I’d heard about some superb late-season salmon fishing on the Delta Clearwater River years ago, and finally the time came to try it out.

I had been successful moose hunting that year, and Rose said that I couldn’t go caribou hunting or we’d have to buy another freezer (or that I could go, but I couldn’t get one). This left me with some free time when I really wanted to be out, so I decided to try for these fabled salmon.

A quick email to a former Fairbanksan clued me in on where to go on that river, and I set off after a light snow. It’s odd to not have to drive for six to eight hours to get to decent salmon fishing; the Delta Clearwater is just two hours away. I pulled into a camping spot in late afternoon and had a quick chat with someone just leaving to learn the lay of the land. The snowfall had pretty much cleared the place out.

I grabbed my gear and headed to the water. Soon I was out in the river, casting and reeling and hooking into some nice silvers. They are past their prime when they’ve made it up this far, but they are beautiful and still fight like crazy, so it was a riot. These fish were just about ready to spawn, but they still looked good enough to try smoked. So I brought a couple back with me to see what they were like. (They are actually pretty good.) In gutting and rinsing them, I could not believe how cold the water was. They continued to flop like zombies. Somehow that cold gives them extra-long nerve reactions.

The Delta Clearwater is really clear, and you can see the fish that come close (the reddish hue in this shot is one).

My old hip waders were no match for how cold this water was. Even with heavy socks and long underwear, that water was bone-numbingly cold. After just an hour I felt like I was walking on wooden legs and had to carefully make my way back to camp and get warmed up. It was getting dark anyway, so I packed it in for the day. Back at the camper, I hung the fish up and climbed in to make some hot soup. As I sat there eating it awhile later, I about jumped out of my skin when something banged loudly outside the door. When I looked out, I realized that it was the fish, still being zombies. I put them into a cooler and put the cooler up on the roof to stay cool. They continued to bang in there periodically until well into the night. Spooky.

Late-season silver salmon. Zombies headed home.

The next day at dawn I was out on a tranquil piece of the river hauling in fish after fish in a light snow. Hundreds of swans were migrating south, their haunting cries trickling in on the breeze. After awhile my rod and reel weren’t working properly, and it took me a minute to figure out what was wrong: ice had built up in the outermost ferrules, restricting free movement of the line. I had to chip it out occasionally with my bare fingers. Eventually, my tree-stump legs needed a break, but after a warm-up I was out there again until I had to head back. It was a great brief trip, and I was sure I’d be back again.

Later that fall, I found a better pair of waders, what I now call my Magic Boots. They are big and heavy, but I can stand in the Delta Clearwater for more than an hour with no discomfort at all. Well, to my feet. My hands can still get cold, especially when they get wet, which the fish seem to do no matter how careful I am.

Delta Clearwater River

I was down there again just recently. It was a little later than I’d gone before, but the fish were still there in good numbers, and they just couldn’t help themselves in snapping at my lure. I stopped counting after I’d caught 25, and I’d hooked into a lot more that I didn’t bring in. There were probably fifty or more in sight at all times, so it was just a matter of wagging that lure in front of enough of them before one snapped at it. And most put up a heck of a fight. One must have leaped eight or nine times, and another tail-walked in a fury right at me from halfway across the river. When it finally did drop back in I got wet with the splash. Great fun.

When each one that I’d caught got tired, I’d bring it in close and reach down with a pair of needle-nosed pliers to get the hook out. Off it would go to re-join the school. I’m not sure whether the experience taught any lessons or not. There were always plenty to catch.

This year, being later, there were fewer migrating swans. But the last of the open water on lakes and ponds had just frozen up, so the few remaining birds were pushing south and calling softly. People-wise, I had the river to myself. The same iced ferrule problems cropped up again, as usual, but a spare pair of dry gloves prevented my hands from getting too cold. The second day, at dawn, I couldn’t believe that I caught a beauty on my first cast. It was that kind of day. Hauling in fish after fish with the last of the swans calling overhead was a great way to close out the season. Once again, I brought some fish home to have smoked, and enjoying a piece of that on a nice winter’s day brings back fond memories.

Cold, late-season silvers — a few saved to smoke.