Traveling Is About More Than Just Visiting New Places

In the late afternoon, a magical atmosphere envelops you as you sit at the front of a fishing boat, rod in hand, during Alaska’s fleeting summer. The sun hangs low, accentuating the mountains with sharp clarity, while the air is infused with the scents of pine, salt, and sunscreen. The water glistens like polished glass, occasionally rippled by otters floating by, clutching mussels on their bellies.

Just when I thought, man, it can’t get any more tranquil than this, I felt a sudden tug on my line—fish on!

With the rod bent, I reeled in, drawing the fish upward. As it broke the surface, it spat out the hook and flipped onto its back in the water, flailing its fins like a turtle. Suddenly, an eagle swooped down from a nearby spruce tree, seized the fish in its talons, and vanished into the mist toward the distant shore.

“Well,” said a fellow fisherman. “That’s not exactly how I imagined the one that got away.”

Like the rockfish, I too found myself swimming away. I spent nearly seven years of my 20s in Alaska before recently relocating to Colorado, and this summer fishing trip marked my first return.

One of the great dilemmas for travelers is choosing the next destination. Do you dive into the unknown, immersing yourself in the new customs, cuisine, attire, and language of an unfamiliar place? Or do you relax back into the familiar comforts of a destination you already cherish?

Usually, if I have the choice, I prefer to explore new places over revisiting old ones. However, this past July found me back in the 49th state, aboard a fishing boat on a return trip to the secluded Waterfall Resort in the Alaskan panhandle.

Once a salmon cannery, the resort is perfectly situated amid waters teeming with omega-3-rich fish. Guests stay in converted staff accommodations and spend their days reeling in salmon, halibut, rockfish, and ling cod, depending on luck and fishing limits. The most sought-after catch is the king or Chinook salmon, celebrated for its rich, buttery taste and impressive size, often reaching over 50 pounds, though most average around 15 to 20 pounds.

Despite being a lifelong Alaskan during many salmon seasons, I had yet to catch a king. This was going to be my year.

On our second full day of fishing, Captain Tony proclaimed, "I call this spot Jurassic Park." My three companions and I cast our lines, which instantly attracted four bites. Every time the hook touched the water, a rockfish, red snapper, or vermilion would be on it in seconds. Within just 20 minutes, the deck was strewn with fish, but still no kings were caught.

That evening, I shared fishing stories at Waterfall’s bar with a man from Texas. This marked his twelfth summer at Waterfall Resort. His achievement was notable until he mentioned that his father had been visiting for over 20 years. Clearly, the resort has a way of drawing back visitors. The Texans had already spent three days there and each had bagged their limit of kings (nonresidents are restricted to two kings in July), which made me quite envious.

If I were to catch a king, it would be because of our shared destinies, summoned home by an unseen force. The life of a salmon is a round trip from river to sea and back. A year after hatching in the freshwater of Alaska, young salmon navigate downstream until they enter the ocean, sometimes hundreds of miles away. For the next two to seven years, they drift in the ocean, feasting on smaller fish and gaining weight for their journey home.

At some point, a switch flips, and their only goal becomes returning to the exact place where they were born. Over several weeks, the salmon leave the ocean and struggle upstream against a relentless current to reach the spot of their own hatching, seeking a mate, spawning, and eventually dying. Their bodies nourish insects, which in turn feed the young salmon once they hatch. It’s this epic journey that leads them past our patiently waiting bait, hopefully ending up in our cooler.

On the last morning, we set off southward—the only boat daring to do so. "It’s hero or bust," Captain Tony declared. "You’ll either catch nothing or everything today."

In the past three days, we had only managed to catch one king among the four of us. While it was a hefty 33 pounds—the second largest of the season—providing plenty of meals for us, it fell short of the limit set by the Department of Fish and Game. Heading north offered slim chances of catching a salmon, so we opted for a bold move.

Despite moving to a location right above where the kings were showing up—displayed like boomerangs on the ship’s depth monitor—they simply weren’t biting. (There’s a reason they say it’s called fishing, not catching.)

I didn’t manage to catch a king. Adding that to my recent move from Alaska, a return trip felt even more essential. After struggling to adapt to life in Colorado—making new friends, buying a home, figuring out the area—there was solace in returning to the familiar rhythm and patience that an Alaskan fishing trip demands.

Not long after, back at the dock, another angler recounted his tale of a salmon that got away. "It was this big," he lamented, stretching his hands about three feet apart. Having experienced similar stories over the years, I know those hands will continue to widen with each retelling.

If you're planning a trip: Waterfall Resort

Waterfall Resort operates from June through September each year. Each boat accommodates up to four passengers, and captains are ready to assist anglers of all experience levels. Accommodations are suitable for two people and include rooms in the main lodge as well as stand-alone cabins. The resort features a dining room, bar, areas for relaxation with views of the water, and a tackle and gift shop. All necessary tackle, including rods, bait, waders, and boots, is provided.