Jerry Pippen’s red and white Super Cub’s engine droned along as it bored a hole in its appointed portion of a sunny, Bristol Bay drainage, morning sky. Jerry continually corrected the heading as the little plane bounced along, pushed right and left, up and down by winds and currents. The sun’s rays coming through the side window from the left were beginning to carry warmth. Shaded by the wing, a bunch of fishing rods and reels were tied to the struts, held there by two pieces of bungy cord.
Squinting against the sun, Pippen’s passenger, Evan Swensen, could see they were pretty much following the eastern shore of Lake Iliamna, Alaska’s largest. From the right window Evan could see the western shoreline 30 miles away. He knew Jerry was hugging the shore for safety’s sake. In case of an engine malfunction, Jerry had a beach landing strip over a hundred miles long to set down on. The Cub, equipped with a STOL kit and big tundra tires, in an emergency could have landed in a very short place and on fairly rough terrain.
Flying low enough to spot game and doing it safely is a habit Pippen developed through years of safe bush flying and guiding. Though by habit the craft is held under 1000 feet of altitude, neither pilot nor passenger are looking for bear, moose, or caribou. Their thoughts and eyes are looking ahead. They are searching over the horizon for the yet unseen Alagnak River where they will be searching for a holding hole full of late run kings. In their minds’ eyes they try to visualize, next to the king hole, a sandbar long enough for the Cub to get in and out of safely.
Both men have been over this ground many times and are familiar with each bay and hill. Lost in their own thoughts, they seem to be thinking of the foolishness of their venture. In the busiest time of their summer season they are out playing like a couple of college kids on spring break.
When they first started talking about it, it seemed like a good idea. Now that the moment of truth arrived, the adventure seemed a little frivolous. Fishing on the only day all summer Pippen will have off from guiding fishermen is akin to a sailor on leave going for a boat ride.
Like many quests great or small, this one began with a question. “Do you think anyone has ever taken a grand slam on salmon?” Swensen asked.
“I may have had guests catch all five during their week’s stay at Rainbow Bay. Yes. I believe I have,” Pippen returns.
“No. What I mean is all five in one day.”
There was silence as Jerry mentally calculated Rainbow Bay Resort’s guest list. The lull on the telephone line seemed like an eternity. Finally, after Swensen was beginning to think he may have been cut off, he could hear Jerry call out to someone. “Hey, honey. Have you heard anyone say they caught all five species of salmon in one day?”
Another eternity-length wait. “I don’t remember anyone ever saying they did it. I suppose if they did do it, they’d make some kind of fuss and we’d hear the story at dinner,” came the muffled response.
“Karen says she never heard anyone ever say anything about catching all five salmon in one day,” Jerry repeats for Evan’s benefit.
“Jerry, do you think it’s possible to catch all five in one day.”
Another pause. “Catching a chum, a red, and pink would be easy. There are lots of times when we catch all of them and either kings or silvers, but getting all five in one day could be a chore. I guess,” Jerry thinks out loud, “if you timed it just right, hit the last of the king run and the first silvers, it could be done. Why are you asking?”
“Well, I just never heard of anyone doing it and got to thinking if it was possible or not. You know there’s a sheep grand slam and other big game grand slams, and maybe, if it hasn’t ever been done, we could be the first and I could take pictures and write a story about it.”
“Let me look back on my records and see when is the earliest we start catching silvers and the latest we have ever hooked up with a king. Gimme a few days and I’ll call you back.”
Lake Nonvionic, headwaters of Alagnak River, was straight ahead and in sight. During last evening’s planning and strategy session the two men agreed to try the braids first. Evan remembered Alagnak River’s latest run of kings in Southwest Alaska with the braids providing a lot of holding and nesting areas. From Jerry’s experience of flying over the river, he thought he could find a spot or two to sit down on.
On the first pass over the upper end of the braids Jerry shouted over the engine noise. “There they are!” Against the far shore, below a spot where two branches of the river came together, a deep hole contained about 20 fish.
“Is that bar upstream on the right long enough to get in and out of?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look see.”
Pippen pulled on the carb heat, backed off the throttle, pushed the prop control knob full forward, and raised the nose of the plane. The Cub immediately responded by slowing down. Flaps pulled, the plane slowed again, and the tail came up, lowering the front cowl and giving the pilot a better view out front. Jerry skillfully guided the ship down wind, turned base, and set the glide for a look-see go-around.
“We’ll drag it a few times and give it a real going over.”
After four passes, Swensen leaned forward and asked if Pippen thought it would be all right. “If you don’t feel good about it, let’s look around a little. It isn’t necessary to take the first thing that comes along. In fact, it isn’t necessary to take any chances at all.”
“I think it’ll be okay. A bit brushy, but we can clean it up for takeoff.”
Three days earlier Pippen called Swensen and asked if he was still interested in trying for all five salmon in one day. “By a fluke in scheduling a group of fishermen I’ll have a day with no guests. I got my doubts, but if you’re willing, we can take the Cub and go for it. The toughest will be kings. I just don’t know where to find them for sure. I’ve had reports on some early silvers. Think we can do all right, but I sure make no promises. Wanna give it a try?”
Master bush pilot Pippen picked his spot for touchdown and set the plane up for landing. Tall brush nearly tangled with the rods tied to the Cub’s wings as he pushed the craft between two clumps of alders growing on either side of his chosen mark. The huge tundra tires caught the tops of grass and undergrowth and the bush plane settled onto the improvised landing field. Jerry cut the power, pulled up the flaps, and came down hard on the brakes. The combined maneuver seemed to suck the little ship to earth, immediately stopping it. Pilot and passenger gave each other a thumbs up and began gathering the paraphernalia for their assigned mission.
Their sandbar airport was, in reality, one of the islands forming the Alagnak River braids. Two hundred yards below the island two other branches of the braids joined into a deep water run where the anglers’ target lay. Jerry picked the largest rod from the wing struts, put his prepared tackle box in his vest, and moved toward the river. He wisely chooses to wade the right-hand shallow braid and then followed another bar to the top of what he now called king hole.
Pippen never lacked for words and was an interesting conservationist, but became quiet when excited. The walk and wade to king hole went without words. A grin hid his face as he surveyed the water through Polaroid glasses. “They’re there all right. Now all we got to do is catch one. Fish on!”
“This is our day,” Evan exclaimed as Jerry’s line straightened and his reel sang on the first cast.
“Fish off,” Jerry responded. “It was a jack, a Dolly, or a ‘bow. I didn’t have him long enough to tell.”
Jerry’s pixie was placed on the far side and above the hole. It was allowed to drift near bottom and then retrieved slowly in front of waiting fish. There were a lot of hungry mouths waiting and Jerry got a taker on every cast. “Another rainbow,” Jerry complained. “Where’s the king?” he muttered as he released a 22-inch ‘bow.
“Hey, Jerry. How many clients do you have who’d complain about this kind of rainbow fishing?”
“Another jack,” Jerry answered as his line went tight and moved out of the hole. “It’s not what I’d hoped for, but after all it is a king.”
“Land it and let me get a picture just in case,” Evan returned as he moved forward, camera at the ready. “We can’t spend too much time on one specie, or we’ll run out of daylight.”
After numerous released rainbows and three photographed jacks, the adventurers decided it was time to move to the coast and go for chum and pinks. “I wish we could have gotten one of the bigger ones,” Jerry said. “For the record, we do have a king and I guess we should be happy, but I’d hoped for one a little bigger.”
For the next hour they cut brush and threw rocks, sticks, and logs off their sandbar airport. Jerry was abnormally quiet as he tied surveyor’s tape to the tops of alders along his intended departure path. The bright tape marked the best route for takeoff and would keep the plane away from holes and rocks. “Let’s have lunch before we go. It’ll lighten the load for takeoff,” Jerry joked.
The adventurers consumed in silence the lunch prepared by Karen before the early morning takeoff. Finally, Jerry broke the quiet. “I just know I can catch one of those bigger kings. Wouldn’t it look better in the picture with a big one? Why don’t we take the next hour and give it a try? I have a feeling I’ll hook into one.”
“It’s alright with me. I was hoping for a nice king,” Evan agreed.
“We’ll give it one hour from right now. In one hour, we’ll take off with or without a big one and call one of the smaller jacks our king,” Jerry stated the ground rules for the next 60 minutes.
Back across the shallow side stream and into the hole they went. Evan moved closer to the hole in an effort to keep the best lighting for the expected photo opportunity and Jerry began casting for the big one. After 30 minutes and as many casts, Jerry’s pixie came up empty.
“Looks like the fish went on lunch break and got filled up. I can’t even get a rainbow to rise,” Jerry complained. “Guess we’ll settle for a jack.”
Looking at his watch and the sun, Evan asked, “Do you think we ought to be moving on? We’ve still got four more fish to catch.”
“Three more casts and then we’ll head for the coast and catch a pink and chum. They’ll be eas. . .” Jerry never finished the sentence. His line went tight as his experienced reflexes automatically set the hook on what he instinctively knew was a big fish. “Here’s what we came for!” he shouted excitedly. “All we got to do now is get him in and take his picture.”
Pippen seldom missed with a well-hooked fish and the king’s fight was stalled long enough for a stand-up bow for Evan’s camera. Almost concurrent with the release, Jerry and Evan turned toward the airplane for the flight to the coast.
Jerry’s king rod was tied back on the wing struts, gear was stowed, and pilot and passenger slipped into the plane’s seats. “I’m glad the sun’s behind us,” Jerry told his companion. “It’ll make it easier to see and dodge the rocks and holes.” The prop reflected the sun’s rays as Jerry hit the starter and the engine stirred to life. Even with thousands of hours as pilot in command, Jerry moved down his check list, verifying all components of his little craft were in order for flight. Gas okay. Set the altimeter. Adjust the compass. Do a run-up. First the right mag, then the left. Carb heat okay. Cycle the prop. Oil heat in the green. Cylinder head up to temperature. Adjust the flaps. “Okay. Let’s see if this thing can get us out of here,” Jerry exclaimed as he pushed the throttle to the firewall. The plane was held momentarily in position with the brakes as the RPMs increased. Finally, Jerry released the brakes and the wheels began to turn slowly for a few feet, rapidly increasing as the red and white Cub was drawn down the sandbar by the spinning propeller. Ten miles an hour, then 20, 30, 38. Jerry popped the flaps, wind over the wings created lift, less drag on the tires was exerted by grass, rocks, and brush, and the tiny craft freed itself from gravity’s hold.
“Safe by a mile,” Jerry tossed over his shoulder. “Bring on the pinks and chums.”
Jerry’s intended stopover for two more species was a short stretch of clear, fresh water emptying into lower Cook Inlet. This area, a regular spot with Rainbow Bay pilots and guides, always produced fish in season
and proved to be one of the favorite places for lodge clients. Confirming the direction of the prevailing winds, Jerry turned the Cub for a short downwind, then final, a short rollout landing on the gravel beach, and finally taxied to a stop 20 feet from the fishing hole.
A few miles offshore active volcano, Mt. Augustine, vented white steam into a blue sky. Almost zero wind tickled the tide as waves rolled a few feet up the beach before sliding back to their origin. The sound of fish splashing and swimming was heard. A red fox emerged from the bushes and searched for food. “He’s here almost every time we come over,” Jerry claimed. “He loves fish and sandwiches. Our guests usually share their lunch and leave him one of their catch.”
Evan prepared his camera and Jerry readied his gear. The first cast produced a pink and the second fish toward a grand slam. Evan recorded the event on film. With the release, Jerry moved upriver, hoping for a chum. Several large chum salmon were swimming in a clear pool at the foot of a small waterfall. The fish stopped to rest below the falls prior to making their way up the cascading water into their upper river spawning ground.
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” quipped the confident fisherman as he cast into a group of chum salmon. A fish sighted the lure and attacked. Jerry set the hook, the fish retreated deep into the pool and then charged his captor. The fisherman was unable to keep the line tight and the fish earned its release with three quick airborne jumps before spitting the hook.
Jerry was not discouraged. He quickly cast again, and another chum charged the bait. This time the angler was ready and kept ahead of the struggling salmon on every turn. The fight lasted only long enough to make it interesting and quickly the third member of Pippen’s grand slam was proudly held for the recording eye of Evan’s camera.
“We’ve got three,” Jerry tallied as he tied his rod into place on the wing struts. “I’ve got gas stashed a few miles from here. We’ll stop and gas up and then go up the inlet about a hundred miles for a silver. We can easily get a sockeye back at the lodge and then we’ll have our grand slam.”
Jerry’s face showed concern as he circled his gas cache. “Someone has moved my cans around,” he revealed. On inspection after landing it was discovered the someone was a something. A curious bear had mauled the plastic five-gallon containers. All the cans were empty, leaving the two fishermen with a problem. It was too far to the intended silver hole and back to the lodge for the amount of fuel on board. An alternate plan must be implemented.
“Let’s go to the lodge and catch a sockeye while the boys gas up the plane. We can then go on up the inlet for a silver. It’ll mean coming home in the dark,” Jerry verbalized his intentions as the thoughts entered his mind. “Do you mind flying after dark?”
On the way to Rainbow Bay Evan asked Jerry why a bear would bite a gas can. “I don’t know. Some of these guys get a human smell and equate it with something to eat, I think. Maybe their taking a mad out on something. I just don’t know. On second thought, maybe he was out of gas and needed a fill up,” Jerry joked.
The boys, Jerry’s son and one of the lodge guides, responded to his radio call and were waiting with airplane gas and a four-wheeler. On landing, Jerry and Evan mounted the four-wheeler and headed for a bay on Lake Iliamna. “Gas her up and we’ll be right back,” instructed Jerry. “It won’t take long to land a sockeye.”
Jerry was right. Almost before Evan could get his camera adjusted for the late afternoon sun, Jerry landed and released the fourth specie of his grand slam. “Number four is down. Silver coming up,” he expressed. “With only a few daylight hours left and a long way to go in a slow plane, it’s going to be close. I just hope we can find them on the first try.”
Once airborne, Jerry tuned to one of the communication frequencies on his radio and received a message from one of his pilot friends. The message was encouraging. Silvers had been caught on a river Jerry was unfamiliar with, but could locate with the directions supplied over the radio. The stream was over an hour away, but both fisherman and photographer thought they should try.
Ninety minutes later they were flying over the area. Other aircraft were leaving an abandoned oil exploration airfield. Jerry choose a grassy location closer to the river for his landing. The Cub was perfectly equipped for this type of flying. The excitement both men felt when they landed was short-lived. There was evidence near the water that people had recently caught silvers, but the fish had moved upriver with the tide change. It quickly registered to the grand slam challengers why the other planes were leaving: Fishermen quit fishing when fish move on.
“Timing is everything when fishing,” Jerry tried to cover his disappointment. “Timing is everything,” he repeated, looking at the setting sun and calculating how much daylight was left. “I know one other place not too far from here. It’ll be our last chance. We’d better get going as it’s going to get dark really quick.”
The sun completed its setting at 11:30 as the adventurers settled into the Cub for the short hop to their last hope for a grand slam. It wasn’t completely dark when the red and white airplane turned final approach, nevertheless Jerry turned on the landing lights for safety’s sake. “We’ll have to be really lucky. I hope the fish are here and they will take my lure,” Jerry commented to no one as he hurried toward the hole. “Hope we’re lucky,” thinking out loud as he cast across the hole.
His luck was mixed. The fish were there, and they took his lure; however, he should have added something else to his comment: “I hope I can land one.” Silvers go airborne as soon as they feel the bite of the hook and pressure of line restraining their movement and Jerry’s grand slam silver was no exception. In the failing light, Jerry and Evan saw the tail-dancing silver waltz across the hole.
First it would vault away, leaving water spray as it turned with a flip of its tail and surged again. When that didn’t win its release, it went deep and rushed directly toward its captor. Still, it could not shake the lure or break the line. Twisting and turning, jumping and skipping, diving and tumbling, the fish struggled to free itself. The braver it behaved; the more determined Jerry became.
It appeared that Jerry’s goal would soon be realized, and the fish would be subdued. Evan, outfitting his camera with a flash attachment, anxiously awaited the right moment to snap the photo. In his mind he had even prepared words of congratulation for Jerry.
The fish twisted and became entombed in the line and Jerry slowly inched the concluding element of his quest toward shore. In one movement, he bent and reached for the fish and lifted the rod tip to bring it closer. The fish rolled with the tension on the line, became untangled, and, leaving a spray of mud and water, darted away. Instinctively, Jerry raised his rod tip to reset the pressure. In the darkness, Jerry had not observed his line was caught on the reel handle. As the line tightened, the inevitable occurred, with the line snapping and the fish escaping.
Where victory had been only inches away, Jerry silently stood, stunned by fate’s flustering feat. The fish, as if to add insult to injury, boomeranged and bounced from one side of the hole to the other. Time and time again it stood on its tail and, with the lure still in its mouth, shook its head at the disenchanted Alaskans. Finally, having scolded them into an admission of defeat, it made one final leap and disappeared forever from their sight.
Jerry looked at his watch. In the darkness he couldn’t make out the numbers. Finally, his eyes focused. Four minutes past midnight. Time had run out.
