fish during pandemic Alaska Range caribou hunt Game Management Unit Spotlight: Hunting the Aleutians

Alaska Sporting Journal is published monthly. Call Media Inc. Publishing Group for a current rate card. Discounts for frequency advertising. All submitted materials become the property of Media Inc. Publishing Group and will not be returned. Annual subscriptions are $29.95 (12 issues). Send check or money order to Media Inc. Publishing Group, 14240 Interurban Ave South, Suite 190, Tukwila, WA 98168 or call (206) 382-9220 with VISA or M/C. Back issues may be ordered at Media Inc. Publishing Group, subject to availability, at the cost of $5 plus shipping. Copyright © 2020 Media Inc. Publishing Group. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher. Printed in U.S.A.

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EDITOR’S NOTE

The editor’s dad Stan Cocoles (with his beloved grandpup, the late Sharkie) passed away last September. But dad and son shared a lot of adventures, something the editor will remember on Father’s Day. (CHRIS COCOLES)

W

hen I was young growing up near San Francisco, I really had only two major passions: watching sports and fishing. I still have those feelings today, but nothing like when I was a kid.

My dad really didn’t share either of those with me. Sure, he was a pro football fan, but even in that venue we couldn’t agree. He cheered for his hometown San Francisco 49ers; me, the Seattle Seahawks (among other teams when I wasn’t sure what team I’d ultimately cheer for before becoming a massive Seattle fan). So we clashed for years, particularly when the two teams became bitter division rivals.

Still, Dad tolerated fishing enough to share many memories with me. I caught my first fish – a decent-sized channel catfish – when we went to Clear Lake, California’s largest natural freshwater body. I brought my prize – still alive and flopping on the end of my hook – into the kitchen of the family friend we were staying with. I was probably 8 years old, and though I can’t remember for sure, my dad probably had a look of equal parts joy and fear that the fish would stink up the kitchen.

But I think he enjoyed our time together on the water, much like Brian Watkins and his dad Tom did during their mountain goat hunt celebrating Tom’s 60th birthday (page 47).

I was my dad’s only son among four kids and we both took solace in getting away from the girls to fish and even going to Candlestick Park to watch his beloved 49ers (I did my best to “root” for the home team).

On another father-son Clear Lake trip when I was in high school, we rented a boat as the summer sun blazed and began to cook us. We eventually retreated into a shaded cove for the last couple hours before we had to return to the marina. We didn’t even get one bite, but we were both relieved to be out of the sun when none of the boats were catching anything either.

There were plenty of similar stories – sometimes catching a couple fish and others going home skunked. Looking back now it didn’t matter if we did or didn’t get lucky.

Father’s Day is June 21 and it will be my first without my dad, who passed away last September at 87. I’ll feel more nostalgic than sad, though of course I miss him. He had a long and happy life and I’m relieved he didn’t endure this COVID-19 pandemic.

We didn’t get to fish together much as he got older, but like the Watkins duo, I’ll always have the memories. -Chris Cocoles aksportingjournal.com | JUNE 2020

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AN UNUSUAL SUSPECT

BOOK EXCERPT: A MURDER MYSTERY THAT BEGAN IN A BRISTOL BAY FISHING CAMP

BY CONRAD JUNGMANN JR.

In a place as beautiful and peaceful as Wood-Tikchik State Park – at 1.6 million acres it’s the nation’s largest such park – a fishing trip that five commercial fishery workers go on leads to tension between two of them in author Conrad Jungmann’s fictional murder mystery, Edge of Redfish Lake. (ALEX SMITH/WIKIMEDIA)

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Editor’s note: Two of Conrad Jungmann’s passions are fishing and storytelling. A journalism major with a master’s degree from the University of Missouri’s famed School of Journalism, Jungmann has been in the media industry in various capacities for more than 25 years. But the Pacific Northwest resident – he grew up in the Midwest – also spent six summers in his younger days working as a commercial fish broker in Alaska, crisscrossing the state from Sitka to Cordova, Kodiak to Bristol Bay. It’s that backdrop that inspired him to tell a story: a murder mystery set in 1988 and whose main character, an aspiring journalist and a seafood processor, found himself in the tangled web of a homicide investigation that stretched from a Dillingham fishing camp to the newsrooms and police precincts of greater Seattle. In this excerpt, Julian Hopkins, Jungmann’s caught-in-themiddle fictional protagonist, takes advantage of a break in his busy work schedule to fish the pristine waters of Bristol Bay’s Agulowak River. Hopkins’ fishing partner that day, a somewhat aloof coworker who calls himself Lev, was a mystery himself. The following is excerpted from Edge Of Redfish Lake, by Conrad Jungmann Jr. and published by Black Opal Books.

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Edge of Redfish Lake mystery character Lev Warrens was already a bit aloof to others who worked at the Bristol Bay fish processing plant, but after he caught a beautiful sockeye in the Agulowak River but refused protagonist Julian Hopkins’ request to have his photo taken with the prized salmon, Lev added a new red flag to his reputation. (THOMAS QUINN/UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON)

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ragic news travels fast in remote Alaska villages, sweeping from dwelling-todwelling, camp-to-camp like a fever, leaving no one unaffected.

Before breakfast could even be served everyone within 50 miles knew two Native teens had drowned and one of their bodies had not yet been recovered.

At lunch Mike addressed the mess hall crowd and requested a moment of silence for the dead boys. Then he put his hat back on and cleared his throat.

“Listen up everyone. Spawning escapement goals are way ahead of schedule, so Fish and Game is opening up commercial fishing three days from now in every area. It’s time. The run is upon us.

We need to get this plant cleaned up and ready for peak season production.”

Fishermen whooped and cheered, a stark reversal from the somber silence they’d been sharing. To ensure longterm sustainability and to withhold upriver tribal treaty promises, each year Bristol Bay marine biologists allowed the first waves of returning salmon safe passage upstream before they allowed commercial fishing nets to drop. Only during seasons of record fish runs did escapement goals get met this quickly.

“About a hundred more workers will

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Author Conrad Jungmann spent six summers working as a commercial fish broker in various points of Alaska, including Bristol Bay, where the mystery unfolds before culminating in the Seattle area, Jungmann’s current residence.

(CONRAD JUNGMANN JR.)

arrive this Sunday. If you’re going to get any sleep before we go balls to the wall, tomorrow is the day. If you want to get any sportfishing in before we shut down in August, better do it now. From the sound of things, I don’t think we’ll get another break until it’s all said and done.”

An avid sport fisherman himself, Mike understood the draw trophy fishing had on his key men. A tantalizing hour upstream loomed the legendary Wood River lakes system. All five species of salmon and six other types

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of trophy sport fish could be caught there on any given cast. The series of lakes connected by wild short rivers provided extraordinary diversity, size, and abundance found nowhere else on earth.

Mike was convinced it was the primary reason the core of his key workers came back to Dillingham each year, rather than go work in other parts of Alaska.

Dave Stevens was quick to inform Mike he’d already taken the bait. Everyone knew he’d frequently run up the Wood before the season, after the season, and any rare chance he got in between. “I’m going. You guys still joining Charlie and me?”

“F*ck ya, we are!” Julian, Boone and Chris said in unison.

“I’ll get my Whaler in the water tonight. You guys gather up food and drinks so we can roll out early tomorrow morning. Charlie and I will meet you here in the mess hall at 6.”

Some jobs in the fish business were repulsive for the soberest soul, but when nursing a hangover, they could curdle milk stored in an armored stomach. Coupled with the tragic news from the night before, the afternoon passed by painfully slow for the three friends. Tubs were scrubbed and filled with ice shavings. Forklifts got topped off with fuel. Dozens of 50-pound boxes were folded together and stacked in

impressive cardboard pyramids. Hidden chunks of fish guts were squeezed out of cracks as machines got hosed down and deep cleaned.

“It will just be the four of us today,” Dave announced the next morning as he filled a large green thermos with coffee.

“Charlie’s sicker than opossum sh*t and it’s not alcohol related. He really wants to come but I made him stay in bed. I need him healthy for Monday’s opener. So, that leaves one open spot in the boat.”

“Can I go?”

The men all whipped their heads around. Seated across from Hannah, Lev managed a smile. To the surprise of many, and chagrin of Chris, the lonely girl and awkward man had recently become friends and were often seen hanging out together.

Chris groaned and in a jealous tone snarled, “Do you know how to fish, Lev? Do you own a fishing pole? Or any gear?”

“Uh, well, no … maybe I kin borrow some’n from Mike. He ’uh … Mike might loan me some’n to use.”

“I don’t think Mike will loan anyone his gear,” Chris lied, and without thinking said, “Plus, the boat won’t fit five.”

“Then how was Charlie gonna’…” Lev’s chest deflated as he realized Chris was lying, hope flushed from his face. Julian was startled by the flash of deep-rooted anger in his eyes, but he couldn’t blame the guy. Chris was being a jealous a-hole.

Dave made eye contact with Julian and without words they agreed on a plan. “Lev, if you want to go, you can use some of my

gear. We have plenty of room in the boat.”

“And I’ve got tons of lures,” Julian added.

Chris gasped and shook his head in disbelief. Lev looked up at Dave and Julian to see if they were being serious and confirming they were – aided by a comforting smile from Hannah – slowly nodded. His pupils burned hatred at Chris.

“All right then,” Dave decided. “We’ve got a full boat. Let’s go fishing.”

THE 20-FOOT OUTBOARD DAVE kept at Dragline for the sole purpose of sportfishing was tied to a floating platform at the end of the dock. Because it moved up and down the height of a two-story house each tidal change, the dock crew had hoisted the Boston Whaler over the previous night when the tide was high.

In just a few hours the river would flood, raising the platform to be even with the top once again. Under the dock, steel crossbeams and angled wood planks crisscrossed in layers for 150 feet back toward the plant. Pigeons and gulls shrieked and shrilled as they flew beamto-beam picking barnacles and pieces of dead fish from exposed pilings. As he climbed down the rickety-steel ladder, Lev began to point something out to Julian in the labyrinth of support under the dock, then didn’t.

“You guys all got blades on ya?”

Dave confirmed as they boarded. They all nodded, even Lev. Dave manned the Whaler upstream with confident captainship. He was more at ease behind

On the trip back across Aleknagik Lake, Julian, who generously took Lev under his wing that day, was skeptical of the guy’s odd behavior. “He was overwhelmed by a nagging feeling – an unsettling premonition – that something was seriously wrong with Lev Warrens,” Jungmann writes. (USER MAZALETEL/WIKIMEDIA) 18

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the wheel of a boat than a car. After all, he had spent a lifetime of summers learning from his legendary grandfather. As they meandered upstream past alluvial shores of silt, sand and gravel, the men marveled at the river's inherent beauty and placid serenity. Misty veils of fog wafted over the water in quilted complexity like rolling layers of cigarette smoke in the Blue Spruce [a bar and favorite watering hole of the fishing crews back in Dillingham].

They spotted a bull moose shredding off his velvet in the willows of curvy Arcana Creek. Swans, ducks and geese rose in noisy processions from the braided sedge, cotton grass, moss, and white lichen landscape. The wind whispered an ancient verse as it rustled through waist-deep river grass.

An hour later, around a corner in Lake Aleknagik, they heard it, rushing like a rumor through walls of head-high alder, its icy spray splashing across large boulders – the Agulowak. Sun rays slanted toward the glacial peaks of the Wood Mountains, filtered in places by spruce, poplar, aspen, and birch on upland benches.

The fabled fishing oasis consisted of a narrow, fast-moving river just a few miles long that funneled a million migrating fish up to the next lake in the chain, Nerka. Layers upon layers of sockeye were now stacked at its mouth regaining the energy they’d need to master the fast-moving water and next strenuous leg of their journey.

Dave slid his boat up on a small sandy beach. “Tie us to that log, Lev. We most

certainly have arrived.”

CHRIS JUMPED OUT with his fly rod and popped his shoulder into Lev as he passed, almost knocking the man down.

“I know where I’m heading. And don’t even think about following me.”

At the end of the previous season, Chris had caught a unique strain of blueshadowed rainbow trout and an enormous Dolly Varden in a gentle secluded pool downstream near the lake. Without waiting for a response, he bolted. Boone and Dave grabbed their gear and raced each other upriver to another famous spot, leaving Julian and Lev suddenly alone. The soulful cry of a loon added to the stillness.

“What do you like to fish with, Lev?” Julian asked. “You can use anything you want in my tackle box.”

Lev examined several different lures and put each one back.

“I dunno,” he finally sputtered. “I’ve, ’uh … I’ve never bin here b’fore. This place is different from the lake my Pa took me to in … ’uh … the mountains back home.”

Julian laughed and motioned with a full sweep of his arm. “I know what you mean, man. There’s no place like this one. It’s the best fishing spot on earth.

And look at all the beauty around us.”

Julian used the tip of his rod to point out a bald eagle landing in a large pine.

“What did you and your Pa fish for at your lake in the mountains back home?”

“Uh, wild redfish. I git ’em every year when they come back to the lake. I take ’em back to my cabin and smoke ’em.

The lake is ’uh … close to my cabin in the mountains. On the Reservation.”

“You from Alaska?”

Lev shook his head and looked away.

“Nah.” Sockeye? Really? Swallowing his frown, Julian focused on Lev to see if he was kidding. He had been expecting him to say trout. Other than Alaska there weren’t too many high-mountain lakes that still had wild runs of sockeye salmon. Few that he knew of, anyway.

Reservation? Lev was an Indian? Who was this guy? Was he pulling his leg?

“Well, you should know what you’re doing then.”

Julian pointed out a school of yardstick long, bright-crimson fish with cedar green heads and hooked jaws muscling 20

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upstream through the clear alpine water.

“What do you catch redfish with there? At your lake in the mountains by your cabin on the reservation?”

“Spears … or nets.”

“Spears. Ah. I got ya,” Julian chuckled.

So, Lev was a joker. A wild storyteller.

A bullsh*tter extraordinaire. Might as well play along. He reached in his tackle box and jiggled out a shiny gold spoon with a dazzling pink center and dimples that refracted the morning sunlight like a kaleidoscope.

“Well, I didn’t bring any spears with me, Lev, but I do have this Pixie. It will catch anything here. In fact, it’s probably the deadliest lure in the whole state of Alaska. And I make it even deadlier.”

WHEN HE WAS 6, Julian’s favorite uncle had taken him fishing for the first time. On a lure with a black permanent marker his uncle had drawn two dots. “Big monster fish like to eat things that can see them do it. So, I make sure my lures have eyes,” he had explained. A mesmerized little Julian caught two fish that outing, and from that day forward, always drew eyes on his lures. It had become his unique trademark to constantly remind him of his uncle.

Lev caressed the lure in his palm, seemingly spellbound by Julian’s explanation.

“Cast it in that pool, Lev, right below those rocks. Let it bounce downstream across the gravel and watch what happens.”

The Pixie plunked in the river. As it started to flutter to the bottom, a live red torpedo flashed up and aggressively snatched it, before jettisoning downstream and nearly jerking the pole from Lev’s grip. He leaned back and fought the fish like it was a dog on a long leash, up and down the strong current, until it finally grew tired and glided into a shallow pool. Julian splashed in and firmly latched on to the sockeye’s gill plates.

“Oh hell, yeah. That’s a dandy, Lev!” Julian proclaimed, and in the thrill of the moment they were united. “First cast too.

I told you monster fish like eyes. This one’s got to be over 12 pounds. What a beauty!”

The older man picked up the quivering fish and examined it head to tail. It was a bruiser buck with hooked jaws and ice pick teeth. Julian rejoiced and fumbled through his day pack for his camera.

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“Smile, Lev. This picture will make you famous. You might even make the cover of Field and Stream magazine!”

“No. No pictures,” Lev shrieked, turning his back, tossing the fish back in the water and effectively snuffing out any potential bond between them.

Bothered and confused by the man’s abrupt reaction, Julian stuffed the camera back in the bag and readied his own fishing pole. Slightly frustrated, and more than a little perturbed, he calmed himself down and changed the subject.

“It’s a real tragedy what happened to those Chiklak boys, don’t you think, Lev? Poor kids. They were so young. I saw the father at the Blue Spruce the other night and the man was devastated. He could barely hold it together. He kept talking about the plug not being in their boat.”

Lev stared out across the river. “I dunno.”

Julian bristled and turned, eyes locking on Lev. “You don’t know what? What the f*ck does that mean? Why would two 18-year-old kids deserve to die like that?”

Lev absently shrugged, making Julian’s face flush red. “Lev, that boy’s father was heartbroken. He lost his son.

How would you feel if it was your kid?”

Lev kept his back to Julian and shrugged again. Julian’s hands began to shake, and he unconsciously stilled them by pulling them into fists.

“Lev how would your parents feel if it was you?”

Lev whipped around and glared, eyes transformed to cold-rusty steel. “I don’t remember my Ma. She’s dead. My Pa …,” Lev paused. After the eternity of a few moments, he continued in a chilling tone.

“My Pa didn’t like us Injuns.”

Without waiting for a response, the older man stomped upstream to fish alone. Lev’s revelation rippled through Julian like a deep shiver, one he couldn’t easily shake, so he kept a wary eye on him. Lev spent the morning sitting on a boulder staring into the current, refusing to join the group for lunch, preferring to remain motionless – a silhouette without a line in the water. Late in the afternoon, as Julian and Dave were packing the boat, Lev approached.

“Here’s your lure back, Julian. Thanks for lettin’ me use it.” Lev unhooked the special pink Pixie from his pole and

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In the chapters following this one, Julian soon finds himself in quite a predicament as summer ends and he heads to Seattle to start his career as a newspaper reporter covering the hunt for a serial killer. (EDGE OF REDFISH LAKE)

placed it back in Julian’s tackle box. Then he lowered his voice to almost a whisper and turned his back away from Chris, who was walking up the bank their way.

“I ’uh … I wanna thank you for takin’ me fishin’. I’ve ’uh … never had friends b’fore.”

A sense of admission released from Lev’s eyes, like he had confessed a secret he’d been harboring for a long time.

The loneliness of his tone made Julian again feel sorry for him, but then he remembered their earlier exchange about the Chiklak boys. It had been bothering him all day. His heart hardened. The only thing he could bring himself to say was a muffled, “Welcome.”

“I’m glad you came, Lev,” Dave set down the bag he was loading, put his arm around the man’s shoulder, and gave him a playful shake. “And I hope you had fun. Jules told me you caught a trophy fish today – a real monster. Wish I would have seen that. You can come along next time too, heck, anytime you want. As long as there’s room in my boat. OK?” Lev looked up and connected eyes with Dave. He didn’t verbally respond, but his cheeks managed a slight upward lift.

Dave patted him on the back and laughed.

THE WHOLE RIDE BACK, Julian’s emotions were in turmoil. On one hand he had just experienced some of the most intense 22

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sportfishing of his life. Over the course of the day he had landed seven species of fish, including a grayling that had to have been close to the state record.

The weather had been spectacular, Agulowak-perfect, and he felt an even closer bond with buddies Dave, Chris and Boone. He appreciated Lev’s sincere words of gratitude and felt pride in the way he had stuck up for him that morning and invited him to come.

But as the mudflats rolled by, Julian’s chest became tight and at times he found it difficult to breathe. He was overwhelmed by a nagging feeling – an unsettling premonition – that something was seriously wrong with Lev Warrens.

When he looked at the older man, he felt anxious and unnerved, a prescient foreboding he couldn’t quite articulate.

How could Lev have no empathy for the Chiklak boy’s father? Did he somehow have something to do with it? Julian shuddered when he recalled the horror in Lev’s eyes when he spoke of his Pa, the angst in his voice when he mentioned his Ma. My Pa didn’t like us Injuns. Did Lev’s father kill his mother? Was this guy bullsh*tting or not? Was he telling the truth about spearing wild sockeye in a mountain lake by a reservation not in Alaska? What did Lev mean when he said he never had friends? The barrage of unanswered questions made his head throb, dried out his throat, and turned his hands an uncomfortable, clammy cold.

Shortly before the sun completely melted into the western twilights – as the expedition rounded the last bend of the river before the Dragline dock came into view – a log popped up without warning beside the boat.

Four of the five men shifted abruptly, making the vessel lurch dangerously sideways, almost tipping it over. In that instant, they had all imagined it was the body of a dead boy and breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was not.

Julian’s gaze shot to Lev. Why was that f*cker smiling like that? ASJ Editor’s note: Edge of Redfish Lake is available for purchase at Amazon and Barnes & Noble in paperback, hardcover, eBook, and author-narrated audiobook. For more on author Conrad Jungmann Jr., check out his website, conradjungmann.com.

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OUTDOOR CALENDAR*

Valdez’s Halibut Hullabaloo attracts a lot of anglers hoping to cash in on some great prizes. (VALDEZ FISH DERBIES)

May 29-31 Fairbanks Outdoor Show, Carlson Center (originally was in late April; carlson-center.com/outdoor-show) June 1-30 Seward Halibut Derby (seward.com/welcome-toseward-alaska/halibut-tournament-june) June 5-14 Valdez Halibut Hullabaloo (valdezfishderbies.com) June 12-21 Slam’n Salm’n Derby, Ship Creek, Anchorage (slamnsalmnderby.com) June 30 Black bear hunting season ends in several units July 2-3 Homer Halibut Tournament; homerhalibuttournament.com July 25 Start of Valdez Silver Salmon Derby; valdezfishderbies .com/silver-derby July 25 Valdez Kids Pink Salmon Derby; valdezfishderbies.com /kids-derby/ Cancelled: Mount Marathon Race, Seward; mmr.seward.com * Given coronavirus distancing concerns with public events, reconfirm before attending. Some have been rescheduled and others may not take place.

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AN ODE TO ANTHONY AMID THE PANDEMIC AND CANCELLED FISHING TRIPS, HIS SON’S SUDDEN MEDICAL CONDITION OFFERS PERSPECTIVE FOR ONE ANGLER

BY TONY ENSALACO “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

T

hese are some of the lyrics that John Lennon used in his song “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy).”

This simply means our lives don’t always turn out the way we expect they would.

The story goes that the late, great former Beatle borrowed the phrase from another author, but he definitely made it popular.

Whatever the origin, it seems to accurately describe what everyone has been going through over the past few months, and is an apropos expression for what was about to become of my life.

Something that has remained constant in my ever-changing world for the past two decades is my annual spring steelhead pilgrimage to Southeast Alaska. What started out back in 2000 as an exciting new adventure eventually became a mandatory escape from the unreliable spring steelhead runs throughout the Midwest.

The numbers of fish returning to the Great Lakes tributaries have been down for several years, making it extremely difficult to time the run because of the small window of opportunity that anglers have to work with. Also, the region can

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Father and son Tony and Anthony Ensalaco share a love for fishing, whether it’s Dad’s annual trip to Yakutat for spring steelhead or casting for bass at a pond in suburban Chicago. The coronavirus pandemic and Anthony’s medical scare offered some perspective. (TONY ENSALACO)

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receive heavy volumes of rain at this time of year, which negatively affects the spring run-off, so finding decent water levels almost always becomes a perennial issue.

The only consistent fishing I usually hear about in my neck of the woods happens for the guys who pillage and plunder the spawning gravel. Their game is to search for the aggressive males that are holding adjacent to the egg-laden females and then try to pick them off by swinging a fly at their noses. Some initially bite, but most are flossed. No, thank you!

These “sportsmen” attempt to justify their actions by convincing themselves that sight fishing is a rewarding challenge.

Yeah, right – targeting animals when they are the most vulnerable. Personally, I have more respect for a pickpocket or a twobit criminal who steals little old ladies’ Social Security checks, rather than a selfproclaimed “steelheader” who makes his bones every spawning season by assaulting the unsuspecting fish holding in shallow water while they are consumed with their mission to procreate.

Someday, I’ll tell you how I really feel!

Anyway, the Alaska trip has become an accepted part of life with my family, so much so that it is automatically marked on the calendar every year.

It is routinely observed in our home like other major holidays, such as

Anthony has been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes, and his worsening condition prompted a trip to the emergency room. The hope is that with treatment he’ll be fine going forward.

(TONY ENSALACO)

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JUNE 2020 | aksportingjournal.com

Thanksgiving and Christmas. That was until this year, when my hopes of making it back in April were crushed when Alaska Airlines sent me an email.

“All travelers are required to quarantine for 14 days after travel.”

I had expected the trip to be aborted, but it still was a kick in the spawn sac when I received the bad news.

I WAS UP EARLY the day I was supposed to leave for Alaska. As I sat alone in my living room drinking coffee and staring out my front window at the neighborhood pond across the street, I couldn’t help but think about what could have been if somehow, some way, I would have been able to board that jet and manage to sneak my way back to Yakutat.

Once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I was able to come to terms that my dreams of steelheading in the Last Frontier was not going to happen this year. Meanwhile, I had nowhere to be, so I figured it would be best to get off the couch and social distance myself in a remote corner of the pond.

Lucky for me, it is located on private property, and as long as I don’t get too close to other people, the police tell me that I am allowed to be there. And since I’m out there anyways, maybe I’ll grab some gear and try to coax a few bass into hitting. Just then, my son Anthony came downstairs and volunteered to keep his old man company. How could I say no to one of my favorite fishing partners?

It took a couple of dozen casts before I finally felt the familiar tug of a largemouth picking up my plastic worm. As soon as I set the hook, I knew by the way the rod doubled over that it was a good one. I immediately instructed Anthony to put down his rod and take mine. He worked the fish like he had been competing on the tournament circuit for years.

When the bass looked like it was about to jump, Anthony jammed the rod to the side, making sure the fish’s head stayed in the water. When the fish tried to run towards the bushes along the bank, he instinctively changed the rod’s angle to steer it away from the trouble.

It was fun watching my kid counter the fish’s every move. After a few nervewracking moments, I was able to corral the bass and hand it over to him. It

probably weighed just a little south of 5 pounds – a great fish for these parts.

As I proudly stared at Anthony holding that monster bass, I forgot about the trip that I was missing, and for a moment, things felt right again. There was no way of knowing then that our lives were about to change forever.

TWO DAYS LATER AT breakfast, my wife noticed that something wasn’t quite right with Anthony. He seemed a little despondent and was definitely lethargic for a boy who normally can’t keep still.

He also complained that he had a sore throat and his stomach was bothering him. We immediately called the doctor’s office to make an appointment for the physician to see him, but because of the

virus, the receptionist didn’t feel a visit was necessary. She thought it sounded like Anthony had a simple case of strep throat.

When the doctor returned our call, she assured us that it was most likely strep and she was going to prescribe some amoxicillin. She also instructed us to make sure that he got plenty of rest.

By mid-afternoon, Anthony’s breathing had become irregular and he was being unresponsive to our questions. Several more calls to the doctor’s office resulted in a different prescription, but the doctor still didn’t think she had to see him. She did say that if it made us feel better, we could take him to an immediate care facility to have him checked out.

My wife and I both agreed that there was something more to this picture,

so she rushed him to the emergency room. That decision probably saved his life. Without going into the horrendous details, Anthony arrived at the hospital in pretty bad shape. It only took a second for the initial physician who saw him to suspect juvenile diabetes.

After the tests confirmed the preliminary diagnosis, it was now up to the skilled crew of nurses and doctors to make Anthony right again. It took all night and part of the next day to bring his glucose level down to where he was no longer in danger, but they were successful.

I didn’t find out until later how critical Anthony’s health had been and how things could have easily gone differently if we had waited any longer to bring him

The annual trip to Alaska “has become an accepted part of life with my family, so much so that it is automatically marked on the calendar every year,” the author writes. “It is routinely observed in our home like other major holidays, such as Thanksgiving and Christmas.” (TONY ENSALACO)

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ALASKA SPORTING JOURNAL

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in, and, well ...

MY INTENTION IN SHARING this story isn’t because I’m looking for sympathy – lord knows I throw a pretty mean pity party when I’m alone. No, I’m sequestered at home, pecking away at a keyboard because there are some individuals who need a helpful and much-needed reality check.

I have been watching the news and reading various posts on social media sites that people are saying that the emergency travel bans and the stayhome and shelter-in-place restrictions that our elected officials have imposed are unfair, or even unconstitutional.

Fishermen have been exceptionally vocal about their displeasure, and some

have been intentionally disobeying the orders. As an avid sportsman, I get why they feel they are being mistreated and why they might think the local government is overstepping their legal boundaries. I mean, what harm is there if some people want to enjoy their endless free time outside?

For those of you who are responsible, there probably isn’t much risk. The problem is the small minority that doesn’t use common sense, which makes the authorities have to step in and enforce the rules.

There have already been multiple occasions this year when I have witnessed local anglers in my area breaking the social distancing guidelines by showing up to a body of water without

The anticipation is that Anthony and everyone else will at some point be able to go back out and enjoy the outdoors safely. “We will be able to do the things we love again,” his dad writes.

(TONY ENSALACO)

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bothering to keep their required space from one another. Most recently, I was coming home from the pharmacy when I watched three adults – probably in their 30s – crossing the road, carrying rods and heading towards a series of small ponds.

There was only a single vehicle in the parking lot and they were walking shoulder to shoulder. I don’t know any of their backstories, but I would bet a couple of 8-weights that they live in separate households and were instructed to stay apart. It’s a no-brainer that they have no business being that close to one another and were violating distancing guidelines.

And if this is happening in a Chicago suburb, a location that isn’t really considered a mecca for fishermen, imagine what is going on at the popular boat ramps and well-known access spots across the country that attract high numbers of anglers?

It’s pathetic that some people feel they are above the law and who show a blatant disregard for the rules. This type of behavior should concern all Americans.

AS MOST ANGLERS KNOW, fishing seasons are just around the corner, so it’s going to be difficult to obey the shelter-in-place orders. People are running out of patience being under house arrest – that is to be expected – but we still have to do the right thing, which is continue to practice social distancing – even if we’re lucky enough to have some fishing available.

No one feels more anxious than me when the fishing starts to heat up and I can’t get to the water. Normally, I have no problem making myself scarce from my responsibilities when there is a hot bite going on, but these are different times and I know there are more important things than catching a few fish. I hope people can understand the magnitude of what’s at stake, and what could happen if they unknowingly spread the virus because they are not taking the proper precautions.

The one thing I refuse to tolerate is when people say the closures are unfair and their lives are being ruined because they can’t go fishing. Although I do respect people’s right to protest and I understand where they’re coming from, I’m not buying the message.

People are frustrated; I get it, but that doesn’t give them the right to disobey

the temporary guidelines. When I was younger, there were times when I didn’t bother to take into consideration how my actions could affect the people who care about me. I would risk my safety and drive for hours in terrible blizzards on unsafe roads, or I waded through rivers in fast-moving currents – just to catch a fish. In my defense, I was naive and didn’t think I had to worry about anyone other than myself.

Now that I’m a husband and a father of two small children, I understand there is more to life than self-gratification, and I make it a point to put their needs before mine and will do everything in my power to keep my family safe.

And now that Anthony has diabetes, we are realizing that his condition makes him vulnerable to variables that would never have concerned us before he was diagnosed.

What’s hard for me to accept during this pandemic is there are things in this world that I can’t protect my family from, and now I have to rely on other people to do the right thing, or else something bad can happen. That’s why it’s disappointing

to see so many good people acting responsibly and all of their efforts could be suddenly wiped out because there are a handful of selfish jerks who are willing to throw away months of hard work.

I know everyone is anxious to have life go back to normal, but trying to normalize it too early can set us back to where it all started. If you want to roll the dice with your health or possibly your life, that’s your decision. But there is more at stake. When you put someone else’s life in jeopardy – my family’s lives – I have a real problem with that.

You want to talk about what’s unfair? I should be standing knee-deep in a worldfamous steelhead stream, brawling with ocean-run rainbows that just came in on the morning tide. Instead, I’m learning how to calculate and administer life-sustaining insulin doses for a 9-year-old boy.

And even with this lifelong obstacle my family just started to confront, I am fully aware that there are thousands of families worse off than mine who are suffering, and some who have lost loved ones from this pandemic. I also realize there will be more cases, more sadness

and, unfortunately, more deaths. That is the real injustice, and that is why I plan on doing my part by staying put until the restrictions start to ease up.

We need to look at the big picture and do what we can in our power to help stop the spread, rather than satisfying our immediate needs. We have to keep telling ourselves this will be over – hopefully sooner than later – and that life will start to go back to normal.

Personally, I know in my heart that Anthony will be back on the pitcher’s mound “chucking bullets” or skating across the blue line “deking benders” and “lighting the lamp” in the near future.

Just like the hunters will be invading the woods or storming the fields, while the fishermen will be pummeling the water from sunrise to sundown. And that I’ll get back to Alaska next spring and do battle with a chrome-bright steelhead.

We will be able to do the things we love again. Take it from a lifelong Chicago Cub fan who saw something extraordinary in the 2016 World Series: Normalcy is going to happen again; I just can’t promise when. ASJ

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FIELD

MAKE YOUR TROLLING TERRIFIC 36O-DEGREE FLASHER SETUP CAN SCORE YOUR BOAT PLENTY OF SALMON

BY SCOTT HAUGEN

T

rolling for salmon – kings and coho – is nothing new. However, as with most approaches relating to catching these cagey fish, fine-tuning your gear can pay big dividends.

I’ve been fortunate to fish with many folks over the decades. Recently I went out with Pro Escobedo of VIP Outdoors (vipoutdoors.com). I’ve been trying to connect with Pro for a few years, and when the stars finally aligned, I was regretting not having fished with him sooner.

I could write an entire feature on what a class-act Pro is – how he greets fellow anglers at the dock when fishing and in the aisles of sport shows. But instead, I’ll focus on a trolling setup he shared with me. It’s one that’s been working for him for a few years now – and is one that more and more fellow anglers are turning to.

“TROLLING WITH 360-DEGREE FLASHERS is nothing new; it’s been around for years,” Pro says. “What’s changed is how we’ve downsized and streamlined the terminal gear in an effort to create more action and catch more fish.”

The setup is simple, and the more you study it and fish it, the more you buy into why it works. Threaded onto 50- to 60-pound braided mainline is a 10mm bead, followed by a Line Lock Slider. In itself, the slider is ingenious and one that’s designed and made by VIP Outdoors.

It not only holds your sinker, it butts up against your bead chain swivel and stops the transfer of line twist.

One of the components of today’s popular form of 360-degree trolling for salmon is a downsized spinner, which offers optimized action, something this coho couldn’t resist. (SCOTT HAUGEN) aksportingjournal.com | JUNE 2020

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FIELD

A visit to a famed New York City restaurant inspired Tiffany Haugen to create a salmon-infused scallion pancake recipe. (TIFFANY HAUGEN)

A PROTEIN-POWERED PANCAKE

BY TIFFANY HAUGEN

I

f you’re looking for something to do with a little leftover or canned salmon – and you like salmon patties – give salmon pancakes a try. After visiting the famous Dim Sum Palace in New York City, I had to find a way to get salmon into the scallion pancakes, and this is it.

The biggest hurdle of this recipe is accepting the fact a pancake can be savory.

A quick study of world cuisine reveals just about every country has some kind of savory pancake – with limitless flavor combinations.

With all types of flours, methods and prep times, savory pancakes can be easy or complicated to make. This is one of the easiest savory pancakes I’ve ever made, so it’s a great one to start with.

Depending on the flavor you are going for, smoked salmon can be substituted for cooked or canned salmon; just omit the salt in the pancake batter.

2 cups cooked, flaked salmon 1 cup chopped scallions 2 cups white flour 1¾ cups water ¼ cup toasted sesame oil 1 teaspoon granulated garlic

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½ teaspoon salt Olive or coconut oil for frying Chili sauce, optional Remove any bones from the salmon. In a medium bowl, mix flour, garlic and salt until thoroughly combined. Whisk in water and sesame oil until no lumps remain.

Fold in flaked salmon and scallions. Heat about a teaspoon of oil on a griddle or large skillet on medium-high heat.

Pour about a half-cup of batter for each pancake, spreading it to an even thickness on the griddle or in the pan.

JUNE 2020 | aksportingjournal.com

Cook one or two minutes until golden brown on each side. Garnish with additional chopped scallions or chives and chili sauce if desired.

Editor’s note: For signed copies of Tiffany’s popular book, Cooking Seafood, and other titles, visit tiffanyhaugen .com.

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FIELD The other end of the bead chain is snapped into a duolock snap, which clips onto a titanium bumper that VIP Outdoors also makes. Titanium is strong, thin and doesn’t twist or knot up. These bumpers come in different lengths.

The other end of the bumper is snapped to your 360-degree rotating flasher. Pro prefers Pro-Troll 11-inch flashers in silver and has done well on the Shortbus Silver Bullet, also in 11 inches. At the other end of the flasher is a 28-inch leader tipped with a VIP 3.5 custom-painted spinner blade.

“I like a Colorado-style blade, as the blade lays flatter, which is great when targeting fish at specific depths, especially if trolling in river mouths,” says Pro. When trolling in the ocean, bigger and more active blades are effective.

Brightly colored blades are ideal in ocean conditions, with darker blades working well the further up a river you go.

As for sinkers, an 8-ounce option is as light as Pro goes when trolling in water up to 15 feet deep. In deeper water, 16- to 20-ounce sinkers are used. As Pro puts it, the amount of weight in conjunction with the 360-degree rotating flasher, bumper, short leader – and an overall short streamlined set-up – along with trolling speed and tidal current flow, is what optimizes the alluring action of the

G P

The 360-degree setup, as described in the article, is simple yet specialized in order to maximize spinner movement. (SCOTT HAUGEN)

smaller spinner.

“A small lightweight spinner reacts more quickly to the rotating flasher than a larger spinner, and inline flashers simply don’t produce the amount of movement that drive salmon crazy,” Pro adds.

WITH SO MUCH WATER to fish this time of year in Alaska – from oceans to bays to rivers – and in so many regions, anglers will eventually be forced to give up trolling and go to other methods.

Downsized terminal tackle such as these 3.5 VIP custom spinners, behind a big 360-degree rotating flasher, like the Pro-Trolls in the background, is a winning combo. (SCOTT HAUGEN)

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Wrapping plugs with baitfish and back-trolling them in rivers is highly effective this time of year. Of course, it’s hard to beat inserting a fresh cluster of cured eggs onto the hook, topping it with a Spin-N-Glo and back-bouncing your way into big salmon.

If pursuing coho later this summer, don’t overlook the effectiveness of casting lures. Casting anything pink is the choice of many silver salmon anglers, with chartreuse also being a much-liked color. Personally, I love silver/pink spinners tipped with a pink squid skirt. The Yakima Bait Flash-Glo Casting Squid Spinner is my all-time favorite.

With summer salmon season upon us, consider extending your trolling approach. While it’s hard for many of us to try new things, trolling with a 360-degree flasher is worth investing some time in, as catch rates are soaring for those who’ve figured it out. ASJ Editor’s note: For signed copies of Scott Haugen's popular Bank Fishing For Steelhead & Salmon and other how-to books, including cookbooks, visit scotthaugen.com.

Follow Scott on Instagram and Facebook.

JUNE 2020 | aksportingjournal.com

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THE FISHING GOES ON

BY MARY CATHARINE MARTIN

S

ome fast food restaurants in the Lower 48 have stopped serving hamburgers. Meatpacking plants have shut down. Grocery stores are frequently sold out of flour and rice. But Americans can buy Alaskan seafood directly from the fishermen who caught it – and, in increasing numbers, that’s what they’re doing.

We spoke with direct marketers and community-supported fisheries, or CSFs, that focus on three different areas: Alaska, the Midwest, and the East Coast. In the time of COVID-19, the first priority for all three was ensuring the health of their staff and their customers. Next, they’re working to adapt creatively to the ways the COVID-19 pandemic has, almost overnight, changed the marketplace. For direct marketers, those changes have meant an increase in some kinds of sales.

The fishermen owners of Alaskans Own are mostly small-boat family businesses keeping wild seafood distributed to consumers during the coronavirus pandemic. “They’re committed to the long-term health of the resource and the community,” said Linda Behnken, executive director of the Alaska Longline Fishermen’s Association, AO’s parent organization. (ERIC JORDAN)

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SITKA SALMON SHARES STARTED out as a fish-box-selling fundraiser for the Sitka Conservation Society, a local nonprofit, 11 years ago. Now it has 10,000 members and is “by the number of members, one of the largest community-supported fisheries in the U.S.,” said Kelly Harrell, chief fisheries officer for the organization.

Harrell said one of the first things Sitka Salmon Shares did as the pandemic took hold was establish baseline prices for its 23 fishermen owners, 19 of whom are out of Sitka and four of whom are out of Kodiak, in order to give them peace of mind.

During COVID-19, direct sales have become by far their strongest sector.

“Like a lot of direct marketing businesses, we’ve seen an uptick in sales that we’re really happy about,” said Harrell. “But we’re not planning longterm for that kind of increase, based on the economic uncertainty that we face.”

Since the pandemic, Sitka Salmon Shares has also launched a “Fishermen’s Fund” – being seeded, right now, with T-shirt sales – that will essentially become checks divided across the fleet: a “fishermen’s stimulus package” not tied to harvest.

“We’re trying to do things to create value for fishermen that are not directly tied to their harvest,” Harrell said. “This year and in future years, that harvest is increasingly uncertain.”

STEVE KURIAN, A BRISTOL Bay fisherman who owns Wild for Salmon, which distributes out of Pennsylvania, said COVID-19 has meant big changes. For the last 15 years he has sold Leader Creek sockeye out of Bristol Bay, as well as halibut, black cod and lingcod from Southeast Alaska, king crab from Dutch Harbor, and other Alaska seafoods as well.

Sitka Salmon Shares fisherman-owner John Skeele pulls in a king salmon. Since the pandemic, the company launched a “Fishermen’s Fund” stimulus package that will be divided across the fleet.

(SITKA SALMON SHARES)

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When the pandemic took hold, Wild for Salmon shut down its brick-andmortar store, moved to only curbside pickup, and stopped going to farmers markets. Now, their labor is focused on other kinds of sales.

“Online and wholesale orders went through the roof, so we had to really flex to maintain getting all the orders out on time,” Kurian said.

Since the pandemic began, he said, online sales have gone up 300 percent.

Wholesale orders went up 200 percent.

IN THE LAST FRONTIER, Alaska-focused direct marketer Alaskans Own (AO) is kicking off its marketing campaign.

Alaskans Own is a Sitka-based CSF run by the Alaska Longline Fishermen’s Association (ALFA) that markets, primarily, to Alaskans. Less than 1 percent of the seafood caught in Alaska

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ALASKA SPORTING JOURNAL

43

stays in Alaska, said ALFA executive director Linda Behnken. AO is working to change that.

“Alaska is a tough market, in a lot of ways, but it’s really where we would like to build connections,” said Behnken.

“Alaskans love Alaska seafood, but you don’t always see connections between people who love Alaska seafood and the fishermen who catch it.”

As Alaskans Own’s name suggests, the majority of its subscribers are instate, though some live elsewhere. AO delivers salmon (hook-and-line-caught), halibut, rockfish, crab, shrimp and more, all processed by local processors.

“This year more than ever, the CSF approach is really important. Because restaurants have closed, the prices to fishermen have really dropped,” Behnken said. “We’re hoping to partially replace restaurants with direct-to-consumer delivery, and to get more people hooked on great Alaska seafood so that Alaskans keep eating seafood both at home and in restaurants once the restaurants reopen.”

One of their new offerings will be Zoom sessions with seafood chefs so the chef and subscribers can cook “together,” with the chef walking customers through cooking seafood step by step.

“We’re looking for some new fun ways to engage more people so more people have access to great Alaska seafood,” Behnken said. “And to help people be that much more connected to the fishermen, to the seafood, and to be comfortable

Steve Kurian is a Bristol Bay fisherman and owner of Wild for Salmon, which has focused on online sales of fresh seafood to accommodate customers as the country has been mostly on lockdown. “Online and wholesale orders went through the roof, so we had to really flex to maintain getting all the orders out on time,” Kurian said. (WILD FOR SALMON)

cooking the fish themselves – to do a good job and enjoy it to its utmost.”

Alaskans Own has also launched a seafood donation program this spring and, with support from local processors, has been delivering portioned seafood to Sitka families in need and wellness organizations each week since the pandemic began.

ALFA’s fishing members are donating the fish, Seafood Producers Cooperative and Sitka Sound Seafoods are processing the fish, and contributions from Silver Bay Seafoods, the Sitka Legacy Fund,

The Ida Lee, a boat in the Alaskans Own fleet, is using Zoom and other internet technology to stay connected to its buyers of wild salmon, halibut and rockfish. “We’re looking for some new fun ways to engage more people so more people have access to great Alaska seafood,” Behnken said of the company. (ERIC JORDAN)

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and charitable individuals are covering the costs of safely delivering the seafood to families in need. Contributions to the program can be made on the Alaskans Own website.

Whether orders have taken off or not, direct marketers are doing their best to stabilize what they can.

“A direct domestic consumer market is something we always felt was important for fishermen and consumers,” said Harrell of Sitka Salmon Shares.

“All of those beliefs are being enforced right now, and it’s something we hope people don’t forget about. At times like these, the food security concerns that overseas types of supply chains create are highlighted. Our businesses – CSFs – fill a really important need. You can feel good about where your food comes from, you can feel good about fish and harvesters being paid a fair price, and you’re getting a product that makes the most of what nature gives us. I think a lot of people are hoping consumers will really value businesses like ours into the future, and that it won’t be a blip.” ASJ Editor’s note: Mary Catharine Martin is the communications director of SalmonState, an organization that works to keep Alaska a place for wild salmon and the people who depend on them thriving. Go to salmonstate .org for more.

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FATHERS AND SONS, BILLIES G AND BUCKS

HUNTING KODIAK ISLAND’S HEIGHTS DEEPENS FAMILY BONDS FOR FOUR MEN

BY BRIAN WATKINS

oat hunting is not for the faint of heart. It takes determination, stamina, focus and endurance.

I often hear the saying, “I’m too old to goat hunt,” but I disagree with that assertion. Age knows no limits. That’s apparent in my father’s determination to keep in stride with the “the young guys.”

Author Brian Watkins (front), his buddy Mark Brown, and their dads Tom (rear left) and Mo experienced a special mountain goat and deer hunt together on Kodiak Island.

(BRIAN WATKINS)

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“You can tell by the way I’m dressed that I wasn’t prepared,” Atkins admits about his first hunt. “The cotton sweatshirt and the leather boots are a dead giveaway. We had fun, but there were many lessons learned.”

(PAUL D. ATKINS)

My dad Tom’s goal for his 60th birthday was to harvest a mountain goat in Alaska. That’s right: Sixty years old and ready to hike thousands of vertical feet to get into goat country. Some say insane; those who understand say, right on.

WE FLEW TO KODIAK for our father-son

Flying through the island’s steep mountains provided an eagle-eye view of what exactly would be required to reach goat country. But the author’s dad Tom was ready for it; his 60th birthday wish was to harvest a billy. (BRIAN WATKINS)

hunt that included my buddy Mark and I, plus my father Tom and Mark’s dad Mo. We took a Beaver to the southern end of Kodiak to fulfill our dads’ dreams of taking a mountain goat. We chose to be dropped off in a lake cove at 450 feet in elevation.

After we landed on the lake, we set up camp and glassed goats that were up around 2,900 feet. I’ll never forget that morning. We watched goats for hours, planning how to get up into the heights to hunt them the next day.

As I picked a route to take, I noticed four billies running along the top of the mountain. I wondered what was happening and then noticed a grizzly sow and two cubs in hot pursuit. The

goats crested the ridge and we could only imagine the outcome.

The following morning we noticed eagles circling the area, so our best guess is the bears won. As we began the route we picked out the day before, we found bear scat with goat hair in it. The bears were doing a number on the population.

We followed our game plan and climbed all morning to close the distance on the goats. My dad was the leader of the pack. He kept us going and pushed us along. Dad’s determination was a driving factor in our ability to move quickly.

We closed the distance to within 400 yards of the goats. As we set up the spotting scope to check out where the animals were, we heard rustling in the brush. Immediately everyone jumped on guard and grabbed their rifles.

An adolescent brown bear popped out a mere 75 yards away. He was overly curious of us and kept coming closer. We tried to act big with our hands in the air and standing together

The plane dropped the guys off on the shores of a lake cove, where they set up camp and began glassing for goats in anticipation of the next day’s hunt. (BRIAN WATKINS)

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There were plenty of goats in the heights, but unexpectedly also brown bears. The hunters had one very close encounter with a young, curious bruin. (BRIAN WATKINS)

This was a dream view for a father and son celebrating the former’s 60th birthday. (BRIAN WATKINS)

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A special moment shared by the older generation of this family hunt, Tom (left) and Mo were up for the grueling assignment that goat hunting can be. (BRIAN WATKINS)

Taking a much-deserved break at camp after a lot of hiking and climbing. (BRIAN WATKINS) After everyone harvested a goat, the hunting didn’t end – there were still deer tags to be filled. The quartet harvested three Sitka blacktails. (BRIAN WATKINS)

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in a line. It may have been the first time this bear saw a human.

As the bruin came to within 20 yards, I had to shoot in front of it to scare it back.

He didn’t budge and gave me the look of, “This is my habitat,” by staring me down and slowly walking away. It was a close encounter and the outcome was that my gunshot pushed the goats to the peak of the mountain.

Our hunt had just become a lot more challenging.

AS THE DAY MOVED along, our pace slowed.

We were forced into acrobatics in trying to summit the mountain. Goat country is dangerous territory, but we kept going.

Pulling and pushing each other up ledges, we were one slip away from catastrophe.

We jumped a couple of goats and made our way into an area where we could glass the tops of the mountain.

We found a group of goats that were in a stalkable area, made our way over and set up for the shot.

At 200 yards, we were able to all set up and each take a goat. Four guys on a father-son hunt, and four goats worth of harvests!

The real work was about to begin, as we had an animal each to pack back to camp. It took two days to pack the animals back, but we accomplished what we had set out to do.

“Four guys on a father-son hunt, and four goats,” Watkins writes. “This father-son trip deepened our family hunting bonds forever.” (BRIAN WATKINS)

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We had our transporter come pick up the meat, but we weren’t done hunting, as we also had deer tags to fill. I knew of a spot with decent deer hunting and asked the pilot to move us there. We packed camp and set out.

The weather was set to turn into the standard Kodiak 60-plus-mph winds and rain. But since we had time to hunt, we went! Over two days we found deer and were able to harvest three in one drainage. It was a hunt that will live forever in our minds.

Four goats and three deer among our dads and us. This father-son trip deepened our family hunting bonds forever. Happy Father’s Day! ASJ

The rugged terrain around the Alaska Range is a hunter’s paradise, and for a trio of adventurers, a large bull caribou became quite a challenge to track down. (LANDON ALBERTSON)

A BULL TO REMEMBER

THREE HUNTERS STALK A BIG CARIBOU IN THE ALASKA RANGE

BY LANDON ALBERTSON

M

y first successful caribou hunt was a true Alaskan adventure and was easily my favorite so far.

What made it even better was that I got to share the experience with Jen, my wife/adventure partner, and one of my best friends, Reed. It was an unforgettable trip for all of us.

THE FLIGHT IN It all started with my first flight in a Super Cub. Our pilot methodically loaded the plane and I climbed aboard. I strapped on my seat buckle and tightened the straps. Then I slid on a radio headset so I could communicate with the pilot during

our flight.

We taxied to the edge of the runway and the pilot asked, “Ready?”

“Ready!” I replied excitedly.

The plane jolted forward and within a couple of seconds, we were soaring above the trees. Forty-five minutes over the breathtaking mountains of the Alaska Range was all it took for me to fall in love with flying.

From the towering mountain peaks to the winding riverbeds, I was reminded once again just how beautiful Alaska truly is. But it wasn’t just the landscape that had us recalling our love for the land.

The wildlife greeted us along the way:

Dall sheep, caribou, and even a grizzly bear spotted by Jen served as a perfect introduction to the Alaska backcountry.

We landed at camp – each of us arriving in separate planes. Once we were on the ground, I noticed my face and cheeks were getting sore. It hit me that I hadn’t stopped smiling since we had lifted off.

Still buzzing from our flights, we set up camp and waited impatiently for the hunt ahead. Base camp was next to the landing strip, which was located in a sliver of trees that reached to the riverbed.

The river ran north and south and featured thick trees on either side. Steep

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mountains sprouted from the banks of the river. Dark green cedar trees covered the lower half of the mountains, with yellow birch trees sparsely sprinkled throughout.

Above the tree line were thick red-blushed bushes and orange alder patches that set the mountainside on fire with color. The peaks were jagged rocks cut out by small runoff creeks. We could see small white specks towards the top of the peaks.

I grabbed my spotting scope and inspected the specks that salted the mountaintop. It was a group of Dall sheep – mostly ewes and lambs and a couple small rams feeding on minerals throughout the rocks. I watched them until it was almost dark and then finished getting my pack ready for the caribou hunt in the morning.

DAY ONE We started off early and headed west from our river bottom camp to scale the steep mountainside. The first mile of the ascent was made more difficult by the thick brush that was at times over our heads, while the tall trees eliminated our glassing opportunities.

I climbed a couple cedar trees to get above the brush and glass in hopes of spotting animal before it spotted us but to no avail. As we fought the thick brush on our way up the mountain, we found out quickly if we wanted a slightly easier hike to stay on the game trails that weaved their way through the terrain.

Our plan was to scout for caribou and call for moose along the way. On only the second call, we heard the first bull moose respond to the whines of my cow calling. We listened to him

“Flying over the Alaskan mountains was a quick reminder we are blessed to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth,” author Landon Albertson says. (LANDON ALBERTSON) 56

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grunt and make his way closer to us, the deep sound growing louder as we waited.

“Wahaaa wahaaa,” grunted the bull as he marched his way to my calls.

As the bull came closer and closer, I thought to myself he should appear at any moment. But soon, I felt the all-toofamiliar and disappointing cool breeze tickle the hairs on the back of my neck.

With the switch of the wind, the moose winded us and was gone, so we continued up the mountain.

We kept making our way towards the top and the visibility improved above the tree line. Eventually we made it to the edge of a ravine.

The canyon had 100-foot vertical rock sides, and as we peeked over the side, we saw the rushing creek below us. The creek ran from its headwaters west to east and split the mountain range in two – a north

The hunters were each allowed 50 pounds of gear, not including their rifles, on their flight. They paid for an extra trip to fly a few luxuries into camp, including a portable toilet seat! (LANDON ALBERTSON)

side and a south side.

We stood on the edge of the north side, looking across to the south. The creek and ravine ran perpendicular to the river we were camped on and eventually joined the river about a halfmile upstream from camp. But where we were standing, it appeared to be impassable in either direction.

The only way to get across was near the mouth of the creek, which was a couple miles down the mountain in the direction we’d just come from. As we stared across the canyon, I spotted a caribou feeding on the opposite side of the ravine.

It appeared to be a cow; all we could do was watch her through our binoculars. The caribou appeared to be getting pestered by biting flies and mosquitos. She would feed and then all of a sudden shake her body and buck her legs. Then she would take off running in a dead sprint, like a track star racing in the 40-yard dash.

Once she outran her foe, she would stop to feed until the flies caught up to her again, starting the process all over again. We watched her forage until she 58

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ran off out of sight, leaving us with the decision to hunt the south side of the ravine the next day.

DAY TWO We began on the south side of the creek, the side where we saw the cow caribou the day prior. Though the terrain was still challenging, the brush was not as thick, making it easier for us to get above the tree line.

We called for moose along the way but with no luck. We reached the base of the peak and decided to eat lunch, glass for caribou and, if the bugs would stop biting, maybe take a nap. It only took about 10 minutes of glassing before Reed spotted a caribou working its way over the next ridgeline to the north, about a mile away.

I pulled out my spotting scope and got the animal in focus. I could tell it was a nice bull – he had a long white mane and tall brown antlers. But of course it was on the opposite side of the ravine!

We briefly considered the 2-mile trek back down the mountain to cross the creek and then hike 2 more miles up the other side. But we knew he’d be long

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gone by the time we could get there. We were again filled with disappointment that we were on the wrong side. But we finished eating lunch and decided to continue up the hill.

We made our way to where we had seen the cow feeding the day before.

We crested the hill and spotted her at 200 yards. She was feeding and slowly making her way toward the ravine, away from us. At one point she lifted her head and sniffed the air. I could tell right away she had caught the scent from something. The wind was blowing heavily from the north – into our faces – so I knew she didn’t smell us. She then made a beeline into the wind, resembling a bloodhound on a scent trail.

The cow was heading to the ravine and I figured she’d caught the scent of the bull from earlier. I told Jen and Reed, “If she knows a way to get to the other side, then we can get there too!”

We watched and hoped that she’d show us a way. She disappeared over the edge of the canyon and popped up on the other side of the creek a few minutes later. I knew that if she could get over there, then so could we!

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A good pair of binos came in handy to spot caribou through thick brush. (LANDON ALBERTSON)Â

THE STALK The three of us made our way to where the cow had crossed. Along the way we found substantial caribou sign. Given the droppings, hair, tracks and a couple of caribou shed horns, I could tell we had found a heavily used travel corridor.

We made it to the ravine and found the trail that the caribou use to cross the creek. It was immediately apparent that this was the only place to cross for miles.

A game trail super highway led down to the bottom of the ravine. The path was beaten and packed with wildlife tracks; it looked like a popular trailhead at a national park. Our excitement grew as we followed it down towards the rushing creek.

Using a couple boulders in the middle of the creek as platforms, we were able to jump across and then started the climb up the other side. Now that we knew of a more convenient place to cross, we set off to find the bull from earlier in the day.

Jen enjoys a coffee pick-me-up at camp.

(LANDON ALBERTSON)

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On a trip the author took to get water, he found wolf tracks in the mud along the river.

“Three or maybe four sets of tracks from the night before, all within 150 yards from camp,” he says. “A quick reminder we are not the only predators on the mountain.”

(LANDON ALBERTSON)

The author (left front) carried the caribou rack and put the bull’s two front shoulders in his pack. Reed toted the two hindquarters.

It was a long hike, as they didn’t reach camp until 1 a.m. (LANDON ALBERTSON)

Albertson (left) and his best friend Reed were grateful to share such an adventure. (LANDON ALBERTSON)

After another quarter of a mile on the game trail, I stood on a mound of dirt, which was about 3 feet high, to get above the brush and to try and spot the cow. I was glassing the horizon and found her about 800 yards away on a brush-

covered knob. About 15 yards behind her was a huge caribou rack sprouting from the brush.

“Big bull!” I said to Jen and Reed. They used their binoculars and saw him too. In between the bull and us was a dry creek

A man-made runway provides access in and out of this remote spot. (LANDON ALBERTSON) 62

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bed covered in dry yellow knee-high grass. With the wind in our faces, we got into the dry creek and made our way toward the bull.

We moved within 400 yards of the caribou and watched them feed just over

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a knoll and out of sight. I’m usually an archery hunter, and because of this I like to get close, even if I have a rifle capable of shooting 500 yards.

Reed stayed back to keep an eye on the caribou and Jen and I dropped our packs and moved in closer. We snuck onto the knoll and stalked toward them.

The brush now ranged from hip- to chestheight, making it hard to navigate quietly and also difficult to find the caribou.

Thankfully we found a small game trail and used that to weave our way to

where we last saw them, but they were no longer there. Jen looked through her binos and noticed horn tips moving through the brush 100 yards to our left. I tried to get a better look through the scope of my rifle, but couldn’t. I knew we’d have to get closer for a clear enough shot.

With the rifle at my shoulder, like a SWAT leader moving towards a suspect, we snuck closer; now within 40 yards of the caribou, I waited for my chance. After a couple of minutes went by, finally the bull stepped into an opening. All I could

see was his rack, head, neck and top onethird of his body.

My arms shook with fatigue from holding the rifle up for so long and the scope’s crosshairs bounced with my movement. I slowed my breathing and concentrated on a small patch of brown fur behind his shoulder. My thumb took the safety off – index finger coming to rest on the cold trigger – as the crosshairs moved in a uniform figure-eight motion.

I waited for them to hit the brown patch and squeezed. Boom! The rifle fired

It was a special experience for Albertson to share this hunt with his wife and closest friend. A freezer full of meat made it that much more memorable. (LANDON ALBERTSON)

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and the shot echoed through the valley.

The bull immediately dropped dead before he hit the ground.

THE PRIZE We hugged and high-fived, filled with joy and disbelief that it had all come together. As we walked closer, we noticed a smaller bull 20 yards from where my bull had fallen. He bounded off, leaving me thankful that I had taken the more mature of the two.

I could not believe the size of my caribou – not only his horns but also his body. I’d seen reindeer at a farm in Palmer before and they were about the size of a mature mule deer. I’d figured that since caribou share the same genetics, they would be roughly the same size. This was a false assumption.

This caribou’s body was closer to that of a young cow elk with a big round gut.

We took our grip-and-grin pictures – still ecstatic from the hunt – then set to work on processing the animal. The hindquarters and back of the bull were covered in a thick layer of fat. I could tell the bull had been preparing for the long winter ahead.

I trimmed off some of the fat to render oil from and cook the tenderloins the next day. It was a two-hour process to get the bull skinned and quartered, then loaded in our packs. It was 7:30 p.m. by the time we set out on the 4-mile journey back to camp.

The plan was to get there before it got too dark, but that proved more difficult than we’d expected. The brush, alder patches, creeks and bumpy terrain made for slow travel, and it was made even worse by the heavy, unbalanced packs.

Six brutal hours later, we finally arrived at 1:30 a.m. Our bodies were sore but our spirits high!

We were grateful to sleep in the following day and give our backs and legs a well-deserved rest. For lunch I prepared thinly sliced caribou steaks seasoned with salt and pepper, then fried in rendered caribou fat.

With each bite it was a reminder of why we hunt. Not only did I score a beautiful bull caribou and meat that will be shared on our dinner table throughout the winter, but I also was able to share the entire experience with Jen and

Reed. The memories will last far longer than the trophy or meat.

We hunted moose for the next six days and had a couple close encounters, but unfortunately none of the bulls were legal.

An Alaskan mountain caribou hunt should be on every wilderness hunter’s bucket list. Flying home over the mountain peaks that were now covered in snow, I couldn’t help but feel lucky. Lucky that we found that cow caribou on day one and lucky on day two that she led us right to the bull I took. Lucky that I live in a place where I can hunt and provide meat for my family. Lucky to have a wife who loves adventure as much as me. Lucky to have a great friend like Reed.

But maybe it has nothing to do with luck. Instead I just feel blessed. ASJ Editor’s note: Landon Albertson grew up in Lakeview, Oregon, but now chases hunting and fishing adventures as an Alaskan transplant. Check out some of them at preyonadventure.com and on his YouTube page (search for “Prey On Adventure: Alaska Fishing & Hunting”).

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WEIRD AND UNUSUAL ADAK

ALASKA IS FULL OF INTERESTING HUNTING PLACES, AND THIS HISTORIC ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ALEUTIANS MIGHT BE AMONG THE MOST UNIQUE

BY PAUL D. ATKINS

W

hen my good friend and longtime hunting buddy Scott Haugen asked me if I wanted to go to Adak Island to do some hunting and maybe film a TV show, I didn’t really think much about it.

I was all in, of course, and just the idea of hunting with my good friend was enough for me to say yes. What I didn’t realize was the surreal, almost eerie experience I was about to have while I was down there.

Alaska is a big place – full of potential and opportunity – and if you travel

Adak Island had it all at one time – good housing, stores, restaurants, schools. But its once thriving town built for the military has been all but abandoned, creating an apocalyptic scene when author Paul Atkins hunted caribou there in the shadows of its famed volcano, Mount Moffett. (PAUL D. AKTINS) aksportingjournal.com | JUNE 2020

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Adak’s history as a military base dates back to World War II, and it was also a strategic Cold War locale. Now, an abandoned McDonald’s and other restaurants, playgrounds and boats create eerie relics of the past. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

the state as much as I have, you tend to see some pretty extraordinary things. Just about every direction holds something different. If you look hard enough and stay long enough, you’ll usually dig up something weird and unusual – or at least see something totally new.

WHEN I SAY THE Last Frontier holds many oddities, I’m not just talking about the people. Every town in the state is known

for something, and for most it’s usually based on when it was founded and/or what it was founded for.

Of course, many started because of gold. If you’ve ever been on the outskirts of Nome, you know what I mean. It’s like going back in time. I remember clearly my first trip there to hunt muskox many years ago and the near-death experience of getting back home on snowmachines.

Caribou hunting on Adak Island isn’t for those in poor shape. Given its open, mountainous terrain and widely scattered herds, glassing is the norm, and if you spot one animal or a group of them, you still have to figure out how to get closer for a shot. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

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It was a brutal couple of days, but once we did reach civilization I can remember seeing all those old abandoned gold dredges as we passed along the coast. It was like a history lesson in 3-D. There have been other places – like the time I helped one of my colleagues build a cabin just north of Glennallen, Alaska.

I was a greenhorn at the time, having arrived in the state only a few months before. I’d never been in that part of the

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A caribou on the side of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s Adak office symbolizes the species introduced on the island in the late 1950s and now thriving. Residents and nonresidents can hunt them year-round, though can only kill two bulls annually and none between Jan. 1-Aug. 9. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

country, but I realized immediately that it was quite different than the Alaska I was used to. It had an abundance of trees, for one thing; it was green; it had mountains – sharp, jagged peaks that stretched to the heavens in what is known as the WrangellSt. Elias National Park. It was breathtaking.

We built the cabin and took a few days to explore. We visited McCarthy, a backwoods, off-the-grid town located 60 miles into the wilderness. It was very unique in terms of people and culture, and the surroundings were beautiful.

We also visited the famous Kennecott Copper Mine, which was built back in 1903. It was definitely unique; from what I was told it was haunted. I didn’t see any ghosts but did get to walk on my first glacier, which was scary enough.

I saw the capital city of Juneau, where I stopped over on my way to Haines to hunt goats and bears. An iconic town, Juneau has a lot of history, especially downtown, where I spent a little time at the famous Red Dog Saloon. You know it as the place that is in all those songs. It was not until I returned to Juneau after a near-death experience on an airplane in a blinding snowstorm that I really appreciated the place.

Kotzebue, where I live now, has its stories too – from the arrival of Russian traders to the big rendezvouses that were held in the village of Sheshalik, which sits across the sound. People and cultures would meet there and share in the bounty of the land.

Kotzebue was also once the polar bear hunting capital of the world, back in the early days of big game trophy 70

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hunting. This place was a legendary stopping point for some of the greatest hunters, guides and pilots of their time.

From 1950 to 1970 they came from all over the world to what many considered the wild, wild, west in those days. I sure would have liked to have been there to see that. Adak was no different, as I would discover.

THE ALEUTIANS ARE A chain of relatively small islands that separate the Bering

Sea from the main portion of the Pacific Ocean. They extend from the Alaska Peninsula in a long arc of about 1,100 miles, about the distance by car from Seattle to Los Angeles, or Washington DC to Miami. They are unique in every way possible, especially the island of Adak and, more specifically, the town of Adak, which Scott and I were headed to on that fateful October day.

The plane ride down was like any other on Alaska Airlines. It was a normal flight with full service as we traveled on a 737, a big plane to be going to such a small place.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how long it took to get there. The Seattleto-Anchorage flight takes approximately three hours; to Adak it takes three and a half from Anchorage. Yes, Adak is a long way from anything, but without the flight there is no way to get there. It reminded me of getting to Kotzebue, where there are no roads in or out. But unlike up here, there are only two flights a week into Adak instead of the two a day that we get. Miss one flight and you’re probably stuck on the island for another week.

We arrived and I was immediately

One feature Adak and most of the Aleutian chain is known for is its bird life.

Ptarmigan are abundant and Atkins and fellow sportsman Scott Haugen made the most of it each day. Snuggled in among the hills, these beautiful and tasty birds are everywhere, and kept the hunters’ shotguns busy. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

JUNE 2020 | aksportingjournal.com

With hard work and diligence, Atkins and Haugen were able to take a few caribou, providing some tasty table fare to enjoy during their visit and to put in the freezer back home. “The extra week we had to stay – the flight was cancelled and there wasn’t another for an entire week – also let us work on our cutting skills, which was a big plus,” Atkins adds. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

in awe of the place. I hadn’t done any research, so to be honest I had no idea of what to expect. All I knew was we were going hunting and would be filming while we were doing it. It was only after arriving that I got the scoop.

During World War II Adak became a military base and continued to be one until the end of the Cold War. It eventually was closed down in 1997. However, during the 1950s the Alaska Department of Fish and Game introduced caribou on the island as a means of providing hunting opportunities for soldiers, plus access to emergency food rations.

It was a winning move and the herd flourished as Adak was prime habitat for the prolific game animal. That remains the case to this day and was the reason Haugen and I were there. It presents a unique opportunity for the traveling sportsman; for me it was another chance to chase what northern Alaska natives call tutu, in a different place.

The hunting was hard, to say the least. With minimal roads and access, we rented an Argo, an amphibious ATV, and cruised the countryside looking

for the herds that call this place home.

There are no trees on the island, which reminded me somewhat of the Arctic, and the tundra wasn’t really tundra – more like moss-covered gravel with stands of high grass.

The rolling hills were steep too and a lot of the hunting was done on foot, which at times took us up high into the rocks. Each day was unique and, at least for me, a little weird.

We searched high and low each day, but with little luck. It was only after a few days and many hours of glassing that we found small bands of caribou here and there, but nothing compared to the large herds I was used to in the Arctic.

The animals were in difficult places, more so than expected – high up in the mountains, which from down low looked accessible. But once you got closer it became quite difficult. It was hard climbing with unsure footing, which created problems. Once we did get to them, the shots were long – sometimes over 400 yards.

Luckily, we were able to catch our breath and make the most of it. The pack-

out was treacherous as well. Our heavy packs loaded down with meat were backbreakers and trying to maintain our footing wasn’t easy, but we were able to pull three caribou off the island.

Besides caribou, Adak has an abundance of bird life, specifically ptarmigan. They were everywhere, even more than I’m accustomed to here in the Arctic. We spent three days chasing them and took as many as we wanted. It was a great time and we got some great footage.

HUNTING WAS FUN, BUT what really intrigued me during this hunt was the town itself. The abandoned area was like something you would see in The Walking Dead. The best way I can describe it was a town that time forgot.

An old McDonald’s and a Pizza Hut still stand in town. They’re empty, of course, and surrounded by weeds, but it looked to me that with a little cleaning and a few implements, they could be up and going in a matter of hours. Churches, dormitories, stores and even the school looked operational, other than the rainsoaked ceilings, moss-covered floors and

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the occasional bird that flew overhead. It was surreal and looked haunted.

The housing in town was the weirdest, though. Perfectly built condos lined the streets in a variety of colors. Bright red, blue, green and tan houses – something you would see in most towns down south – sat next to beautifully paved driveways.

There were rusted-out cars and trucks with flat tires sitting on those same streets too. They looked as if they had been left as is when the last plane out showed up. Empty playgrounds with the latest equipment filled backyards as well, lending an eerie, apocalyptic feeling. It was a pretty cool scene to take in.

Adak has a historical story to tell, one linked back to World War II. The old rusted-out Quonset huts and bomb shelters we passed each day on our way to the hunting grounds reminded us of that. Soldiers lived here, stored gear here and prepared for an invasion by Japanese forces, which in mid-1942 had taken over Attu and Kiska Islands to the west.

We were also warned about unknown ordnance military supplies that were buried around the island and that we needed to make sure we watched our step. Believe me, this added a whole new level to the hunting experience. Some areas were no-man zones, depicted by signs and flyers that stated so.

OVERALL IT WAS QUITE a time, one that I can mark off my list as another unique experience in Alaska. I saw things that boggled my mind, plus we participated in some really great but hard hunting.

I saw active volcanoes and even got to shop at the local store, which, by the way, was the only one and more expensive than you can imagine.

The final footnote was that the week we were to fly out a storm moved in and canceled our flight. Oh well; we got to spend another week on Adak. I wasn’t complaining about being in such a weird and unusual Alaska place. ASJ

“We had a great time hunting Adak Island,” Atkins says, “but the sights and sounds – or lack of it – made it even more special.” (PAUL D. ATKINS) 72

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Editor’s note: Paul Atkins is an outdoor writer and author from Kotzebue, Alaska.

He’s had hundreds of articles published on big game hunting throughout North America and Africa, plus surviving in the Arctic. Paul is a regular contributor to Alaska Sporting Journal.

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HUNTING THE EDGE OF ALASKA

GMU PrOFILE

There aren’t as many game species in Game Management Unit 10, far Southwest Alaska, as elsewhere in the state, but the unit’s Unimak Island is home to some of the biggest bears in the Last Frontier, if not the world. (PAUL D. ATKINS)

Editor’s note: From the Alaska Panhandle to the “top of the world” in Barrow/Utqiagvik, Alaska contains 26 game management units that feature land for hunting and other outdoor activities. Our Arctic adventurer Paul Atkins is breaking down some of the units he’s hunted in the past in this ongoing feature. This issue: GMU 10.

BY PAUL D. ATKINS

G

ame Management Unit 10 comprises Southwest Alaska’s Aleutian and Pribilof Islands, and Unimak Island and all seaward waters and land within 3 miles of their coasts. This is a very unique place – to say the least – and if you’re a visitor hunting there, it’s that much more of an experience.

To want to hunt the islands on that long

“arc” that stretches into the Bering Sea and the Pacific Ocean is quite the undertaking, but one that you won’t soon forget.

The wind-swept mountains, weatherbeaten beaches and active volcanoes are beautiful to see, but the GMU’s history makes the trip worth it. Compared to other units in the state there isn’t as much to hunt, but it can still be grand.

LET’S FIRST START WITH the bears of the

Aleutians. The brown and/or grizzly variety can be found in the northernmost part of the unit, specifically on Unimak Island, which is known for some of the biggest bears in Alaska – and the world, for that matter.

The island’s brown bear population is dense. You can only take one bear every four years and many tags have to be drawn, especially for nonresidents (when the state allows nonresidents to hunt, which is currently prohibited due to COVID-19 pandemic). Unimak is also home to a few outfitters and guides who operate in the area.

Further out in the Aleutians is Adak

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Island, which is well known for its everincreasing caribou population (see story page 55). The Alaska Department of Fish and Game’s 1958 introduction of caribou was meant to provide soldiers stationed there a chance to hunt and emergency meat as needed.

Adak is now a very popular destination for hunters wish to fill their freezers and/or long for an experience like no other. There is no closed season for caribou and no bag limit, except you can only take two bulls in certain areas.

So, if you go, be sure and check the regs.

KEY GMU 10 OPENERS GMU 10 represents much of the fall and winter range of emporer geese, which were recently reopened for limited hunting.

The Aleutians also feature great ptarmigan hunts. (PAUL D. ATKINS)Â

Author Paul Atkins had a memorable caribou hunt on Adak Island. The species was introduced by the state in 1958. (PAUL D. ATKINS) 76

ALASKA SPORTING JOURNAL

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Year-round: Adak Island caribou Aug. 10: Wolf Sept. 1: Wolverine Oct. 1; May 10: Unimak Island fall, spring brown bear Oct. 8: Emperor goose

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WOLVES CAN ROAM PARTS of the Aleutian archipelago as well, and it’s a pretty liberal limit of 10 per hunter. Wolverine can be found too, but only one per hunter.

And if you like hunting birds, you can’t beat the possibilities in GMU 10, especially for ptarmigan, which seem to be everywhere. If you like the feel of

a shotgun, then a trip to the islands just to hunt birds is worth it. When I was on Adak a few years ago to hunt caribou it was great, but the days spent chasing ptarmigan made it even better.

You can also find many sea birds, ducks and waterfowl of various species.

The emperor goose, which has become a trophy target since reopening for hunting in 2017, can be found in certain parts of the unit, but only one may be taken per person annually, and a permit – either through a drawing or registration – is required. Be sure and check the regs.

OVERALL, GMU 10 MIGHT not be for everybody, but if you’re looking for something different in a land that is unique and special, then you should jump on a jet and head as far west and south as you can get in Alaska. You won’t be disappointed hunting this edge of the Last Frontier. ASJ

The unit begins at Unimak Island, just off the end of the Alaska Peninsula, and stretches west through the Aleutian archipelago all the way to Attu Island in the Bering Sea. Next stop: Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula. (ALASKA DEPARTMENT OF FISH AND GAME)

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Editor’s note: For a detailed map and more season dates on GMU 10, go to adfg.alaska .gov and look under the Hunting tab. Follow Paul Atkins on Twitter (@AkTrophyHunter).