We had been fishing all day with no luck. A lack of interest on the fish’s part had made it a long morning and afternoon of casting and reeling with nothing to show. So, when the big chum hit my lure late that evening, I was surprised to say the least. Lew, who luckily was back at the boat, saw it and came running with the net, capturing the big guy just as he worked the lure out of his mouth. I was thankful.

Even though they are at the bottom of the preferable salmon chain, I love to catch these big fighters. It’s something we cherish during the late summer. Great on rod and reel and also on the grill!

August is the month of anticipation. It’s the month when things start to get serious, especially for hunters who want to get out and see what the country has to offer. It’s a welcome time for fisherman too, those of us who like to chase big chum, arctic char and various other species who make their home upriver. The weather is still warm, and even though the mosquitoes are in full force, a boat ride north is more than just a boat ride. It’s a ritual.

 Our goal, as usual, was to head north to an old familiar spot in hopes of catching a few fish and if we’re lucky, maybe see a bear or two and if we were really lucky, maybe a shootable moose. Its funny sometimes how an adventure unfolds. You know you’re going, and you know you’ll be out there in the thick of it, but you’re never really sure how things will turn out. You hope or I should say dream of bending the rod a few times, or maybe crossing the path of a bear that will make the neighbors jealous, and if things go completely right, you’ll fill numerous game bags with an early season moose. But like I said you never really know.

A sight I’ve seen and experienced many times. Lew and his boat getting ready to push off for another adventure.

In the old days the boat ride upriver was boring for me. An uneventful excursion of waves and passing willows, with me in the front saying, “let’s hurry up and get to camp, so we can start hunting”. We couldn’t get there fast enough in those days, but now, it’s different, I cherish the ride more than ever. It’s still familiar, like an old house and one I’ve traveled many times over the many years I’ve been here, but now I see it in a new light.

 I’ve had several boat captains over those same years, especially in the early days, but none as good as my good friend Lew, who drives his boat now, allowing me to sit up front and view all the wonders that the river offers. As I sit there, I reflect mostly on the specific places I’ve been, time spent on various adventures throughout the years. I don’t know if that means I’m getting old or maybe I’ve just been lucky to have gone out as much as I have. Could be both.

All camps are different, whether it’s on the river or the tundra or anywhere else in the world. But the feeling of anticipation and beauty isn’t. This camp was perfect with a perfect view.

The river itself is old and has changed very little over the years. Maybe a few more cabins and make shift camps here and there, but the crooks and crannies, the slews and sandbars haven’t changed much. The infamous Hugo mountain still sits close to the mouth of the river. A place I first visited when I came here, it looms large at the river’s edge, towering above like a big grey rock, which it is. As we pass it on the boat, I remember it was where I saw my first grizzly and a place where my Dad took his first and only caribou all those years ago.

The old river hasn’t changed much. Other than a few new cabins and make shift camps you’ll pretty much see the same thing. This old camp has provided shelter for Lew and I many times.

The Noatak is one of many rivers in Alaska. It’s big, wide in places and always beautiful I never get tired of it.

Everyone who lives here knows the river and all have their favorite place on it. I know I do. As we ride, I see more familiar places, like the tundra valley right past Hugo, where I took a caribou in full velvet and that was August! That was long time ago and something you will never see again. Or the long stretch of river before the rock canyon, where I rode a trail dragging a sled full of sheep during a winter subsistence hunt. The snow was so deep and perfect, with no bumps, we flew that day.

Memories run amuck on the Noatak River. Due to a change in migration patterns you don’t see many caribou there in more. This bull was one of the last I’ve taken there.

Then we get up into the hills, where Nap creek comes in and is considered by many, one of the greatest hunting areas on the river. One of the few places where, at one time, you could have a trifecta on moose, caribou and bear. Pass the creek it starts to get really familiar for Lew and me. This is muskox country, and even though the hills and tundra are empty of snow and ice, it soon will be. I ponder as we cruise by the area in the boat, thinking back to previous hunts, where we ended up filling those ox tags. The mountain to the right was where we took last year’s bull and over the across the river is where I about crashed my snow machine trying to get to those. It’s very nostalgic for me each time we go through there. I kept wondering though, where will this year’s Muskox be?

The area known as Nap creek is famous. You never know what you’ll see there and back in the old days it could have meant, not only bear, but moose and caribou too.

Back to reality. Lew and I finally make it to where we’re going. A place I’ve wrote about before and if you’ve read it, you know it’s dear to my heart, the Eli River. We’ve been coming here every year, hoping to kill a bear or two, plus catch a few of those ornery old chums that everyone gives me crap about. It’s just a fun time. This year however we are early, plus there’s someone camped in our old spot, which has become another nuisance these last couple of years. I guess that’s my fault though, writing about it, describing how great it is. I know sometimes places should be kept secret, but not this place, it’s too special.

All camps are different, whether it’s on the river or the tundra or anywhere else in the world. But the feeling of anticipation and beauty isn’t. This camp was perfect with a perfect view.

Anyway, we decide to camp a little further down river this time, keeping away from other people and the conflict that usually arrives from that. A nice gravel bar with deep water and a view to the surrounding area looked perfect, so we anchored. We quickly off load the boat and get the big green Cabela’s tent set-up. Lew has fire duty, while I whip us something for dinner. As we sit by the fire eating a delicious MRE and pondering what the next day will be like, we know it’s perfect. That’s the thing, every hunting camp is different, but the feeling isn’t.