Portage Lake

Though not expansive in terms of surface area, Portage Lake is deep enough to submerge an 80-story skyscraper. Fed by Placer River as well as the runoff and calving of Portage Glacier, the waters of the Lake are of typical aquamarine color and pretty darn cold, as one can gather from this June 24th photo.
Due to its steady retreat, Portage Glacier is no longer visible from the nearby road. Numerous hiking trails in the area still allow closer inspection.

Combat on the Russian!

Early to mid-June brings the first wave of sockeye, or "red" salmon to the gin-clear waters of the Russian River, located in the heart of the Kenia Peninsula of south-central Alaska. A variety of other creatures are soon to follow, including droves of fishermen from all over Alaska and the world, as well as more than a few hungry bears. More sockeyes are taken on rod and reel here than in any other place in the world. Naturally, yours truly took advantage of a work-sponsored trip to nearby Anchorage, threw on some face paint, and visited the warzone for a couple hours of the famous Combat Fishing.
The photo the right sums up the situation pretty well. A whole lot of screaming reels and happy fisherman existing more-or-less peacefully side-by-side.
As for equipment and technique, this is about as basic as salmon fishing gets. Sockeyes aren't too interested in food at this point, so the normal artistic presentation of carefully crafted and selected flies is not only pointless, it's downright unproductive. Instead, the goal here is to slide a rudimentary bucktail fly across the head and/or mouth of the surging salmon, irritating them into striking. It doesn't matter that most of the salmon refuse to respond to even the most annoying of efforts. With so many fish in the river, the odds are decidedly with the fisherman.
But while hooking a red is easy, landing it is not. Like a drunk guy at a club, a red does not respond well to any efforts that would prevent it from sealing the deal. The initial hookset is usually followed by one of two reactions - either stunning and repeated jumping and flailing, or a series of knuckle-cracking runs directly downstream. Either way, the fight usually devolves into a contest of whose muscles will fail first, the fish or the fisherman's.
In roughly two hours of fishing I hooked about ten fish, landed one (pictured right), and had about as much fun as I've ever had with my clothes on.

Picture of the Week

The upper Chatanika River. Dodge the moose and you're knee-deep in grayling. Nice spot, no one around for miles.

My Next Purchase

Tired of people making fun of my glorified station wagon, the author has decided to stockpile much of the world's remaining gas and bandana supplies, invest in this baby, and get all Mad Max on your asses. I'll be just like Mel Gibson, except without the Jew-hating.

Picture of the Week

Midnight along the Middle Branch of the Chena River.

Local Environmental Attorney Murders Bird

A desolate highway near Fairbanks, June 6.

Area man Michael Routhier, a self-described "environmental" attorney, may soon be forced to take on an additional case - defending none other than himself against allegations of vehicular bird-slaughter. This much is undisputed: on Friday, June, Routhier was operating his Subaru along Chena Hot Springs Road in a scene that locals describe as "stereotypical". Closing in on Mile 30, Routhier spotted a small bird flying across the road in front of his vehicle. "I couldn't stop in time," the hypocrite claimed, "it was either me or the bird." Instead of slowing down, the 27-year old Connecticutian merely deigned to peek into his rear-view mirror and witness a plume of feathers trailing his yuppie-mobile. "It was horrible."
Horrible indeed. Matters escalated when Routhier, fearing the worst, later pulled to the side of the road and investigated the matter further. "Luckily I was on my way to go fishing," he explained cryptically. "I wouldn't have been able to pull that f*cker out of the grill without my forceps."
In lieu of sending breadcrumbs, mourners are encourage to take a shit on Routhier's windshield.

Alyeska

The term "Alyeska," roughly translated from the Aleut for "great country," has various applications in Alaska, a state which owes its name to the word.
But here I am referring to an impressive ski resort located 50 miles to the south of Anchorage in a little town called Girdwood. This area features a decent number of ski cabins of various costs, a small river with halfway decent salmon runs in the summer, and a very posh resort hotel that I could not afford to stay in.
Mount Alyeska, the primary peak developed for skiing, is within the southern portion of the Chugach range. Nestled beside the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet, the views are spectacular. Add that to the 631 inches of annual snowfall and you've got yourself a nice weekend retreat from "big city life."
The format of the mountain is quite different from what I've encountered back East. (Yes, to me, East is capitalized.) Rather than an assembly of roughly parallel trails carving paths along the fall line and through remnants of forests, much of the terrain here is wide open and only sporadically marked. This is particularly true of the upper portion of the mountain, which consists of a wide, above tree-line bowl draining multiple peak areas, which in turn are connected by a long ridge that remains open for skier access.
The price of the skiing seems inversely proportioned to the quality of the skiing. Two days' lift ticket and rentals set me back a total of roughly $75. Price-wise that's similar if not cheaper than Mohawk, Wachusett, and Suicide Six. Except the mountain features twice the verticle, receives about 8 times as much snow, and is congested by half the crowds.
So Alyeska has that going for it, which is nice.

Combat at the dumps

Letter to the Editor

Combat at the dumps

Jim Ahiers, Fairbanks

Published Wednesday, May 28, 2008

May 25, 2008

To the editor:

I’ve been spring cleaning for the last three or four weeks and made quite a few trips to the various transfer sites around town. Every time I pull in, my vehicle is mobbed by people who are picking through the dumpsters that want to see what I’m throwing out. Today, my truck was still in motion when a guy tried to pull out a piece of rusty diamond grate in the bed. I almost ran him over. Last week, a guy fought it out with an old bag lady for a rickety barbecue grill that I pitched. He managed to win the battle and proceeded to load it on a trailer he was towing behind his bike.

It used to be that there were just a few people that were doing this. But nowadays there’s literally dozens of them at every dump. And it’s become a contact sport. Not just among the divers themselves, but for people like me who just want to dump their trash. As entertaining as these bum fights are to watch, I have to draw the line when my kids lock the doors as soon as we pull up. It makes no difference to me if you want to dig through coffee grounds, diapers, cat litter, used syringes and all the other fun things you find in most dumpsters for 80 cents worth of aluminum. Knock yourselves out. But don’t harass me, don’t beat on my windows like you want to wash them for a dollar and don’t step behind me while I’m backing up. There’s plenty of trash to go around, I promise.

Jim Ahiers

Fairbanks

Editor's note: Sorry, Jim. Well worth the scratch marks for this sweet new grill of mine.