By Andrew Cremata

Upon waking, my mind was entirely at rest. The blissful moment was interrupted by the flapping sound of a wind-whipped flag. Knowing what it meant, I opened my eyes, sat up, and looked over the lake. Whitecaps confirmed a worst-case scenario that thwarted my plan to fish for lake trout.

One week prior, I’d donated a fishing trip to a local non-profit for their annual fundraiser. The high bidder, Kristine, was meeting me at the boat ramp in thirty minutes. Assuming Kristine was eager to catch fish, I had to think fast and develop an alternate plan.

After falling backward onto my air mattress, I closed my eyes and considered my options. High winds made the Yukon lakes unfishable, especially from a small 14-foot boat. Traveling great distances in my mind, I struggled to recall a spot protected from the wind that was also likely to hold mid-August fish. After many layers of memory were peeled away, I recalled a springtime exploration of a no-name Yukon creek about a decade prior.

While fishing for pike, my wife, Brittney, and I stumbled upon the creek’s outflow and wondered where it went and whether it held any fish. We paddled up the creek for some time, occasionally pausing to cast large spoons toward promising areas. 

At first, the creek was narrow but it soon opened up into a shallow grass flat about a quarter-mile in diameter. Two branches fed the shallow flats, one of which we explored until there was nowhere left to row. Along the way, we each caught a couple of small northern pike, no more than 15 inches in length. 

Most importantly, the creek was protected from the wind and only a thirty-minute drive away. Even though I wasn’t excited about targeting small pike, the prospect was far better than choosing not to fish, especially with Kristine only minutes away. 

An hour later, I was carefully navigating the narrow portion of the creek, doing my best to keep my prop out of thick grass that grew over 8 feet tall from bottom to surface. While marginally successful, I reached the grassy flat relatively unscathed. 

It was Kristine’s first-ever fishing experience. After a few lessons focused on how to hold a fishing pole, operate a reel, and cast a lure, she quickly developed a knack for the basics. If we could somehow put a few small fish in the boat, her introduction to the sport would be an unmitigated success.

After catching a 27-inch pike on my third cast, I got excited. The healthy northern inhaled my small brown crankbait and it suddenly seemed likely Kristine would have an opportunity to land some nice fish. 

Thirty minutes went by without another bite. A large pike swam under the boat and I tossed my lure in front of its face but it showed no interest. I began digging into my tackle box, trying various plugs and spoons. A few pike followed the lures to the boat but none would strike.

 Earlier in the summer, I was messaging with a friend who lives in the Yukon. We were sharing fish photos and he sent me a shot of him holding a 40-inch pike caught in TARFU Lake. I asked him about his lure of choice when targeting trophy pike. His answer was surprising. 

Recalling this dialog, I swapped out Kristine’s lure and gave her some instructions on how best to present the offering to hopefully hungry pike. 

Before I realized what was happening, Kristine hooked up on a solid fish and reeled it to the boat. Her first-ever fish was a 26-inch northern pike. After snapping a few photos of the happy angler, I swapped out my lure and positioned the boat so we could cast without getting tangled up. 

The ensuing chaos shattered my memory into broken shards but what follows are some of the highlights.

For two hours, nearly every cast resulted in an immediate strike. We lost track of how many fish we caught but the number was between 20 and 25. Most of the pike were too big to keep due to Yukon slot limits, and two reached trophy size. 

Kristine got into a large fish that spun the boat halfway around. As she reeled it close, I said, “I’m not sure how I’m going to get this thing in the net!”

It wasn’t easy but after some trial and error, I managed to maneuver the head and most of the body through the hoop before lifting with all my strength. And it’s important to note that I have a very large net! 

The trophy northern measured 45 inches and sported a thick girth to match its length. 

A while later, we both hooked into fish and somehow landed both. Kristine tangled with a pike that ran at full speed under the boat, line screaming from the drag until it snapped under the intense strain. 

After setting my rod down to net one of Kristine’s fish, I turned just in time to see my pole flying off the boat. Even though my lure barely touched the water, a pike still found it irresistible. I somehow managed to seize the rod before it slid into the water, only to have the fish immediately break me offwhile attempting to remove the hook, one beefy slough shark sporting a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth claimed a large chunk of my middle finger. After bleeding all over myself, my gear, and the boat, I cut a strip of material off a clean sock and tied up the wound. While far from ideal, the improvised first aid allowed me to keep fishing.

The pike were still biting when we decided to leave, albeit far slower than when the bite turned on. My arms were sore and my finger was throbbing. The fishing gear was equally battered and bruised. 

As we puttered our way through the creek I looked at Kristine and said, “I’m sorry. This may be the worst thing to happen on your first fishing trip because everything that comes after will likely seem disappointing.”

When Kristine laughed off my comment, I sensed that she’d contracted fishing fever. Catching a 25-pound-plus trophy northern pike tends to do that, regardless of experience level. 

Some of my fellow anglers are likely wondering what Kristine and I used to catch all of these amazing fish. Unfortunately, I have already surpassed my word count for this article so I’ll have to save that information for a future article.