If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years of making the pilgrimage to the Sapsuk, it’s this: don’t ever expect smooth sailing — literally or figuratively. Alaska weather has a twisted sense of humor. The forecasts change faster than a TikTok trend — sunny one minute, sideways rain the next — and my weather apps (MyRadar, Windfinder, Windy, and WindAlert) often look like they’re competing for “most confusing outlook.” One says gale-force winds, one says dead calm, and one just throws up a shrug emoji. My buddy Steph had just returned from a trip where he made it all the way to Bethel only to be told they couldn’t fly him out for a whole week. “Trip’s canceled, no refund, thanks for playing.” Talk about a real River of No Return.

The Sapsuk River Camp, now under the watchful eye of Aubry, Chris, Marty, and Tom at Aleutian Adventures, has gone through a glow-up over the last couple years. The place runs smoother than ever, and this year’s week two lineup was a mix of veterans and rookies: Jerry, Preacher Mike, Jennifer Wang, and two fresh recruits — Steve Sakamaki and Alan Wong.  Elements of our tight group have been hitting this river since 2009, and we’ve seen some seasons that would spoil a person for life. When we heard the fish were “stacked around camp” the week before, I was already dreaming about grip-and-grin photos and iced Margaritas around the Volcano Lounge heater watching the 49rs kick some ass.   Of course, thinking it’s going to be your best trip ever is the first mistake every seasoned angler makes.

We landed in Anchorage overnight  and hopped on Alaska Air Transit for the puddle-jump to Nelson Lagoon, only to get smacked with 30-mph crosswinds, ocean whitecaps, and a three-hour weather delay. By the time we finally made the boat run up to camp the following day,  the river was running high, cloudy, and about a foot up from normal. Chris told us as did the group leaving  from the previous week that what they had. experienced had been “epic,” which is always code for “don’t expect that kind of fishing now.”

Sure enough, that first day fished slow. Really slow. The fish that had been happily loitering in the usual haunts had all sprinted upriver on the flood, leaving behind nothing but ghosts and a lot of wishful casting. Marty couldn’t believe the difference either — we all agreed the river had turned into an underwater freeway, and the salmon were already halfway to their spawning beds.  Still, Jerry and I scratched out about a dozen fish that day, which felt like a major win given how empty the river looked. For the newbies, it was like being dropped into a masterclass on patience and “reading water,” except there was a pop quiz every five minutes and the river kept changing the answers.

The storm had done a number on the river, but the most surreal part was where the fish were traveling. Forget long, graceful spey casts — this year, the fish were hugging the productive banks so tight you could almost step on them. I flew the drone just to be sure, and there they were, zipping upriver right under our rod tips like they owned the place.  The solution? Short casts. Embarrassingly short casts.  I’m talking little 15-foot flicks that felt more like brushing a mosquito off your sleeve than “fishing.” And you know what? It worked.  Many fish werre caught straight downstream in wour wash on a long pause.  And,  I spent very productive time looking for single fish and site fishing them.   With moving groups of fish,  its often only the lead fish bites if you can swing a fly to intercept it.  Most of the singles that were stationary were lockjawed or required a very precision cast .

Despite the lack of giant pods of fish holding in formation in the middle all down the bank as was the case last week and last year, we did find some areas in the high water that paused and concentrated the moving fish.  Chris started calling these prime zones “fish traps,” and once we dialed in the inside bends with the right current seams, it was game on.   These areas would yield half a dozen fish per session if fished correctly,   working the inside downstream fish first and then pulling them down stream from the hole and working them from back fish to front fish.  Forget hero casts — on this trip, the salmon were practically a wading-boot hazard.  For three straight days, we played musical chairs with the same handful of salmon spots between outr two boats of three anglers.

I kept thinking about a high-water season years ago when Mark Won was swinging his giant, fully dressed chicken flies along the deep far bank like he was ringing a dinner bell for Sasquatch.  This year, though, the fish had other plans in the same flows.  They were travelling and hugging the near bank — literally a rod’s length from shore.   In past years they would stack up right against the far deep banks and hold in the calmer water on the bottom.   Flying the drone around confirmed it.  Honestly, I now trust the drone more than most fishing reports.    The real eye-opener came after I flew the drone and saw fish cruising practically between our feet and our casts. It turns out, “cast less, catch more” is a real thing — who knew?    The recipe for a  fish trap on this trip: inside bends with fast, deep water on the outside, and slow, shallow water on the inside. Add a long shallow lead-in, a slow tail-out, and a shallow upstream streatch above a drop  and boom — instant salmon Airbnb.

This year’s “cast of characters” (literally)  came with two rookies — Alan and Steve — which changed the rhythm a bit. Next season Aleutian Adventures is going two-anglers-per-boat, which is probably a good idea.   With three to a boat, etiquette becomes a full-contact sport. It’s like synchronized fishing — with limited hot zones,  it was more efficient to rotate through them and try not to spook what few fish we found.  That means farming one counts as a hookup and your out.    Because we were basically running Fishing School 101 for the new guys, Jerry and I had slower catch rates but no complaints.  There were even a couple days where we got completely blanked on Vibrax — Jerry actually had his first zero day on Vibrex and Spey in nine seasons, which is like Steph Curry missing every three-pointer in a game. But honestly? This trip was about the people more than the fish, and we had a great group and made thge best out of unforseen circumstance.

Fishing with Jennifer Wang (Jerry’s daughter) was a highlight — again. Watching her go from spey-casting apprentice last year to flat-out outfishing us this year was humbling. She’s casting further, reading water better, and catching fish on topwater like a pro on both VIbrax and Spey swing.   She even landed a 21-inch resident rainbow on a surface fly — the first I’ve ever seen on the Sapsuk. At this point, she’s officially “one of the guys,” which is the highest praise a camp full of fish-obsessed men can give.

I brought out a new topwater “buzz-bait fly” this year, and it chugged along the surface film like a caffeinated mouse.  It didn’t out-fish the Flybrex, but it sure was fun watching salmon wake behind it like mini torpedoes. Jennifer even used it to hook that surprise rainbow, so I’m calling it a win.

Alaln provided most of the comic relief. He spent the week chucking Vibrax spinners like his life depended on it. Most days he scratched out a couple fish, but then he had one magical day where he hooked seven and absolutely smoked us. Not bad for his first Sapsuk trip — and in his 80s, no less.

Aubry has turned the camp into something that feels like part lodge, part Architectural Digest photo spread, and part Food Network competition show. Every night was a themed feast — smoked brisket night (complete with sides that would make a Texas pitmaster jealous), pizza night (where she somehow managed to pull off wood-fired quality in the middle of the bush), fried chicken night (crispy, golden perfection), and even a full-on seafood boil that could have been lifted straight out of a Louisiana cookbook. And just when we thought we’d seen it all, she showed up at the dock wearing a sombrero and a fake mustache, introduced herself as “Estavan,” and proceeded to serve us fresh Mexican fish tacos. You can’t make this stuff up — it was like a dinner theater production with a side of salsa.   The soundtrack to all of this? Aubry, singing Joni Mitchell while cooking, her voice floating through camp like some kind of hippie campfire angel, making everyone feel warm and at home. Her “lodge game” has absolutely leveled up — the place feels curated, cozy, and just a little bit fancy.  Every year she somehow gets more impressive, and I honestly hope the folks at Aleutian Adventures realize she’s not just part of the program — she is the program’s secret sauce. Without her, it’s just a fishing trip. With her, it’s a whole experience.

The Ballade Of Aubry- Angel of the Sapsuk

 

Evenings meant heading to the Volcano Lounge — which, thanks to Aubry’s HGTV magic, now looks less like “bush camp bar” and more like a boutique mountain lodge where you half expect them to hand you a craft cocktail with a sprig of spruce in it. After happy hour, I’d wander down to my little riverside roe-processing station — think “sushi chef meets backcountry Mad Scientist” — and work on my home-brew Ikura project before hitting the hot shower. Then came the main event: football. Thanks to Starlink, we were able to watch 49ers and Ducks games time-shifted after dinner, which is about as surreal as it gets in rural Alaska. There’s something absurdly satisfying about eating fried chicken under the midnight sun while Brock Purdy throws a touchdown — modern Alaska, baby.

Now, some people — not me, mind you — despise technology in the bush. They want it all moose calls and kerosene lanterns, and I respect that. But I’ll say it: tech is a double-edged sword, and I’m happy to swing it. Is it cheating to use a drone to find fish? Maybe. Is it also the best invention since breathable waders? Absolutely. It’s not just about fish scouting — using the drone to navigate sketchy braids of river can literally save hours and keep you from doing the “drag your raft through the swamp” walk of shame.   And look, Starlink might seem like overkill — a little too “Silicon Valley meets Last Frontier” — but try booking a last-minute hotel in Anchorage when your bush plane cancels for the third time that week. Starlink isn’t just for football; it’s for survival. (Okay, mostly football, but still.)

If I could make one humble suggestion for next year, it would be this: get a vacuum packer that can handle an entire salmon fillet without folding it like origami. It would cut fish-boxing time in half, save the guides’ backs, and make sure everyone gets perfect, Instagram-worthy fillets home instead of the “folded like a love letter” version. That’s my TED Talk — somebody please make it happen.

A new addition to the camp this year is Huckleberry-Aubry’s dog.  Now , the camp dog Huck (a shaggy English sheepdog) is the most unlikely Alaskan companion ever.  Every camp need a dogh like Huck . He rode the boats every day, hung out on the bars,  while we fished, and somehow understood every word I said.  If he could spey cast, I’d have to give him my slot in the boat rotation. He smelled like dead fish the entire trip, but hey — so did we.   Huck is unlike any camp dog Ive met.   He really listens and follows your complex commands.    I think he could tree a bear as well.   One day Marty showed me how Huck can pull branches off of a tree.    He would point at a branch and Huck would go to the base of the branch and snap it off.   Ive seen english sheepdogs win sheep hearding competitions when I was at Davis, and there intelligence on the stream translates well.  Huck folowed Jenifer while she fished a run one day.   As she would move,  Huck would position himself across from her swing and watch on his belly.   Jennifer hooked and lost a big one about 10 feet off the bank and Huck observed her  disapointment  and jumped into the river and swam out to her fly I think to look for and  retrieve the fish she lost.   It was one of the most amazing things Ive see a dog do while fishing.    I think Huck thought it was a sheep that got away and felt obligated to go look for it.    I love that dog and hope he returns next year.  l’m bringing  baby shampoo — Huck deserves a spa day.

The guides — Chris and Marty — really took care of us this week. Chris Vaque is anything but vague (and yes, with my last name being Syn, I can relate. ). He’s the new head guide and camp manager, and honestly, he’s built like a linebacker who traded in his helmet for a spey rod. Chris is a gentle giant — the kind of guy who can deadlift a drift boat but still talks to fish like he’s whispering them into the net.

What I really admire about Chris is his patience. This week he spent a lot of time helping Steve dial in his cast, his swing, his hookset — basically his whole game — and never once lost his cool. Any guide can net a fish, but Chris has that rare teacher’s gift: he can take a total rookie (like Jennifer last year) and have them looking like they’ve been fishing Alaskan rivers for decades. I learned a ton from him too — especially about stinger hooks. I’m now a full-blown evangelist for Aqua Talon 3474 Swing Hooks. I might even start handing them out like business cards: “Hi, I’m Meng — have you heard the good word about swing hooks?”

Then there’s Marty. Marty is the first Asian guide I’ve ever fished with — and it was even cooler than I expected. He was born and raised in Alaska but has fished just about everywhere for just about everything. He even loves stripers, which earns him instant bonus points in my book. There’s something about fishing with another Asian that just feels right — it’s like we’re connected by some unspoken cultural fishing code.  Every day with Marty felt like hanging out with your favorite cousin who just happens to be a world-class fisherman. There’s that family tradition vibe — the dad, mom, or uncle who took you fishing as a kid, the unspoken pressure to outfish everyone, and of course the shared love of eating something fermented back at camp. If we’d had a rice cooker in the kitchen, Marty and I would have been unstoppable.   Huck loves him too — which, let’s be honest, is the highest praise any human can get on these trips. I can’t wait to fish with him again next season. Marty’s the kind of guy who doesn’t just guide you — he adds a whole new flavor to the camp.

We somehow made it to Anchorage without having to rearrange a single reservation — a logistical miracle considering three days ago I was convinced we’d be sleeping on the baggage carousel. I guess “expect the unexpected” really does mean sometimes you just get lucky.  We thought we had nailed it: prime week, peak run, hero shots incoming. Instead, we managed to pick the one dud week in a four-week window of greatness and got absolutely schooled by the river. The Sapsuk basically took us out behind the woodshed, gave us a whoopin’, and then politely reminded us whose house this was. Oh well — we were due for some humble pie. But honestly? It wasn’t half bad. We got to catch up with Glen Chen over Mongolian beef and fried rice at a local Chinese joint. Glen has a PhD and is a tenured biologist and the Chief of the Subsistence Branch for the Alaska Regional Office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs  (CSBAROBIA. for short) where he plays a leading role in managing subsistence fisheries and wildlife programs in Alaska.  He also has been very helpfull as our weather/run/plane-schedule whisperer. Reconnecting with him felt like rewinding a couple decades. I still remember teaching him to tie flies at the Millpond Fly Shop when he was a kid — now he’s one of the most dialed-in fly anglers and the most educated fisheries biologist I know.   It was Glen who first got me hooked (pun intended) on click-pawl reels a few years back, and he just wrote a piece on them in Swing magazine. I’ve been loving those little screaming reels this year — whether it’s Henderson Springs Trout,   Mexican Roosterfish, or San Luis Stripers on glass rods, that sound is pure fishing adrenaline.  Im going to buy one of his extra  Hardy Duchess Salmon reels to play with tarpon next month.  Thanks, Glen. Nothing says “fish on” quite like a reel that sounds like it’s calling the fire department.

Finally, as always, the trip ended far too soon. There’s something about leaving the Sapsuk that feels like stepping through a doorway back into another reality. For a week, life narrows down to its purest form — friends, fish, the river, and the occasional drone recon mission. No headlines, no deadlines, just the sound of water, the smell of Aubry’s cooking, and the rhythm of casting and swinging.   But all good things pause.   By the time we crossed into Anchorage airspace from Nelson’s Lagoon  and I turned my phone notifications back on, the spell was broken. But all good things pause.  The nest day as the plane lifted off from Anchorage on the anniversary of 9/11, I couldn’t help but feel that familiar weight return.The quiet afterglow of the Sapsuk was suddenly drowned out by a rush of office problems, unexpected emergencies, and the unfiltered noise of the world.

This time, the news hit especially hard. I read about the senseless stabbing of a young Ukrainian woman — someone nearly the same age as my own daughter — on a train not far from where Mia lives in Charleston. The assassination of Charlie Kirk. And of course, the solemn memory of 9/11 itself, a day that forever changed our country.

I spent much of the flight home in prayer — for Charlie’s family, for that young woman’s loved ones, for our country. These moments remind me that my purpose on this earth isn’t just about catching fish. It is, and always will be, about Faith, Family, Country, and Fly Fishing — in that order.

And before I close the book on this trip, one more thank you must be said: to Pastor Mike. Year after year, he has been a quiet but powerful spiritual anchor for me at the Sapsuk. His friendship and faith have been a steady source of encouragement, and I am grateful for the time we’ve shared by the river.

So, until next year, I leave the Sapsuk with a grateful heart — for the fish we caught, the friends I fished with, the lessons learned, and the reminder that this wild place helps me return to the world with renewed purpose

Google Photo Archive of Sapsuk 25