Saltery Lodge is where Alaska Deluxe, Calendar Scenery,
Salmon, Halibut, Crab & Shrimp Collide At The…
Big Red X
This article first appeared in Pacific Coast Sport Fishing magazine Nov. 2010
By Terry W. Sheely
In the distance, up Behm Canal where another squall is throwing out curtains of rain and wrapping steep mountains in shifting sheets of gray, a staggering 2.1 million chinook, coho and chum salmon have stormed into a quiet little bay fed by a twisted creek and the mother of all Southeast Alaska salmon hatcheries.
I’m chewing on the salmon opportunities that those runs present, thinking of the six bright coho that cartwheeled into my limit the day before, wondering if the crab pots have collected dinner, wishing I had time to photograph the black bears feeding on creek pinks, when my halibut rod dips. And then dips again.
Two-hundred and sixteen feet down, on the lip of a drop into 300 feet of water, a fat-lipped halibut is nosing the options on the two-hook menu; pearly white salmon bellies laced on top, succulent squid and octopus tentacles below. Buried into the entrees are 16/0 circle hooks. This could be the last good fish of a good trip—if it bites.
I’m fishing in the mist, listening to eagle chimes, enjoying flat water with Joe Paul, general manger of Saltery Lodge, veteran fresh and saltwater Alaska guide, and Kurt Kamholz—Wyoming bowhunter, Colorado elk guide, lodge fix-it staff and saltwater neophyte. It’s our third day of chasing bright red Xs across the screen of the Raymarine E120. This X marks a halibut flat, painted on the E120 screen when somebody who I will never know clobbered halibut there and Joe pushed the button.
Kurt’s rod takes a bounce, another and then quits. “My” hallie is moving, checking the options. I lift the 12-ounce ball weight and drop it. Pounding the bottom. Two, three, four solid thuds to call my halibut back.
We’re based at Saltery Lodge, two years into the upscale fish camp business, 25 lonesome miles northwest of Ketchikan. Built by Scott and Angela Kemp originally as a vacation retreat, the three-story, 4,500-square foot “retreat” has been converted into a luxury lodge with a homegrown attitude, 59 windows, 12-foot ceiling in a Great Room where leather chairs are draped with tanned caribou pelts, a fireplace warms the floor, two big screens fill with ball games, a Swarovski spotting scope watches for whales and bears in Naha Bay, and the painted end-of-the dock houses in Loring provide a calendar-photo backdrop. In June the hummingbirds, dozens, will sip nectar spilled into the palm of your hand. I saw the photos.
From the cherry-wood dinner table I watch a black bear hunt for salmon in a green salt marsh trimmed with yellow kelp, a flock of green-wing teal, seals and quarrels of gulls. Bill Jung, chef, builds dinners that deserve the gourmet appliances, five sinks and four-door ‘fridge, and desserts that deserve applause. The guests list is always small—6 to 8, and this week, the last week of the 2010 season, it’s just me.
And I’m being spoiled rotten.
It’s almost too much, if it weren’t for the outdoor touches, native artwork, scrimshaw mastodon tusks, carved otters, suspended float plane, bowls of iced crab, good wines, orange Grunden rain gear from the hardware store and black Muck boots in the hallway. But I find that I get used to “deluxe” very quickly. I’m even more surprised to find that I’m adjusting to Karen. Karen is a computerized voice who speaks softly but authoritively from the ceiling, assuring us the lodge is in good working operation. More than six miles of low voltage wires support computerized functions. Scott is a software guy, Ketchikan raised, California worked, and it shows. Karen turns on the hall lights when I walk to my room, adjusts the heat, dials in the timers, checks the generator, the batteries, and I suspect, if I asked, would tell me good night. Scott assures me, she responds to voice commands.
But I doubt if there is anything Karen could do to control the finicky halibut sniffing my salmon belly-squid-octopus cocktail. I get another jiggle, or maybe I imagined it. I take a good two-hand grip on the rod, Lamiglas 6-foot BFC6080, carrying a Shimano Tekota 7000 reel. That should be enough halibut stick even in Alaska.
Come on fish! Eat. The lodge backs onto 62 acres of an 1885 salmon cannery, sprawling red buildings, hundreds of workers, equipment, oiled wharves that bunked four-masted schooners. Today the cannery is disappearing back into the forest.
A lush carpet of moss spreads between towering conifers, a carpet with quivers of fern plants and giant skunk cabbage leaves that hide artifacts from the 19th century; clay pots, rusted stoves, tools, cans, shoes and who knows what else. Deep in the cathedral of towering hemlocks and cedars and spruce Joe shows me a cemetery with tall grass, leaning headstones and telling epitaphs. It’s about all that remains of the cannery operaton.
Above a 40-foot waterfall further into the wood, past the cemetery, Tongass National Forest climbs into the mountains where one morning, before we leave to fish, I hear a wolf howl.
I fished my first Red X the first morning, a salmon morning.
We left the Saltery dock at 7, after breakfast, with Joe pushing 35-feet and 700 horsepower of the Linnaea toward a series of red Xs in Vallenar Bay. The Linnaea is a custom production of Coldwater Boats, sports twin 350 hp outboards, cruises at 30-40 mph, has a 9-foot beam that softens wave slap, an enclosed cabin, air ride seats, spacious head, generous heater, Bose music system, and enough open fishing deck to handle rods, sling nets and flop fish.
Water temperature is 51.6 F, slight chop, electric downriggers, bent rods, and two red Xs showing on the screen. Both rods are fishing 46’ deep for September silvers, both trolling herring, one plug cut behind a green Kone Zone flasher, the other rigged whole with a Hot Spot flasher and four feet of leader. “Been funny lately,” Joe says, “one day they want a plug cut the next whole herring. Really funny. Not feeding up hard. Lots of tail pulls.”
I get one tail pull, a little wind burn, there’s no bait showing on the sounder and we change locations.
The west side of Grant Island in Behm Canal is friendlier, more protected, and shows bait balls. Early on I get the hoo-doo off the boat with a 9½-pound hen bright as Buick chrome and carrying sea lice. The screen is painted with red Xs. “I like this spot,” Joe says. Apparently so do the silvers.
Morning drizzle is letting up, and there’s actually some squint in the sky. The Kone Zone green rod goes down, pops and I’m into a fish. Then two more silvers, all on the dragless Kone Zone and plug cut., Joe switches both rods over. The silvers are concentrated in a small zone, about the size of an NFL red zone except this times it’s a red X and green Kone Zone.
My six coho limit is topped by a hooknose pushing 15 pounds that fought like its life depended on it. Which it did. We fish till 5 when the bite stalls then head in for a swirl of cabernet, grilled New York steaks, frizzled onions, bordelaise sauce, carrots glazed with tarragon, that started with cheese and ale soup. I barely had room for pecan pie with Kalula and cream.
I’m really adjusting to “deluxe.”
A fat black bear (there are no grizzlies on this island) makes an evening appearance pushing through the tall marsh grass to the pink salmon stream. White gulls erupt in a single flock and flash across the black timber like parade confetti. Two eagles are squabbling over something on the beach until one picks up the fish and lopes past the dinning room window.
Scott offers both guided and unguided trips from Saltery Lodge. Guided anglers fish either with Joe on the Linnaea or the 40-foot Sarana, a catamaran with 1000 hp, walk around deck, cabin with seating for 10 that can fish 18 but never does. Unguided anglers are given a 20-foot aluminum boat with a covered top, fully equipped with downriggers, depth sounders, GPS and tackle, and an outboard that will run forever at 30 mph.
Several freshwater streams purl into the Saltery’s fishing area, offering a diversion from the saltwater for river trout, steelhead and salmon. The second day Joe and I set crab pots in a bay just off a Forest Service rental cabin in Behm Canal, then ran the Linnaea to a forest service dock near the mouth of Margret Creek, hiked upstream past a bear viewing platform and fly fished for cutthroat. The river was literally crammed with pinks and chum salmon, too many to get a fly past in hopes of finding a cutthroat. After a couple of spooky salmon tussles with a tiny 3 weight trout rod, we gave it up, turn it back over to the black bears who made the round tunnels in the underbrush, and left us fish parts on moss-crusted logs.
The lodge river, Naha River, is a few hundred yards from Saltery, offers steelhead in the spring, trout in the summer and salmon in the late season. It’s off-limits to guided fishing, but is an ace for anglers willing to go it alone. Joe and I polish off the day jigging for rockfish in Neets Bay. With salmon, mostly late pinks, torpedoing out of the water around us, we catch rockfish on jigs and plastic worms, from rock piles in placid water. The evening’s best is a bulging eyed yelloweye, a brilliant orange rockfish that made a day already packed with crab pots, a good hike, fly fishing and bear watching.
The wind crashed and blew itself out during the night. The morning was mist and calm and Joe, Kurt and I run for halibut.
Joe tells me that the lodge recommends fishing in July, August and September; months with the best combination of salmon, halibut fishing and weather.
Salmon come through all season long and beyond, thanks to a large population of feeding wild fish, and the enhancement from the Neets Bay hatchery, flagship hatchery of the Southern Southeast Regional Aquaculture Association which operates several enhancement operations in Southeast. The hatchery dumps millions of smolts into area waters for commercial and sport fishing.
In 2010, hatchery mangers expected to see an adult return to Neets Bay of 2 million plus chums, 23,000 chinook the majority being the 20-30 pound five year olds, and 165,000 coho. Neets Bay can produce an annual return of more than 500,000 adult coho, though most often the return is between 200,000 and 300,000 adult spawners, according to hatchery managers. Roughly half of the coho are caught by the commercial troll fleet near Sitka, but that still leaves an enormous bunch of salmon to squeeze past Saltery Lodge.
Joe just grins.
This time when my rod goes down it doesn’t dip, it plunges. Reel to the rail, tip toward the salt. I slam back, the circle hook slides home and line jumps off the spool in lurches and spurts, 10 feet, 10 yards, 20 yards, then it stops and I crank. Halfway up it heads back down. Fast. Line screeches off the spool and disappears into the green water. The hallie is skimming and flopping along the bottom and taking line.
I crank and bow, crank and bow, get its head pointed up and plane it toward the surface. It’s a strong fish, tough fighter that comes to the boat in fits and snits, but finally Kurt shouts “color,” and Joe shouts for the harpoon and two gaffs.
The spear flies through the gills and the flatty rockets across the surface like a dolphin in hyper gear. Joe brings it back, secures the rope, the gaffs slam home and 85-pounds of halibut comes over the railing and slide across the deck.
My arm aches.
I grin. Put a Red X on the E120.
I’ve got a fish story for Karen.
For more information on Saltery Lodge and the Loring area:
Contact, Joe Paul, General Manager
PO Box 638, Ward Cove, AK 99928
www.salterylodge.com
Phone 877-253-9258 ext 301 or
email: [email protected]
By Terry W. Sheely
In the distance, up Behm Canal where another squall is throwing out curtains of rain and wrapping steep mountains in shifting sheets of gray, a staggering 2.1 million chinook, coho and chum salmon have stormed into a quiet little bay fed by a twisted creek and the mother of all Southeast Alaska salmon hatcheries.
I’m chewing on the salmon opportunities that those runs present, thinking of the six bright coho that cartwheeled into my limit the day before, wondering if the crab pots have collected dinner, wishing I had time to photograph the black bears feeding on creek pinks, when my halibut rod dips. And then dips again.
Two-hundred and sixteen feet down, on the lip of a drop into 300 feet of water, a fat-lipped halibut is nosing the options on the two-hook menu; pearly white salmon bellies laced on top, succulent squid and octopus tentacles below. Buried into the entrees are 16/0 circle hooks. This could be the last good fish of a good trip—if it bites.
I’m fishing in the mist, listening to eagle chimes, enjoying flat water with Joe Paul, general manger of Saltery Lodge, veteran fresh and saltwater Alaska guide, and Kurt Kamholz—Wyoming bowhunter, Colorado elk guide, lodge fix-it staff and saltwater neophyte. It’s our third day of chasing bright red Xs across the screen of the Raymarine E120. This X marks a halibut flat, painted on the E120 screen when somebody who I will never know clobbered halibut there and Joe pushed the button.
Kurt’s rod takes a bounce, another and then quits. “My” hallie is moving, checking the options. I lift the 12-ounce ball weight and drop it. Pounding the bottom. Two, three, four solid thuds to call my halibut back.
We’re based at Saltery Lodge, two years into the upscale fish camp business, 25 lonesome miles northwest of Ketchikan. Built by Scott and Angela Kemp originally as a vacation retreat, the three-story, 4,500-square foot “retreat” has been converted into a luxury lodge with a homegrown attitude, 59 windows, 12-foot ceiling in a Great Room where leather chairs are draped with tanned caribou pelts, a fireplace warms the floor, two big screens fill with ball games, a Swarovski spotting scope watches for whales and bears in Naha Bay, and the painted end-of-the dock houses in Loring provide a calendar-photo backdrop. In June the hummingbirds, dozens, will sip nectar spilled into the palm of your hand. I saw the photos.
From the cherry-wood dinner table I watch a black bear hunt for salmon in a green salt marsh trimmed with yellow kelp, a flock of green-wing teal, seals and quarrels of gulls. Bill Jung, chef, builds dinners that deserve the gourmet appliances, five sinks and four-door ‘fridge, and desserts that deserve applause. The guests list is always small—6 to 8, and this week, the last week of the 2010 season, it’s just me.
And I’m being spoiled rotten.
It’s almost too much, if it weren’t for the outdoor touches, native artwork, scrimshaw mastodon tusks, carved otters, suspended float plane, bowls of iced crab, good wines, orange Grunden rain gear from the hardware store and black Muck boots in the hallway. But I find that I get used to “deluxe” very quickly. I’m even more surprised to find that I’m adjusting to Karen. Karen is a computerized voice who speaks softly but authoritively from the ceiling, assuring us the lodge is in good working operation. More than six miles of low voltage wires support computerized functions. Scott is a software guy, Ketchikan raised, California worked, and it shows. Karen turns on the hall lights when I walk to my room, adjusts the heat, dials in the timers, checks the generator, the batteries, and I suspect, if I asked, would tell me good night. Scott assures me, she responds to voice commands.
But I doubt if there is anything Karen could do to control the finicky halibut sniffing my salmon belly-squid-octopus cocktail. I get another jiggle, or maybe I imagined it. I take a good two-hand grip on the rod, Lamiglas 6-foot BFC6080, carrying a Shimano Tekota 7000 reel. That should be enough halibut stick even in Alaska.
Come on fish! Eat. The lodge backs onto 62 acres of an 1885 salmon cannery, sprawling red buildings, hundreds of workers, equipment, oiled wharves that bunked four-masted schooners. Today the cannery is disappearing back into the forest.
A lush carpet of moss spreads between towering conifers, a carpet with quivers of fern plants and giant skunk cabbage leaves that hide artifacts from the 19th century; clay pots, rusted stoves, tools, cans, shoes and who knows what else. Deep in the cathedral of towering hemlocks and cedars and spruce Joe shows me a cemetery with tall grass, leaning headstones and telling epitaphs. It’s about all that remains of the cannery operaton.
Above a 40-foot waterfall further into the wood, past the cemetery, Tongass National Forest climbs into the mountains where one morning, before we leave to fish, I hear a wolf howl.
I fished my first Red X the first morning, a salmon morning.
We left the Saltery dock at 7, after breakfast, with Joe pushing 35-feet and 700 horsepower of the Linnaea toward a series of red Xs in Vallenar Bay. The Linnaea is a custom production of Coldwater Boats, sports twin 350 hp outboards, cruises at 30-40 mph, has a 9-foot beam that softens wave slap, an enclosed cabin, air ride seats, spacious head, generous heater, Bose music system, and enough open fishing deck to handle rods, sling nets and flop fish.
Water temperature is 51.6 F, slight chop, electric downriggers, bent rods, and two red Xs showing on the screen. Both rods are fishing 46’ deep for September silvers, both trolling herring, one plug cut behind a green Kone Zone flasher, the other rigged whole with a Hot Spot flasher and four feet of leader. “Been funny lately,” Joe says, “one day they want a plug cut the next whole herring. Really funny. Not feeding up hard. Lots of tail pulls.”
I get one tail pull, a little wind burn, there’s no bait showing on the sounder and we change locations.
The west side of Grant Island in Behm Canal is friendlier, more protected, and shows bait balls. Early on I get the hoo-doo off the boat with a 9½-pound hen bright as Buick chrome and carrying sea lice. The screen is painted with red Xs. “I like this spot,” Joe says. Apparently so do the silvers.
Morning drizzle is letting up, and there’s actually some squint in the sky. The Kone Zone green rod goes down, pops and I’m into a fish. Then two more silvers, all on the dragless Kone Zone and plug cut., Joe switches both rods over. The silvers are concentrated in a small zone, about the size of an NFL red zone except this times it’s a red X and green Kone Zone.
My six coho limit is topped by a hooknose pushing 15 pounds that fought like its life depended on it. Which it did. We fish till 5 when the bite stalls then head in for a swirl of cabernet, grilled New York steaks, frizzled onions, bordelaise sauce, carrots glazed with tarragon, that started with cheese and ale soup. I barely had room for pecan pie with Kalula and cream.
I’m really adjusting to “deluxe.”
A fat black bear (there are no grizzlies on this island) makes an evening appearance pushing through the tall marsh grass to the pink salmon stream. White gulls erupt in a single flock and flash across the black timber like parade confetti. Two eagles are squabbling over something on the beach until one picks up the fish and lopes past the dinning room window.
Scott offers both guided and unguided trips from Saltery Lodge. Guided anglers fish either with Joe on the Linnaea or the 40-foot Sarana, a catamaran with 1000 hp, walk around deck, cabin with seating for 10 that can fish 18 but never does. Unguided anglers are given a 20-foot aluminum boat with a covered top, fully equipped with downriggers, depth sounders, GPS and tackle, and an outboard that will run forever at 30 mph.
Several freshwater streams purl into the Saltery’s fishing area, offering a diversion from the saltwater for river trout, steelhead and salmon. The second day Joe and I set crab pots in a bay just off a Forest Service rental cabin in Behm Canal, then ran the Linnaea to a forest service dock near the mouth of Margret Creek, hiked upstream past a bear viewing platform and fly fished for cutthroat. The river was literally crammed with pinks and chum salmon, too many to get a fly past in hopes of finding a cutthroat. After a couple of spooky salmon tussles with a tiny 3 weight trout rod, we gave it up, turn it back over to the black bears who made the round tunnels in the underbrush, and left us fish parts on moss-crusted logs.
The lodge river, Naha River, is a few hundred yards from Saltery, offers steelhead in the spring, trout in the summer and salmon in the late season. It’s off-limits to guided fishing, but is an ace for anglers willing to go it alone. Joe and I polish off the day jigging for rockfish in Neets Bay. With salmon, mostly late pinks, torpedoing out of the water around us, we catch rockfish on jigs and plastic worms, from rock piles in placid water. The evening’s best is a bulging eyed yelloweye, a brilliant orange rockfish that made a day already packed with crab pots, a good hike, fly fishing and bear watching.
The wind crashed and blew itself out during the night. The morning was mist and calm and Joe, Kurt and I run for halibut.
Joe tells me that the lodge recommends fishing in July, August and September; months with the best combination of salmon, halibut fishing and weather.
Salmon come through all season long and beyond, thanks to a large population of feeding wild fish, and the enhancement from the Neets Bay hatchery, flagship hatchery of the Southern Southeast Regional Aquaculture Association which operates several enhancement operations in Southeast. The hatchery dumps millions of smolts into area waters for commercial and sport fishing.
In 2010, hatchery mangers expected to see an adult return to Neets Bay of 2 million plus chums, 23,000 chinook the majority being the 20-30 pound five year olds, and 165,000 coho. Neets Bay can produce an annual return of more than 500,000 adult coho, though most often the return is between 200,000 and 300,000 adult spawners, according to hatchery managers. Roughly half of the coho are caught by the commercial troll fleet near Sitka, but that still leaves an enormous bunch of salmon to squeeze past Saltery Lodge.
Joe just grins.
This time when my rod goes down it doesn’t dip, it plunges. Reel to the rail, tip toward the salt. I slam back, the circle hook slides home and line jumps off the spool in lurches and spurts, 10 feet, 10 yards, 20 yards, then it stops and I crank. Halfway up it heads back down. Fast. Line screeches off the spool and disappears into the green water. The hallie is skimming and flopping along the bottom and taking line.
I crank and bow, crank and bow, get its head pointed up and plane it toward the surface. It’s a strong fish, tough fighter that comes to the boat in fits and snits, but finally Kurt shouts “color,” and Joe shouts for the harpoon and two gaffs.
The spear flies through the gills and the flatty rockets across the surface like a dolphin in hyper gear. Joe brings it back, secures the rope, the gaffs slam home and 85-pounds of halibut comes over the railing and slide across the deck.
My arm aches.
I grin. Put a Red X on the E120.
I’ve got a fish story for Karen.
For more information on Saltery Lodge and the Loring area:
Contact, Joe Paul, General Manager
PO Box 638, Ward Cove, AK 99928
www.salterylodge.com
Phone 877-253-9258 ext 301 or
email: [email protected]
