The Fishkateers Jeff, Dad, Scott, And Brian By Our Raft On Alaska's Kugururok River

Waiting. There’s a lot of waiting going on in Kotzebue, Alaska. A small gray outpost located on the shores of Kotzebue Sound above the Arctic Circle, there’s not a whole lot going on there. When we asked a local what was happening in town while we were there, he looked away, thought a bit, and brightened when he remembered a dance on Saturday night. Past our time in town, so we had to instead occupy our time, waiting. It’s a sleepy little place.

We waited for misplaced luggage, our next flight, flights that couldn’t land due to weather, and then the next flights trying to land when the weather got better. We waited for people, places, and things. Nothing particularly pressing going on, so we then waited for our next meal, as soon as our last meal was done. People coming and going, doing things. Or not.

Exploring the town was easy and quick on foot. Wind-buffeted along the coast to the west and a scattering of stores and the school to the east, with the interior filled by paint-peeled boxy wooden shacks on pilings above the foundation-busting frozen ground, all surrounded by junk yard art. Dilapidated picked-over carrion cars, lazy mutt dogs tied up on chains, half-completed outboard motor projects, and boats which were up on land for their own safety. Mud roads were traveled by ATVs, pickup trucks, and unsupervised children on bicycles. Not a postcard to be found anywhere.

We made all of our pre-excursion arrangements in town: stocking up on a few items, arranging for our raft and equipment, and hooking up with our bush pilot Eric, one of the best Cessna 206 pilots in the state.

Come on backcountry… and come it did.

We packed our gear and 4 Fishkateers on two separate flights out to the upper waters of the Kugururok River, over 100 miles north of Kotzebue. There were no roads, no trails, no fast food joints out in the Delong Mountains of the Brooks Range, where we were heading. Flying over the soggy tundra, open water, and desolate wind swept mountains made it very apparent that walking back to town was not a good backup option.

The Kugururok River was hidden in the Noatak National Preserve, part of the 8.4 million acre Gates of the Arctic National Park & Preserve. The surrounding Noatak River area was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1976, and the Kugururok was a direct tributary into it. That same year, the Noatak National Preserve became a Biosphere Reserve, followed by a National Monument in 1978 and then a National Preserve in 1980. All beautiful wilderness, all the time.

The mountains and river watersheds were covered with boreal forests and arctic tundra, traversed by birds of many feathers, caribou, moose, Dahl sheep, wolves, grizzly bears, and lots of big well-fed fish. The fall season brought out incredibly vivid colors in the scrub bushes and thin trees. The flight in was a kaleidoscope of red, yellow, orange, and green vegetation splashed across rust and purple colored landscapes punctuated by barren gray mountain tops jutting above all the color below. Braided rivers flowed across valleys, forming smooth-rocked gravel plains where rivers found new directions and new meanders every year after the spring floods.

We swooped low over the Noatak River to scout our eventual meeting point for a week later, on a flat gravel bar which was landable by the fat-tired bush plane we were in. Then it was off up-river along the Kugururok, into the Delong Mountains. The scenery just got prettier as we went, and finally Eric placed us on a gravel bar as far north as it appeared a raft could travel before the headwaters became too shallow. The better fishing was in the upper reaches of the Kugururok, so we were all for the extra distance in. As Eric took off on nature’s runway after depositing the second half of our group, he gunned the engine hard and banked with his right wing tip a few feet from the ground as his left wing tip skimmed over tall bushes. He would have hit the bushes had his wings been level, it was that tight.

The airplane and its engine noise receded into the distance south, and the wide open quiet of Alaska took over. Just the soothing sound of running river and the breeze rustling leaves.

Each night, we set up camp at a new location along the river, always on a gravel bar that would have been under water in the spring run-off. We could usually find small patches of sand here and there for our tents among the baseball-sized rocks, and our sleeping pads made up for any remaining rocky irregularities. We became attuned to finding locations with bush protection from the winds for our food preparation area, and the best sites also had direct sun exposure for warmth plus beautiful sunset views. Another main criteria was a nearby promising deep fishing hole or two. Big and fresh grizzly tracks crossed right through the middle of most of our campsites. It’s usually not recommended sleeping in the middle of a grizzly thoroughfare, but really anywhere out there would be the same. It’s their roaming back yard, after all. So, we just pitched our tents and practiced good camp hygiene.

Brian Fishing On Alaska's Kugururok River In The Noatak National Preserve At sunset

During the days, temperatures ranged from the 40s to near 60 degrees F. Once the sun settled behind the mountains, temperatures quickly dropped to near freezing, and the wind chill made it colder still. More clothing layers came out of our bags then. By morning, our tents were covered in iced dew and we usually slept 10 hours just to stay burrowed in our sleeping bags until the day thawed. Taking a 5 a.m. pee was a quick trip outside; shivering affects aim!

Weather was uncharacteristically sunny all week long until the last day, and it made for a particularly enjoyable trip. The fun factor would have been a little different if we had to fish in driving cold rain or even snow, both of which were distinct possibilities. We frequently woke to dense misty fog in the mornings, which would burn off by later morning and open up to blue skies with scattered white clouds. During the transition it would move through phases of gray and patchy brightness, transforming into a mosaic of clouds moving across the Brooks Range, transferring jigsaw puzzle piece light shapes onto their multi-colored slopes.

We all quickly jumped in on the fishing, primarily aiming for charr but also catching many large grayling along the way and coming across some chum salmon. Charr was our favorite: bigger, meatier, fightier, and more colorful, with protruding salmonid jaws and red speckled green and brown undersides. The spawning males were especially impressive. Charr are called “Akalukpik” by the Native Eskimo, which translates to “fish of the rainbow”. Eskimo legend says the fish descended from the sky long ago, bringing all the colors of the rainbow with them. Their many iridescent colors and patterns readily showed the origin of the legend.

Rafting the river opened up many more opportunities for fishing and scenery than a base camp approach would have provided. We looked for promising holes and scouted the waters for lurking whales through our polarized sunglasses as we floated the river and slalomed through rock gardens. Upon spotting a darting pod or a deep hole with good vibe to it, we’d pull over and usually catch our first of many meaty fish on our first or second well placed cast. We fished the lower ripples and deep pools, while keeping an occasional lookout for bears in areas of denser bushes. We found some deep and incredibly clear holes, easily seeing to the bottom when the wind-whipped surface would temporarily quiet. So many good spots, in fact, that we only rafted a few miles each of our initial days there, making up the difference on the last couple days of the trip with longer scenic pushes down river.

Since we fished from our campsites too, our longest times at the reel were generally before and after meals. Once Brian even did a twilight session at 11:30 pm, bundled up against cold sun-down winds and backdropped by brilliant orange clouds reflecting off the river, silhouetting mountains in black. Sometimes the wind picked up quite a bit, making the casts more wild in their direction and what they would land on (which sometimes included other Fishkateers). Taking a break to pee, the initially straight line would quickly get blown sideways into a sparkling J curve well downwind.

Brian caught the largest and prettiest fish of the trip, a 30 inch charr. Beautiful coloring, and it put quite a bend on his rod as he reeled it in. Dad also caught some particularly nice charr and lots of grayling too. Jeff took on fishing like a man possessed, and his contagious enthusiasm for the trip was a daily reminder to the other Three Fishkateers – who had previously done similar trips – just how special this place and experience really was.

Brian With Arctic Charr Fishing On Alaska's Kugururok River In Noatak National Preserve

Jeff was also the official Chef of the Kugururok, preparing two graylings and one charr in his special blend of thawed-out olive oil, Shore Lunch batter, herbs, and a bit of gravel bar sand. Those were always special treats; by the end of the week I didn’t want to see another granola bar for a long while, and GORP and candies had lost their special appeal, but those meals of the freshest fish possible were always a taste bud hit. Throughout the trip we all ate variations on noodle packets (my favorite was alfredo noodles with a can of tiny shrimp; mmmmmm good), and added to it with our carbohydrate junk food favorites: me with Chips Ahoy cookies and coated cashews, Brian with sugar candies, Dad with cookies and Snickers, and Jeff with chocolate.

Our raft looked like the Beverly Hillbillies were coming to Kotzebue via the Kugururok. This led to many in-and-out fire drills when the laden boat would get into a braid of the river so shallow as to drag the raft to a stop. Sometimes it was a well rehearsed jump-out-and-push, followed by a comic flail of upside down legs and 5 scattered fly rods as we piled back in before stepping off into a deep hole or being run over by a freed raft juggernaut. The acrobatics grew better over time, usually becoming more choreographed jumps in and out while Dad (dubbed “Rodman”) protected the rods from getting mangled in the melee. There were occasional extra tricks: Dad spread eagle across the raft thwarts, Scott hanging on sideways to make room for someone else, Brian slipping on slick muddy raft sides, and Jeff’s gymnastic prowess demonstrated with a leg and hand up over the raft side while his butt and water-filling waders were dunked in the 44 degree water below.

The scenery from the raft was spectacular throughout the length of the Kugururok, changing as we went. We also saw many varieties of birds, and of course lots of fish, though surprisingly few mammals. Many ravens, gulls, jays, falcons, ducks, geese, bald eagles, and much more. Sometimes we would wake up in the morning to find fresh bear poop by our camp, but there was only one direct grizzly encounter, and the “drama” had nothing to do with the bear.

After everyone went to sleep, I decided to get out of my tent for a quick pre-sleep jaunt to the bushes. As I stood up, I looked to my left and a large adult grizzly bear was heading directly into camp, about 120 feet away. I immediately ducked back into my tent and grabbed for my video camera. I started quickly playing with the controls and poked the camera outside of my tent, which was facing 180 degrees away from the bear, to see if it would work in the low light, which it did not. I set the camera down, sitting in my tent looking outside and realizing that I had no idea now where the bear was. Images of its snout coming around the edge of my tent door flashed in my mind, so I moved to get out again and see where the bear was located. In doing so, I leaned on my bear spray canister (unfortunately with the safety just removed) and lit off a full force pepper spray blast in my own tent, earning the nickname “Quick Draw”. I jumped out and held my breath, then did a twirl to see where the bear was. Gone like a ghost, but my 2 week old expensive video camera was completely covered in caustic orange goo; the canister was only five inches away from the camera and it was a direct head-on hit. Pepper spray was on my tent, sleeping pad, clothes. I spent the next hour sopping up the mess and digging into crevices of my camera, washing other things in the river. A week later, there was still orange goo slowly oozing out of seams in the camcorder body, but it appeared to still be working. For days my hands burned hot and itchy. And the next morning we found the bear’s tracks; it had just turned around while I was in my tent and walked back out of camp the direction it came from!

One benefit of the escapade, though: I was up late enough to see the aurora borealis for the very first time. Green, glowing like grand scale bioluminescence, and changing shape surprisingly fast, it formed waves and then a wide mono green rainbow arch stretching from horizon to horizon.

Down river the Kugururok gained volume, gradually growing deeper and steadier. The acrobatics became infrequent, and we drifted and rowed for many scenic miles. Stratified rock walls rose from the river valley floor, solidified sea beds pushed up into undulating layers of wave rock. Tall thin conifers appeared among the fall color deciduous trees and bushes, balancing the brights with darks and providing significant bird habitat. Since the river grew less technical, Brian (“Captain Motor”) let all the novices at the oars for a while, growing an appreciation for the longer 21 miles he had muscled us through the day before.

Alaska cried for us as we rounded a bend and joined the smooth and steady Noatak River for a final mile to the gravel bar where we would be flown from the next day. One minute after setting foot on our final stop for the trip, a light rain pattered the rounded river rock shoreline. It was the first rain, and was also the first day of headwinds pushing us back upriver. There seemed a sign in that.

We stripped the raft and made it into a lean-to, using the oars for supports. From there we talked, napped, ate, and watched the light show on distant mountains as fantastic clouds moved swiftly across them. In front, the Noatak flowed steady.

On the final day there, we awoke to a deep silent fog. A non-flying fog. We half prepared our stuff and half left it set up, uncertain where the weather would turn and if we would even be picked up. But sun broke through and blue skies brought back the sound of that Cessna 206, with memories of a great trip as we soared over the wilderness back to Kotzebue.