Dipnetting in Alaska is a right of passage, something we’ve had to patiently wait to truly experience. Late last summer, while we waited to fulfill our first full year of residency, we both road tripped with friends down to the Kenai to witness a stacked beach of Alaskans filling their permits with some of the fattest salmon we’ve ever seen. The sandy shores are filled with humans packed like sardines determined to fill their freezers with the bounty this beautiful state offers. Spectating the stoic face of an aged outdoorsman next to the brilliant laughter of enthusiastic newbies, brought together by a flurry of fish, is an experience in and of itself. My novice eyes watched the endless rows of nets propped out in the current, dozens being drug through the sand with a flopping salmon trapped inside. Some families set up full fillet stations along the beach, processing fish with experienced hands working to fillet as quickly as they were scooped out of the salty waters; others gear up in wetsuits and float through the current with dipnets suspended next to them by buoys. 

We aren’t the only ones pulled to the shores of the salmon runs. Throughout the year, we share shorelines all over the state with thousands of scavenging seagulls, brave and bold eagles, diving cormorants, curious seals and sea lions, lumbering bears, and just about anyone else you could imagine. The salmon truly feed us all, and my appreciation for this has grown immensely since arriving here. I feel moments of pity for the journey these fish are on, one that inevitably leads to death one way or another. My sympathy quickly turns to admiration as I process the depth of drive required to instinctually return to their own spawning grounds, dodging weighted hooks, snapping jaws, clenching talons, and every size of net imaginable. The only goal is to spawn, to continue the cycle, and once the task is accomplished, the beginning of the end ensues, a decay that begins from the inside out. Inevitable death. A somewhat romantic story for those who choose to see it that way. 

This past winter, our second in Alaska, we checked the box to become official state residents. Along with the honor comes the privilege of holding a net as wide across as we are tall, scooping up vibrant red salmon as they make their way upstream. We decided Chitina would offer this experience in line with our preferred method of exploration. A little adventurous, sure to be hard work, and hopefully with fewer people than the sardine-stacked beaches we’d spectated in the past. The advice and opinions varied, and we tried to absorb all we could before making the trip, keeping the horror stories tucked far away. The Copper River is an immense, powerful, and extremely silty waterway known to steal the lives of many and certainly not one to be underestimated. Last summer, we had the unique experience of paddling her from Chitina to Cordova. Returning to this river and pulling fish from the shores, taking in the views from canyon cliffs, was vastly different than paddling across mile-wide expanses of moving water. The Copper is a river to be respected and thoroughly enjoyed from many perspectives.

Many Chitina dipnetters utilize ATV trails to reach more remote access points along the fish-filled canyon. We don’t have a machine, so our method of travel was by foot. This made our journey longer and more difficult, but it certainly wasn’t a barrier to getting out. We hiked several miles in, made a couple trips down and back up steep hillsides until we found an eddy that looked like it had potential, and set up a rope system to offer extra security to whoever was holding the net and scooping fish. We were ready. Nearby, a seasoned dipnetter offered small talk, gave simple tips to make our lives easier, and shared his stories of exploring the Alaskan wilderness hunting and fishing over the years. The first tap of the net was a moment to celebrate. So it began. Next, Jake’s first fish was our first King, or Chinook, Salmon ever. For us, a monster! We slowly chipped away at our limit, filling stringer after stringer with Copper River Reds, one of the most revered cuts of salmon around. 

We spent the day absorbing true beauty, bonking and bleeding fish, chatting with our new friend, and eventually enjoying our beautiful riverside fishing hole in complete solitude. Hours passed, our snacks slowly depleted, and we decided to make the trek back. Climbing the steep wall back to the trail and walking back to camp after a full day wrestling fish was going to be a challenge. Our fish count was 18, including the King, who was upwards of 15 pounds alone. The added weight was over 100 lbs. I carried the supplies we had brought for the day and a couple of the larger fish, and Jake’s pack was filled entirely with salmon. A backbreaker, for sure. A couple miles into our grueling hike back, we were offered a ride from a generous woman on an ATV. We hoisted our bags up and I climbed atop the net, hitching a ride back, while Jake hiked home solo, pack free. 

Gratitude for a beautiful day spent outdoors, the feeling of muscle fatigue from good, hard work, the vision of a freezer filled with harvested meat, and the generosity of more than one fellow Alaskan capped off one of the most memorable days of fishing I have ever experienced. It carried us both through the upcoming battle against swarming mosquitoes, exhausted car camping, and a long but beautiful drive home. It gave us the energy to spend the next day filleting and processing fish for dozens of meals, preserving gorgeous roe to utilize as bait for fishing in future seasons, and to begin stocking nutritious meals for our canine crew. Not a single scrap went to waste, and our Sunday dinner was savored, roasted vegetables alongside fresh and wild-caught Copper River Reds.