Dispatches from the Edge of Autumn

Another summer’s breathing its last up here, and I reckon you can feel it even down there in the clatter and hum of your regular lives. There’s a shift in the light, a certain scent on the wind that tells you things are changing. The big reds have mostly done their dance, spawned, and are now part of the eternal giving back to the river. Nature, in its wisdom, doesn’t waste a damn thing.

But don’t pack away the waders just yet, not if you’ve got a mind for something a little different, something with a bit more… silver to it. We’re talking September, and we’re talking coho.

Now, a coho ain’t a king. Let’s get that straight. There’s a different kind of fight in ’em, a different kind of beauty. They’re built for speed, these fellas, sleek and chromed like a new truck on a dusty road. When they hit, it’s not the mule-kick of a big Chinook, but a quick, violent tremor up the line, then a dash, a sudden leap that catches the light and burns it into your memory. They’ll run, they’ll jump, they’ll make you work for it, but not with the brute force of their bigger cousins. It’s more of a dance, a quicksilver ballet out there on the water.

September is when they really start to pile into these rivers, thick and strong, pushing up from the salt. The air’s got a crispness to it that clears the head, and the leaves on the alders are just starting to whisper about turning. It’s prime time. The crowds have thinned, the bears are still out, but less frantic than during the peak sockeye run, and the whole place breathes a little easier. You can hear yourself think. Or not think, which is often the better option.

We’ve got the boats ready, the guides are chomping at the bit. They know these waters like the back of their hands, know where the coho hold, where they’ll take a fly or a spinner with a sudden, savage greed. We’ll put you on ‘em. Whether you like to cast a long line and watch that indicator dip, or prefer the satisfying thrum of a plug taking hold, the coho are usually more than willing.

There’s a purity to it, fishing for coho in the fall. The light is softer, the days shorter, and you feel the turning of the season in your bones. You’re not just chasing fish; you’re out there in the raw, elemental beauty of the place, breathing it in, letting it work its particular magic on whatever ails you. You might even catch a glimpse of a moose, a bald eagle circling high, or the distant ripple of a grizzly on the bank. These are the things that stick, long after the last fish has been released or taken for the pan.

So, if the idea of bright, feisty coho, crisp fall air, and the quiet rhythm of the Alaskan wilderness appeals to your soul, give us a holler. We’ve got a few openings left, and the coffee’s always on.

Come on up. Let’s go fishing.

Yours in the current,

The Crew at Rainbow King Lodge
(Where the rivers still run wild, and we are having a little fun channeling Jim Harrison)

Call: (800) 458-6539 Now