KENAI -- In her own gentle way, my wife asked if she should expect fish, or at least a fish story, when I returned.
I said that one led to the other.
For my first attempt at dipnetting along the mouth of the Kenai River last weekend, I didn't quite know what to expect.
I have been to the Copper River many times over the years and have memorized the drill -- swirling waters, windblown sand and minutes or hours spent waiting for the pole to try to leap out of your hands.
At Chitina, you may find yourself clinging to a rock wall in search of the elusive salmon. And tying yourself to a tree or a boulder may be all that keeps you from joining Godfather Don Corleone's fictional enforcer, Luca Brasi, who sleeps with the fishes. The boat people have a big advantage over those on the shore as they can get access to the entire channel.
From the banks, you sweep or lift the net only to discover that sometimes you catch a fish and sometimes you catch a rock. It's all timing and mostly luck, which is what separates dipnetting from angling, a sport in which the fisherman believes he is smarter than the fish.
At the risk of pretending to know, I'd venture that Kenai dipnetting requires similar luck and endurance, with different techniques. "We have to leave now," a guy older than me commented on the Kenai shore. "We got our limit, can't catch anymore. Took 24 hours. Sometimes it's a lot faster than this."
I asked a lot of experts for advice. Some said to go before or after low tide. Others said go before or after high tide. The best advice came from a guy who must have studied at the feet of Yogi Berra. He said it's best to go whenever the fish are running.
The most obvious difference from the Copper River is that the Kenai provides easy access, just a trudge from the parking lot to the beach, which is one of the big reasons why tens of thousands of people make the journey in July.
Accompanied by my daughters and their friends, and wearing borrowed chest waders that would have fit better 15 pounds ago, I joined the crowd on a warm afternoon.
I marveled at the dimensions of my borrowed net, an implement capped by a circular aluminum frame big enough for a baby elephant to use as a hula hoop. A pole sufficient for a high-wire acrobat was supposed to extend the reach of the net deeper into the current. The ends of the pole bounced like flapping wings as I approached the water for the first time, trying to maintain my footing under the beast.
I don't know about speaking softly, but carrying a big stick was the order of the day for most dipnetters. Acres of slippery mud lay exposed, littered with dozens of fish heads left behind by dipnetters who opted to clean their catch on the beach at high tide.
Hundreds of people occupied campsites high on the beach, while others sat on red or blue plastic coolers and waited. Looking over the tent city, I could see people tending campfires, cooking, drinking, cleaning fish and staring at the people standing still in the water.
I soon realized that standing still in the water and waiting for a fish to make the biggest mistake of its life takes up almost all of a dipnetter's time when fishing is slow.
For every human, there were five or 10 gulls, all of them squawking at once and jostling for the best spot as they picked at the leftovers exposed by the retreating water.
For some reason, I thought of the gulls later that day when I saw two 4-year-old girls squealing in mock fear as they ran over the sand, chased by a little boy who held a fish head aloft and roared with equal intensity, finally pitching it in their direction but unable to reach them. He retrieved the fish head and the melee continued as before. For those three, the idea of standing still and waiting was not on the agenda.
While other beaches in other lands may host beach blankets, umbrellas and sunbathers on summer days, this one featured people dressed for battle. The accouterments ranged from homemade contraptions to items newly purchased from an Anchorage sports emporium.
In addition to the fishing license, permit and pole, you must be equipped with a sense of how far is too far when you venture into the water. Height is a big issue, with tall people having an easier time.
Tall or small, some dipnetters moved to within a few inches of the tops of their chest waders, which is asking for trouble. With an unexpected wave, the barrier may be breached, leading the occupant to take on water.
The fishing was slow enough to allow for plenty of good-natured advice from fellow net minders about what to do if and when a fish arrived. Instead of just pulling the net in case of a strike, they told me to flip it over in hopes of keeping the fish from escaping.
I waited an hour or so, enjoying the sight of snow-covered Mount Redoubt 50 miles away across Cook Inlet, the smell of the salt water and the ocean breeze. When I felt a fish strike the net, I turned it as instructed and held it on the bottom, walking backward toward the shore.
This worked well for most of the way. I stayed upright for 30 yards or more before my foot struck a rock in 2 1/2 feet of water. I stayed under for only about a second, long enough for a cold bath. I didn't need another cup of coffee to feel wide awake. But the important thing is that I maintained a death grip on the pole.
I dragged it the rest of the way to the water's edge, enough for a fish and a fish story.
The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints.
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