Star Queen Memoirs #5: Oh-fer-Six

Weekends, I had off. There wasn’t much purpose in having weekends off, because there wasn’t much to do in Wrangell but fish. And being the only permanent resident of the Star Queen, it could get boring.

Saturday’s I’d polish some brass for a few extra bucks. And they’d usually spare me
some leftover’s. Sundays, I was on my own to entertain and feed myself. What to do, what to do?

I’d go fishing! Pat’s Creek was the only place to go on the island for fly-fishing. Though I didn’t have transportation. Ken was fairly fussy with his stuff and wouldn’t let me take the jetboat. I suppose I don’t blame him. Boats break often. In Alaska, they break even more often. He offered me the skiff and I took him up on it once, but I hated that boat. It wasn’t stable enough for the fjords. A little chop and some wind and the bow would come right around unless you had a forward passenger.

So, I found other transportation. I tried hitchhiking, but soon found the dirt road was barely traveled. Then I noticed a bicycle that was always parked in the same place at the top of the ramp, next to the Harbor Master’s. It was a girl’s three speed. No lock. “Must be a community bike” I figured, so I’d ride it the five or so miles to Pat’s Creek.

It really was a creek, not a small river like Anan Creek. And like nearly all the creeks and rivers in the Passage, it flowed from a lake formed in the crater of the volcanic islands. Wrangell has a couple of them, connected by a creek, then the final run is a mile and a half or two miles to the ocean.

Catching a three to five pound Pink Salmon was challenging on Pat’s creek. Portlander’s can compare it in size to Johnson Creek, but it drops about 400’ in its short journey to the ocean. Its shores are lined with rocks and boulders. Fish would be found in pools, but as soon as you’d hook them, they’d go mad, dragging you through rock-laden runs.

I’d generally catch a number of Pink Salmon and keep a small one for my Sunday dinner. Silvers, however, were another story.

Oh, to see a Silver Salmon—a ten pounder holding in a deep cut, taunting you. Of all the species, Silvers are pound for pound, the greatest fighters. They can make a Steelhead feel gentle. They strike with fury. I spent two fly-rods on Silver’s that shattered them at the base on their initial strike. To catch one on Pat’s Creek—that would be a feat and I was sure I would.

I literally caught tons of Salmon on a fly rod—thousands of pounds. 5lbs. times hundreds. And I think I made seven journeys to Pat’s Creek. Each time I caught Pinks. Nearly each time, I hooked a Silver.

But, at last, on Pat’s creek they beat me. I was oh-fer-six. Maybe another day.