Alaska Rainbow Trout Fishing: The Trophy Trout I Didn’t Know I Was Chasing
Hardcore trout freaks know that Alaska rainbow fishing in the Bristol Bay region provides opportunities every day to catch the fish of a lifetime.
But I’m an old-school bass head.
I know about 10-pounders. I’ve long understood the allure of a 50-inch muskie. I can get my brain around the thrill of catching 40 sailfish in a day.
Then I caught a 27-inch rainbow trout.
And now I’m obsessed with catching a 30. It’s why trip number five to Bear Trail Lodge will take place next September.
Apparently I’m an accidental trout obsessive.
Naknek River Holy Land
If you’re a bass guy like me, combine Lake Fork, Clear Lake and Okeechobee into a single trophy destination and that’s the Naknek River. The Naknek is the stuff dreams are made of – people save their whole lives just for a shot at the giant rainbows. Each year Bear Trail Lodge puts up pictures of all of the 30-inchers their guests catch. It’s a true badge of honor to be wall-worthy.
But on my past trips I hadn’t craved a framed picture of myself on full display. I’d just absorbed the overall experience and loved every minute of it. It was actually a chance to get away from the number-crunching and goal-setting that infects so much of the fishing world.
But I was frequently reminded of how special those big rainbows are. Just like a 10-pound largemouth or a bulldogging Great Lakes smallmouth, they show themselves often enough to make them seem attainable, but nothing about them is easy. Even if you hook one they use the current and every other trick possible to avoid ending up in the net. I’d probably caught some 23- or 24-inchers, but topped out there.
Again, I didn’t fully appreciate how special those fish are. In my home state of Virginia, the Department of Wildlife Resources recognizes a 22” rainbow trout as a “Trophy Fish.” We’d caught fish that size on every prior trip, usually a bunch of them.
I even had a video of one very famous bass pro fighting one and exclaiming, “This thing pulls harder than any smallmouth.”
Then he thought better of his sponsor obligations and strongly requested that I not post the video anywhere.
On this trip, a number of things clicked and suddenly trophy rainbows are all I can think about.
A Taste of the Little Ku
On our first day of fishing, our guide recommended that we visit a river called Little Ku. If you could get an egg-imitating bead past the millions of spawning sockeye there, it was likely to be scooped up by a big rainbow following them up the river.
Again, it required a commitment. After a lengthy float plane ride, we had to hike over about 2 miles of hilly, boot-sucking tundra to get down to the river – then we waded a few more miles in the current before taking an even longer hike back out.
But the juice was worth the squeeze.
Almost immediately we were locked into rainbows that averaged 21 or 22 inches. They jumped magnificently and used every ounce of their strength to remain free. We caught some, we lost some, we couldn’t get enough. I’m sure I set a personal best that day, but we didn’t stop to measure any fish. We just hunted the next bite. And the one after that.
The Obsession Kicks In
Three days later, we returned to the Little Ku with our friends Adam and Sara Cherry.
Normally we don’t do the same flyout twice on a single trip. In fact, before this trip I don’t think we’d fished any river or creek more than once except the Naknek – and that was always for different species at different times of year.
But the Little Ku was such an incredible experience, and we’d gotten so much better at understanding the fishery over that single day that we wanted another crack at it while it was primed for excellence.
All of us started catching trout – including big ones – almost immediately.
But at mid-morning, things changed for me. Our guide, Reed, spotted a big trout in a small side channel and led me through thick brush to get a crack at it. The cast was maybe 10 feet, hindered by all sorts of overhanging branches, and despite catching a couple of small fish from the spot I could never get the big one to eat.
Reed wouldn’t give up. We crawled down the narrow island separating the side channel from the main river -- over logs, through branches, utilizing bear trails whenever we could, and at the very end he spotted a true giant. There was no way to make a cast with all of the obstacles. I just had to make a quick flick of the leader. The fish ignored one bead. Then another. He added a little bit of weight to get it down and the wily fish pounced on it.
I think I fought it well, although the fish seemed to have more control over the process than I did. After what seemed like an eternity, I’d worn him down. He was moving toward the net. Then a sockeye somehow got in the way, got my line caught in his toothy mouth, and cut it.
I let out a few choice words.
As we walked back to the group, Reed asked about my personal best rainbow, which I estimated at perhaps 24 inches.
“I don’t want to tell you how big that one was,” he said.
“Tell me.”
“At least 26,” he replied. “Probably 27.”
I was crushed. I’d had what I assumed was the one chance, with a possibility that we wouldn’t return for a few more years for redemption. I didn’t know I cared so much but once I’d gotten that gateway taste it really began to matter.
Late in the day, however, as we prepared to make the hike out to the plane, I worked ahead of the group.
I made one perfect cast.
I mended a couple of times.
Then I got the strike I’d been waiting for.
Even though it had a rainbow’s colors, when it first flashed I assumed it was one of the dying sockeye.
It was that big.
Once I realized what it was, I yelled for our other guide Alyssa to come with the net. The fish worked me hard in the current, over and around rocks, through a logjam, and somehow remained hooked. Every time he saw the net, he took off on another blistering run. Finally, I subdued him.
Twenty-seven inches of pure Alaskan gold.
I don’t know how I was able to hold the fish for pictures. My body was like jelly and my hands were trembling. It was a surprisingly emotional moment. We put the tape on him and got it to touch 27. I’d achieved a goal that meant the world to me, but which I hadn’t known about just a few hours earlier.
Hanna’s Chance at Redemption
While I may have boasted about my 27, Hanna played it cool. If she cared about matching or exceeding it, she kept it close to the vest.
But on our final flyout, to American Creek, a National Park Service area where Bear Trail Lodge has one of the handful of permits, she got her chance and showed the emotion that I’d felt.
It didn’t start off well that day. Actually, as we worked upriver she caught far more fish than I did, but mostly bite-sized Dolly Vardens. I caught fewer fish, but more big dollies and a couple of chunk rainbows. When she finally got a few chances at big ‘bows, they didn’t cooperate. She was starting to get frustrated. When I caught what I believe was a PB dolly (I’d never measured one before, but this one was full-grown), she seemed to get frustrated.
But just like my experience a few days earlier, one cast changed everything for her.
As the clock wound down and we had to get back downriver for our float plane appointment, she hooked into a fish that was not like the others. Like mine, it dogged her. Hard. The rainbow used every trick in the book but Hanna remained calm up until it slid into our guide Axel’s net.
Then she let out a war cry.
Another 27. A fish to match mine.
And to light her fire to return next September, the best time of year to chase 30-inch rainbows.
A Year of Accidental Personal Bests
This trip would’ve been special if we’d just chased rainbows, but by default we also notched a bunch of other inadvertent PBs.
As noted above, my American Creek Dolly Varden was a toad.
We both caught pink salmon for the first time.
Hanna caught her first silver and first chum, and we caught giant fire engine red sockeye by accident that probably exceeded the size of the ones we’d caught while trying for them in the Naknek six years ago.
We both caught our first whitefish, which may be trash to some, but they were new additions to our fishing life lists.
In fact, the last 12 months have been a great time for us to add to our lists.
In California, we both caught our first (and therefore biggest) calico bass and white sea bass.
In Mag Bay we caught our first (and 20th or so) striped marlin. I added another in Guatemala. I’m not sure which one was the biggest, but one of them had to be.
In Panama, I added my 2nd, 3rd and 4th cubera snapper and surely one of them was bigger than my first.
Simply put, we put in the time, but we’re also very fortunate to get the fishing opportunities that are on our plates.
Back for Bigger ‘Bows
While we’ll have other opportunities before then, I will very likely spend some time dreaming about next September’s chance for 30 at Bear Trail Lodge.
Now I have the itch. And while I know a 30-inch rainbow won't be easy to catch -- much like the perpetual search for another double-digit bass -- I’ll do everything in my power to get it done, even if it takes multiple tries.
If you’d like to join us on a future Alaska trip – to chase a rainbow trout you may not even know that you’re obsessed with yet -- email us and let’s get your quest started.
Discover why Alaska belongs on every angler's bucket list as Pete and Hanna chase trophy rainbow trout, personal bests and unforgettable fishing at Bear Trail Lodge.