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by Scott Stouder
First published in
Fish
Alaska Magazine
September, 2003
“Did you fish for kings on the
Kenai?” my neighbor in Oregon asked when I told him I’d just
returned from Alaska.
“Nope,” I replied. “We were in
Wood-Tikchik State Park.”
“Where?”
 It’s a common
question in the Lower 48. Say “Wood-Tikchik” and most folks think
you’re uttering a tongue twister, not naming a world-class fishing
destination. Even many Alaskans don’t know that Wood-Tikchik State
Park is Alaska’s largest state park or that, at 1.6 million acres,
it contains a quarter as much land as all of America’s state parks
combined.
More important, all five species of
Alaska’s Pacific salmon, four species of trout—even northern
pike—ply the thousands of miles of rivers and lakes within its
borders.
In size, Wood-Tikchik Park hardly
puts a dent in southwest Alaska’s vast 40 million acres, but it’s
the cradle of Bristol Bay’s salmon-rich watershed which draws its
water from the Wood River Mountain range. That mountain range
outlines the park’s western boundary and defines its geography.
During the last Ice Age, glaciers carved huge divots in the tundra
as they ground east out of the mountains. When they melted, they
left a series of long, stacked-up lakes connected by short rivers.
The water eventually forms the Wood River, which then flows into
Bristol Bay.
Last summer, as our party of four
finished unloading our gear from our canoes and setting up camp on
the banks of the Agulapak River, I couldn’t wait to wade into this
fish-epicenter with both feet.
It was 10 p.m. and I was weary
after a grueling, 13-mile, headwind-hindered paddle down the shore
from Lake Beverley’s Silver Horn Arm where we’d been dropped by a
float plane the day before. But I wasn’t that weary. Fishing is
fishing. Even if it’s done late at night. Actually there is no
late night in Alaska’s summer. This far north the July sun ducks
beneath the horizon for only a few hours as it circles the pole.
A line of tall spruce trees
materialized like misty ghosts through the hard rain on the far
side of the river as I waded into the Agulapak River where it
swells out of Lake Beverley on its brief two-mile journey to Lake
Nerka. The icy water pulls glacial gravel from the lake bottom and
spreads it in the shallow river channels, creating a salmon
spawning Mecca. In the turbulent, boulder-bottomed pools below the
channels platoons of giant rainbow trout wait for the delivery of
thousands of nutrient-rich salmon eggs.
Trusting my felt soles, I braced
against the thigh-deep current, stripped line from my reel,
backcast, and dropped a salmon egg imitation into a pool 20 feet
in front of me. The small orange fly, weighted with split shot,
vanished into the vortex of swirling water and reflection.
I was retrieving line when I heard
a voice above the water noise.
“You haven’t hooked anything yet?”
I turned. Glenn Elison, the 53
year-old Alaska State Director for The Conservation Fund, a
Maryland-based organization, was behind me. Elison works to
purchase, or protect through easements, privately owned parcels
along rivers and lakes in southwest Alaska threatened by
development. Retired from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, he
has combined his love for fishing, and his life experience to, as
he puts it, “Help save the last great salmon fishery on Earth.”
Twenty-six years of managing such
remote jewels as the Alaska Peninsula National Wildlife Refuge and
the Artic National Wildlife Refuge have equipped Elison with a
unique knowledge of the 49th state.
“Nothing yet,” I said as I cast
again, and a savage strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. A
heavy fish, stripping line like a salmon, raced across the river.
I tried to dampen the whizzing fly
reel with the palm of my hand: “I don’t know what I have a hold
of, but it’s powerful.”
“I’d guess it’s a rainbow,” Elison
said.
I didn’t want to question Elison,
but no trout I’d ever hooked felt like this. Of course I’d never
caught rainbows in southwest Alaska.
“Trout in these waters grow big,”
Elison said, as if reading my mind. “They get their size from food
supplied by salmon.”
In southwest Alaska everything from
trout to bears depends on the nutrients delivered from the sea by
over 75 million returning adult salmon per year. Rainbows, char,
grayling, and Dolly Varden stuff themselves with both the eggs of
spawning adults and the flesh of young fish. And when they aren’t
directly eating salmon, they are consuming the insects and other
aquatic life that thrives on the nutrients delivered by migratory
salmon. Recent research has traced back to the ocean the nitrogen,
phosphorous, carbon, and other organic building material essential
in salmon-based ecosystems. Salmon are the bearers of this
material and everything—algae, insects, crustaceans, trout, birds,
trees, and mammals (including humans)—depends upon it. It’s
estimated that in the Bristol Bay region alone, salmon, by dying,
decomposing, and with distribution help from bears, birds, and
insects, deposit over one thousand tons of nitrogen each year
along the rivers, streams, and lakes. That’s a lot of life-giving.
At the moment, however, I was more
concerned about the fish I’d hooked than the interwoven web of the
salmon’s life cycle.
“I’m down to my backing,” I said as
the fish powered upriver against the current.
 The fish
finally turned, but it gave to pressure with extreme prejudice.
For every two feet of line I gathered, it took one back. Finally,
the broad red stripe and full dorsal of a wild rainbow trout
surfaced. If I’d put a tape to it, it would have stretched well
over two feet.
Elison gently removed the hook from
its upper lip and released the trout into the current. It held for
a second, then turned, and with a broad sweep of its tail,
disappeared back into the river.
River fishing for trout was the
reason my wife and I flew to Alaska to meet Elison and Tim Troll.
Troll, the fourth member of our party, is a board member of The
Nushagak, Mulchatna, Wood-Tikchik Land Trust.
“We call it the ‘Mouthful Land
Trust,’” he said with a chuckle when we met at the Dillingham
airport.
Troll and Elison work together to purchase land and conservation
easements from willing sellers of private inholdings in southwest
Alaska.
“We’re focused on protecting
strategic fish and wildlife habitat from being overdeveloped,”
Troll said. “Our goal is to preserve the salmon, trout, and the
wildness that still exists here.”
Part of that goal is focused on the
Agulapak and the Agulowak (locals call them the “pack” and the
“walk”)—two world-class rainbow trout rivers in the Wood River
lake system. Our plans were to fish both rivers.
The following morning after
releasing the big rainbow I awoke tired and stiff. And when I
poked my head out of the tent, the sky hung low over the river and
threatened rain. But this was no place to languish in bed.
After frying breakfast, the four of
us waded back into the Agulapak and tangled with more rainbows.
Elison wrestled a sockeye that put on an aerial display to rival
the Blue Angels. The six-pound salmon did everything but bounce
out on the bank and dance a jig.
After fishing, we reloaded our
canoes and floated the two miles downriver to Lake Nerka. Because
we had only five days to make the trip, we had arranged to be met
there by a motorboat that sped us down the lake to the Agulowak
River.
In the next two days we caught more
sockeye. And we landed more big rainbows. I didn’t count how many.
Actually, my desire to catch wild rainbow trout waned somewhat
after watching that first big fish disappear into the current.
Like hunger after a good meal, a need seemed to vanish.
Besides, there’s something about
Alaska that seems to transcend acts whose value is measured by a
single factor of “fun.” The land’s richness seems to instill a
feeling of sustenance. Maybe it comes from watching thousands of
sockeye gather at the mouths of rivers for their final upstream
surge or waves of caribou floating across the tundra. Maybe seeing
moose standing in the grassy backwaters or grizzlies walking the
lakeshore is a reminder that others in this land take life, and
wild fish, seriously.
It’s possible the feeling had
nothing to do with Alaska. Maybe the fatigue from days of paddling
and wading simply overwhelmed other desires. Maybe long-ago
memories of catching salmon and trout strictly for the frying pan
cemented predatory instincts beyond retraction. Maybe it was the
constant rain. I don’t know. What I know is that the pure pleasure
of being in a land where I was part of the cycle of salmon was
enough. Catching fish was simply a bonus.
With millions of sockeye, kings, coho, pink, and chum salmon
returning to its rivers and lakes, southwest Alaska is the world’s
last stronghold of wild salmon. But for much of the last century
until the late 1970s the area, which is as big as the state of
Washington, was hardly a blip on the sport-fishing screen.
However, that’s not the case today.
Everyone who’s ever dreamed of streams stuffed with huge trout and
rivers flowing with muscular salmon has heard of rivers such as
the Nushagak, the Mulchatna, the Kvichak, the Goodnews, and the
Alagnak.
What’s changed is access. Not road
access—the few miles of existing gravel roads huddled around the
Native villages still don’t extend much beyond the village houses
and outbuildings. Access has evolved around a proliferation of
airplanes and boats. Travel in southwest Alaska has always been on
the water or in the air, but today it’s not uncommon during the
summer months to see dozens of fishermen lining popular river
stretches. Every day hundreds of people are delivered to rivers
via floatplanes and jet boats from lodges in Southwest. There’s
literally an air-traffic rush hour at 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. when the
normally quiet tundra is abuzz with DeHavilland Beavers, Cessna
206s, 185s, and other small planes on floats shuffling clients
back and forth.
With an increasing human population
in the Lower 48 and the continued decline of salmon in the
Northwest, Elison sees increased pressure on southwest
Alaska—especially on the popular rivers flowing into Bristol
Bay—as inevitable.
“This is one of the last great
natural areas left on the planet and we need to plan for its
protection now,” he says. “We’ve got a chance here to do it right
and protect this land for future generations of Americans, for the
wildlife and for the salmon.”
Scott Stouder lives in Riggins, ID,
with his wife and fishing/ hunting/outdoor writing partner Holly
Endersby. Scott has recently taken a position as Western Field
Coordinator for Protection of Roadless Areas with Trout Unlimited
F L Y F I S H E R M
A N F O R U M
Saving Paradise
The
Southwest Alaska Salmon Habitat Partnership
is purchasing wilderness for posterity.
You can help.
TOOK MY FIRST trip
to Bristol Bay in 1975. Several friends and I paddled kayaks
down the Wood River system of lakes, a spectacular area that is
now part of Wood-Tikchik State Park.The final section
of the trip was the Agulowak River, a 4-mile-long fish factory
that flows from Lake Nerka to Lake Aleknagik. Like all of the
country we passed through, the river was pristine, without any
sign of human presence. We knew, of course, that the local
Yu’pik had used it for millennia, but there was little trace of
their seasonal migrations.We camped and fished wherever we
wished, without worrying about conflicts with other users.
by Will Rice
First published in
Fly Fisherman Magazine
September, 2007
Many of Alaska’s
most important riparian areas are owned by individuals and
village or tribal corporations. Speculators, developers,
recreational users, and lodge owners are offering these
traditional landowners cash for the best riverside properties,
and no-trespassing signs are becoming common sights along
wilderness rivers.
Today the Agulowak
is a world-renowned trout stream, but it is no longer
wilderness. In spite of the surrounding park, both banks of the
river are in private hands. The local native village corporation
holds most of the land, but lodges, cabins, and other private
property mark the upper and lower ends. There is a memorandum of
understanding between the native corporation and the state which
allows recreational use of their land, but it is an annual
arrangement that does not provide any permanent protection. The
unlimited access we enjoyed 30 years ago has been replaced by
access limited by
the tolerance of the landowners.
This story is
repeating itself throughout the Bristol Bay area. There has
always been a sense that Alaska belongs to us all. Its
widespread systems of conservation lands, its remoteness, and
its relatively
small population have given Alaska an aura of unlimited public
access, in glaring contrast to most of the Lower 48.That is
changing rapidly in southwest Alaska, that magic area from the
tip of the Alaska
Peninsula to the far reaches of Kuskokwim Bay.
Southwest Alaska is
one of the world’s great natural treasures. Its ecosystems rival
those of the Serengeti and Amazonia. Unlike its tropical
counterparts, though, these are ecosystems driven by
fish—the massive runs of Pacific salmon that return each year to
reproduce and feed the bears, gulls, trout, and char that depend
on them. For thousands of years, salmon have provided a
regional, cultural
and economic foundation. In an average year, more than 70
million fish return to the Bristol Bay region, and in some years
the numbers exceed 100 million. The result is the finest
coldwater fishery in
the world.
Southwest Alaska encompasses some 39.8 million acres, roughly
the size of Washington State, with thousands of miles of rivers
and streams. Its ecological and recreational importance has not
gone
unrecognized. The area’s six national wildlife refuges, three
national parks, and the largest state park in the U.S. encompass
23.5 million acres. The amount of land under protection is
impressive, but the numbers are misleading.Much of this land is
mountaintops and tundra, while many of the critical riparian
areas—the areas with the best angling—are private inholdings.
Private Property
IN 1971, ALASKAN
aboriginals were given the right to select lands to be held by
village and regional corporations.Since all the villages in
southwest Alaska are on major salmon streams, the selections
included much of the best habitat and fishing areas.
In addition, the
Alaska Native Allotment Act of 1906 allowed individual natives
to select up to 160 acres that had been traditionally used by
their families for subsistence, including fishing and hunting
sites.
The Act was little used until the early ’70s, when Congress set
a final deadline for filing allotment applications.
At the time, I
helped native families file those applications. Although I am a
firm advocate for public access, I also recognized the rights of
people who had used the land for generations. The idea of
private property and trespass was a concept completely foreign
to the original inhabitants of these lands. Because native
culture was subsistence-based, the sites that were traditionally
occupied have the best access to fish and wildlife— the same
properties that our culture values today.
Even in the vast
expanse of Alaska, these inholdings are significant. More than
2,000 private land tracts, mostly allotments, are located
primarily in riparian areas, and 11 percent of Bristol Bay lands
are privately held. Because of their strategic locations, these
lands have an impact on the long-term sustainability of fish,
wildlife, and habitat that far exceeds their acreage. Of the
land in private hands, 10 to 20 percent is critical for habitat
or access.
In the 30 years since land titles were established, things have
changed. Permit systems and no-trespassing signs are appearing,
and the effect is snowballing. The village and regional
corporations
need to make money from their lands in order to pay for basic
services. The original private property owners have aged, and
many have no children interested in maintaining a traditional
lifestyle. In spite
of a cultural preference toward preserving the land in its
original condition, there is a strong financial incentive to
sell the best pieces to eager buyers, including speculators and
developers, recreational
users, and lodge owners. A number of landowners are caught
between the need for cash and their desire to protect the land
and way of life.
The Southwest Alaska
Salmon Habitat Partnership is attempting to purchase and preserve
the
most critical fish and wildlife habitats and access areas for
sportsmen (Kvichak River braids
shown above). The group has already managed a conservation
agreement to protect 20,783
acres along the Agulowak River and adjacent lakes Aleknagik and
Nerka. Many
of these parcels are within the parks and refuges that were
designed to ensure habitat protection and public access. As
economic pressure on the landowners increases, more and more of
these inholdings will be sold. Fifty years from now, our
children could face many of the same access problems in Bristol
Bay that we now face in Montana and Michigan.
The potential
loss of access and critical habitat is of growing concern to the
people most affected, which includes almost everyone with a
stake in the region. A diverse group of individuals and
organizations have formed the Southwest Alaska Salmon Habitat
Partnership with the goal of preserving riparian habitat and
protecting historic uses of fish and wildlife. The
Partnership is providing landowners the option of selling their
land, or its development rights, to a conservation-minded buyer
who provides needed cash while
ensuring the protection of the land and its historic uses.
Working Together
THE MOST DIVISIVE
and long-running political battles in Alaska have invariably
been fought over issues of conservation, private property
rights, and fish and wildlife. Given this background, support
for the Partnership is astoundingly wide-spread.
The Partnership
represents, among others, Bristol Bay Native Corporation (the
local native association), Trout Unlimited, The Nature
Conservancy, The Conservation Fund, and the Alaska Professional
Hunters Association. It has local, state, and federal support,
as well as backing from local guides and lodge
owners. Corporate sponsors include Orvis, Under Armour, Woolrich,
Pure Fishing, Columbia Sportswear, Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines,
the Dallas Safari Club, and General Communications, Inc.
This diverse support, both national and local, is perhaps the
best indicator of future success.
The Partnership has
identified riparian inholdings that are critical to habitat and
access. The Gordon and Betty Moore Foundation has been a major
catalyst, providing two grants since 2003 which include $11
million for wild salmon habitat conservation in southwest
Alaska.
With the grants from the Moore Foundation and major
contributions from other donors, the Partnership is purchasing
conservation interests, either in the form of easements or full
titles. Allotments are usually purchased outright, based on the
owner’s desires and the management authority granted to the
adjoining public landowner. Conservation easements make up the
majority of the purchases, typically from native corporations
that want to maintain the use and control of the property for
their shareholders, but are willing to forgo or limit
development and provide public access.
A wonderful example
of this win-win conservation approach is a conservation
agreement with Aleknagik Natives Limited and Bristol Bay Native
Corporation for 20,783 acres along the Agulowak River and
adjacent lakes Aleknagik and Nerka. With a mix of federal grant
money matched by the Moore Foundation and other private funds, a
new conservation easement on Aleknagik’s lands will prevent
development and subdivision, and provide perpetual public
access. The corporation’s subsurface interest is being purchased
outright.
Saving paradise is an ambitious undertaking. The
Partnership
is looking at a ten-year, $100 million project, with 70 percent
of the money coming from federal matching funds. To date, 65,000
acres have been purchased at a cost of about $13 million.
The Partnership works
only with willing sellers, and selects parcels with surgical
care, turning down six or seven offers for every one accepted.
This precision has resulted in large areas of prime salmon and
migratory bird habitat being conserved and available to the
public. It has also resulted in small, critically important
parcels being preserved for public use, including two tracts on
the Agulowak. Two stretches on a sister river, the
Agulukpak, have also been purchased. These four parcels alone
mean that our children and grandchildren will be able to camp,
fish, and enjoy the two best trout rivers in the Wood-Tikchik
area.
Alaska has changed a great deal in the past 30 years, but it
remains America’s greatest wilderness. Thanks to groups like the
Southwest Alaska Salmon Habitat Partnership, future generations will
be able to
experience the same sense of wonder I felt when we first slid
our kayaks into the current of the Agulowak. For more
information, visit the Partnership’s web site at swakcc.org.
Donations are
needed to trigger foundation and federal matching grants, and
can be leveraged on a 10:1 ratio. If you have more questions,
please contact Glenn Elison at (907) 868-7974, or Tim Troll at
(907) 842-2832. This is an opportunity to help pass to our
children one of the country’s greatest outdoor treasures.
WILL RICE has lived
and fished in Alaska for more than 30 years. A retired trial
lawyer, he is the author of Fly-Fishing Secrets of Alaska’s Best
Guides (Stackpole Books, 2006).
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