The text came from my fish-crazed, Alaskan brother-in-law Nino just two days before I was leaving on a nine-day float trip down Alaska’s Lake Creek. At its core: What to bring on one of the fishiest rivers in the Last Frontier.

“… I have a Sage Z-Axis 8-Wt. for u and a reel and box with silver flies and beads… orangish for behind silvers (silver or reddish color, black tails), whitish for behind chums (whitish/calico colored ). I also have some strike indicators. Pick up a 9’, 2X leader for silvers, a 9’ 3X for trout, and spool of 2X and 3X tippet. Also get size 6 egg hooks and peggitz for pegging bead 1 inch above your hook. And bag of 3/0 and BB size split shot. For silvers fish down and across and strip. Fish for trout nymphing style with indicator, split shot, pegged bead. Text if you have ?s.”

Questions? Well, I think that about covers it. At least for the fishing part. The rest of the trip—eight days of remote whitewater with a bunch of yahoos from the Northwest—I’m not so sure about.

Armed with this info, I fly up to Anchorage, drink homebrew out of Nino’s tap, (complete with a rod butt handle) and meet my group at the Lake Hood airport. Our floatplane, a DeHaveilland Beaver, is known for its cargo capacity, which is good, given our crew’s propensity for gear. There are 14 of us, all solo paddling a mix of Aire Lynx and NRS inflatable kayaks so we can carry it all. It’s a formula they’ve perfected over 15 years of similar trips in Alaska. 

We’re an eclectic group, from two-time Super Bowl winner Kevin Gogan and retired cop Gary Kinner to ringleader and retired dam operator Jon Corriveau. The last time I joined them was on a 12-day trip down the Alsek River, complete with a helicopter portage over Class V Turnback Canyon. This one will be markedly fishier. For all our quirks, it’s a die-hard group; three of our members have summited Denali, with Corvo once holding the record as the youngest person to summit it at age 16.

This time we’ll float Lake Creek for 54 miles from Chelatna Lake to its confluence with the Yentna River south of Denali. While it still packs a whitewater punch, which keeps many fisherfolk away, it runs swift and clear, making it known for its salmon runs. Kings, reds, pinks, chum and silvers all spawn here, with rainbows, grayling and dolly’s following (hence the egg patterns). Its clarity comes from seven-mile-long, 900-foot-deep Chelatna Lake. Fed by glacial rivers from the north, the silt settles out by the time the water reaches the outlet, making the river run cold and clear.

Four floatplane shuttles later, we set up camp on the lake in the rain. Then we head out, bumbling, beading and boating our way downriver. A mile into the current, we stop at a pool below a cobble bar and are officially in salmon and egg-slurping rainbow country. My first fish is a 16-inch ‘bow, kicking off my list of Things I Learned on Alaska’s Lake Creek.

You Don’t Come All This Way to Be in a Hurry
This was our mantra, explaining our leisurely starts and pit stops to wet a line. In all, we’d take eight days to float its 54 miles, averaging about 7.5 miles per day. And why would you hurry when the fishing is so good and scenery so spectacular? I realized this when, roll casting on day two, I saw Denali rising behind me, white-capped, white-flanked and white-everythinged. And then a grayling hit. Why on earth would you be in a hurry here?

You’ll Catch a Lot of Fish…on Everything
Dave Slover, one of our ringleaders and owner of Oregon’s Alder Creek Canoe and Kayak, does the math around the campfire: “Let’s see, 14 people, catching eight per day, so, carry the one, that’s 112 fish per day, times eight days equals, let’s see, 896 total fish we’re in for…not bad.” He did this after day one but felt licensed to extrapolate. There’s reason the river is so fishy. Its clear, cold water draws salmon in droves, with the kings coming in early June; reds, pinks and chums in July; and cohos in August. Tagging along are rainbow, grayling, dolly varden and even burbot. Even fishing-challenged Corvo caught a rainbow on his first cast.

It’s silvers, of course, that most people were after, especially the “chromers.” Slover pulled in the first one on day three, followed by Towner, the first to get one on a fly. I was equally happy with rainbows, which stayed lively on the line thanks to being jacked-up on fatty salmon eggs. On day three I switched from beads to a green streamer, continuing to look like I was actually good at it. Then, with encouragement from Peter, who landed “10 or so” on it, I switched to a dry, drifting it along a cobble bar. I was just about to switch when I hooked a grayling. Then a 20-inch rainbow in a more tenacious strike.

At lunch I caught three more on the same dry—right in front of the group. Over tequila and other drinks that night, everyone shared their day’s tales using rigs as varied as our libations.

Embrace the Bead
I don’t fish egg patterns much in Colorado. But per Nino, I used the set-up the first three days, catching dollies, grayling, rainbow and a humpy all on the same one—unheard of for a neophyte nympher like me. I only switched to a dry and streamer later for a change of pace and was reluctant even then. Cementing the set-up: day six camp alongside Yenlo Creek, roll casting the stream’s seam. Each cast led to a grayling or rainbow hit. While I missed about half, a better angler would’ve batted a thousand. Later, I hiked up the side creek, one eye on my bobber and one out for bears, catching even more. “That’s the type of fishing people dream about,” summed up Peter back at camp.

You’ll Get Used to the Smell
Not of yourself, but of dead fish. I realized this on evening three in my tent along a side creek. I had noticed it before at lunch, but now it had invaded my sleeping quarters. Dead salmon piled up everywhere like virus victims in Stephen King’s The Stand, primarily humpies and reds. But they were in various stages of decomposition everywhere, washed up like flotsam every way imaginable—on shore, pinned on logs and wedged into rocks. On some beaches, I pulled my boat up onto a welcome mat of them, splayed out like a carpet.

It’s Easier to Keep Things Dry Than to Dry Them Out
My Northwest-seasoned friend Charlie offered this advice during a rainstorm at the put-in. It requires always being on your game, making sure no loose clothing gets left outside your tent, your rainfly is closed, and everything is under your vestibule or in a drybag. If you drape things over branches to dry, you’d better retrieve them. Our massive MSR tarp was also a lifesaver. It kept all 14 of us dry, including the cook crew. Behind them, we’d play poker, guitar and read the cartoons (honestly) in the old Playboys someone brought along. We’d position pots below the tarp lines to catch water. I fared well for a Cheechako, save for my right sock, which got wet from a leak in my drysuit. I’d store it in my tent pocket every night, but Charlie’s words rang true; it never quite dried out.

Know Your Camp from Your Home
These were the names of the side creeks we camped at nights two and three. Wait, we’re camping at Home? Home is where Camp is? Both were on river right and looked remarkably similar. None of the camps here are named so we just winged it, shooting for side creeks because they have the best cobble bars and fishing. Another adage: He Who Fishes Longest Gets the Worst Campsite. This often happened to me as I’d be floating behind everyone fishing, only to arrive at camp after all the good spots were taken. But are you really going to rush fishing so you can have the Marriot?

Membership Has Its Privileges
We coined it the “Silver Club” our third night as hecklers in camp chairs commented on everyone trying to join the prestigious group. Where I was happy catching anything—grayling, rainbows, dollies, my pant leg—the good fishermen like Towner, a guide in Oregon, were after silvers. One by one we’d cast into the slack water and either get heckled or welcomed to the club. Fueled by merlot, the heckling escalated with every missed strike or lost fish. I finally got one on Nino’s streamer, joining the coveted FRSC (Fly Rod Silver Club). Later, we dubbed a shallow riffle leading to a deep, green pool along a cliff the “Silver Hilton.”

In the morning, Gogan kicked off the king club. Tailhooked, sure, but befitting of someone once gracing the cover of Sport’s Illustrated with the headline: “The NFL’s Dirtiest Player.” And none of us were about to heckle him. His king put our salmon species at four out of five, with only chum missing, which is what most opposing linemen looked like after Gogan got done with them.

Rig to Flip
Not for the whole trip, but at least for the Canyon, two-thirds of the way down. In his guidebook “Fast & Cold,” the late Andrew Embick sums up Lake Creek this way: “Because it’s boulder-filled and technical, many potential floaters must steer clear of it, go with a guide, or else come to grief.” Don’t come here unless you know how to run whitewater. In its 54 miles, you’ll drop 1,300 feet, for an average gradient of 24 feet per mile (the Grand Canyon drops eight feet per mile). And it’s filled will “glacial erratics,” giant, car-sized boulders who hitched rides to their current resting places on glaciers.

So that means rapids, from Class II rock-dodging to horizon-lined Class IIIs and one Class IV. And it’s a remote place to get into trouble and lose gear. At first, when scouting downstream, I’d confuse the roostertails from wriggling salmon with the tops of oncoming waves. Eventually, I learned to tell the difference. The Canyon—containing Class IV “The Drop,” both of which, arguably, could have been more creatively named—is the main reason for Embick’s quote, and we broke our rods down before running it. I ran sweep, largely because I was lagging behind fishing.

Rigging…It’s What’s for Breakfast
Whether it’s your fly rod or boat, you’ll be rigging every morning. Get used to it. Sure, you’ll sip a cup of coffee and take in the river mist before kicking into gear. But then it starts, breaking down camp and readying your craft and rod. If you’re in IKs like we were, you’ll devise a system for group and personal gear: stove and grill in back, topped by a drybag and soft cooler; and food bag, roll tables and more drybags up front, with tackle bag, day bag and rod close at hand. Still, you’ll never get it the exact same way twice. Note: Get your coffee first. One morning, I rigged-up Towner’s rod by mistake.

Fishing Ups the Difficulty
If you’re in IKs, wetting a line ups the ante, turning Class IIs into IIIs from managing your rod, line, paddle, boat and dignity all at the same time. The problem is keeping your eye on your fly while avoiding obstacles downstream—especially since your boat spins with every cast. Landing a fish is even harder, stroking to miss a rock with one hand while holding your rod with the other.

My system: Stash the rod along my left leg, extending a couple feet off the back. Fishable stretch coming? Wedge my paddle blade between roll table and tube on the right, grab my rod and cast. Then dodge obstacles with a one-handed stroke. Fish on? Get it on the reel, move my sunglasses behind my neck, land it, grab the hemostats, release it, and look downstream to avoid something else. Fishing with dries, I found, works best—streamers and beads have too many moving parts.

It’s Alaska, So Deal
Alaska is like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates. Unknowns include weather, river flows, bugs, whitewater, campsites and more. So, deal. Fortunately, we nailed those categories well. We had two days of rain at the beginning, which kicked us into gear, followed by six days without. Our flow was maybe 1,200 cfs, the low side of medium and well within the recommended 600 to 2,000 level. The bugs didn’t show until our last camp once the river flattened out, where we finally broke out the head nets (Menefee, unfortunately, unveiled a full mesh body suit, wearing only boxers underneath).

It’s Bookended by Fishing Lodges
You know a river is going to be good when it’s bookended by fishing lodges. We started by Chelatna Lake Lodge, owned by Matt Berke, who bought it from his parents in 2016 after they founded it in 1988. It draws an upscale crowd, with Philip Rivers and Hilary Swank staying there this season, but it’s for core fisherfolk also. Some of our crew joined a guided trip our first afternoon just down from the lake, catching “about 30 rainbows” at a hole dubbed “the General.”

We ended at Lake Creek Lodge on the Yentna, owned by Forks, Washington’s Jeff Woodward. Accessible only by boat or floatplane, it, too, is as Alaskan as lodges get, with bunkbed A-frame cabins and an old school restaurant and bar, manned by perky bartenders Ellie and Izzy. Just upstream is Sweetna, checkpoint number two of the Iditarod Race. When our plane lands the next morning, I seriously consider staying.

You’ll Appreciate the Circle of Life
Cue the Lion King. Being out here makes you appreciate the circle of life as well as anywhere on the planet. It’s hard not to when the beady eyes of umpteen million salmon stare up at you day after day from the afterlife, washed up in every manner possible. It’s enough to make you wax philosophically: they want no more nor less in life than to return to their homes, spawn and die, completing their life cycles. Which isn’t such a bad way to go. I had one fish on the line only to look down and see a dead one staring up at me as if I was peering into its soul. “Really?” it seemed to be saying. “I’m spent-out and dead and you’re catching another? Don’t you have anything better to do?” Not really, I surmised…I was on Alaska’s Lake Creek fishing and certainly not in a hurry.

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Guest contributor Eugene Buchanan is a former ski patrol and raft and kayak guide whose passion for traveling and writing has taken him to more than 30 countries on six continents. A Fellow member of the Explorer’s Club and contributor to Men’s Journal’s The Great Life anthology, he’s the author of four books: Brothers on the Bashkaus (2007); Outdoor Parents, Outdoor Kids (2010); Comrades on the Colca (2016), and Tales from a Mountain Town (2017). The founder of Paddlinglife.com, he lives in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.