doing us any favors. Up ahead, I could see trophy trout slurping may- flies from the surface of the pool—ugh! “Up a creek with a paddle,” Steve joked to brighten my mood. We laughed, turned around, and headed back on the last of the tide.


It would be a boneheaded oversight to get stuck up this creek for the night with only mosquitos for company. After a week of fishing every inch of water that surrounds the islands,


wanderlust came over us again. It’s called kayak fishing for a reason and the kayak part of the equation is compelling here. The last leg of our trip took us out to Cape Cook, a six-mile peninsula that features sand beaches and enticing trout streams draining off the Refugium Range. The bay that fronts the southern shore of the cape is part of the


Checleset Bay Ecological Reserve, and closed to fishing. But the fish don’t know the boundary, so we were able to find plenty of action in legal waters. As we paddled out of the protective reefs and islets, the air was rich


with the tangy scent of a million square miles of marine bouillabaisse. To the north we could see Reddi-wip storm clouds forming on the ridge. Skirting Checleset Bay in a wide sweep, we threw out our lines. Three


gray whales steamed toward us, weaving in and out and performing a whale ballet. Then BOOM! A big coho hit my lure and pinned my rod in the


holder. I dropped my half-eaten Clif Bar and hung tight as the silver fish leaped around the boat like Wiley Coyote exiting a Road Runner cartoon. After a mercurial fight, the trophy ended up in a yellow mesh fish bag


on my rear deck. A two-night fish dinner was exactly what we needed. We expected the storm brewing on the horizon would pin us to the beach for at least that long. Next morning the wind veered to the southeast and pushed to gale


level. Clouds streamed in double-time and white caps exploded across the bay. It was a grand storm and we exulted in it. To pass the time, we grilled salmon fillets in the lee of the hut; only the occasional rain drove us inside. Even then, a storm is a grand thing in the Skookum, a two-room, single-wall, Nemo tent that we’d hauled along. The collaps- ible condo has a connected anteroom separating two large three-man tents that served to keep the peace; Steve maintains a tidy scene on his end while I host a proper sty at my side. Through the storm we played cards, tended our Foster charges, took the odd peek out the window at the raging furies and kept an eye out for leaks. By morning, the gale had blown itself out, leaving a metric ton of


seaweed washed up on the beach. By afternoon, blue skies reigned over stubborn, high-stepping seas. Tepid sunlight bore down with enough power to burn our bare feet on the hot sand. Still the sea was just too lumpy to get out and fish. Instead, we fished some plastic discs out of our hatches, and set up an impromptu disc-golf course on the beach. After several days stranded on shore, we seriously missed fishing (and fish entrées). So, we scraped huge barnacles off the reef rocks and steamed them over the fire.


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