Solo with the Winter Kings: November in Ketchikan
November 9, 2024 — just another cold, wet, windy morning in Ketchikan, Alaska. Typical winter fishing weather. Rain came in sideways, pushed by a stiff southeast wind, and the sky hung low and gray—the kind of ceiling that never lifts. Most folks would’ve stayed home. Honestly, staring at the forecast, I started to second-guess whether it was even worth heading out.
But I launched solo out of Bar Harbor just after first light. The boat rocked as I loaded up and pushed off through the Narrows. Out on the water, the chop was steady but familiar. This was Southeast Alaska in November—wet, wild, and full of promise.
I dropped lines in deep water, trolling herring behind flashers, eyes locked on the rod tips for that telltale bounce. The first few fish came quickly—bright little kings full of fight, but just under the legal size. A few close calls, but they all went back. It was steady action, and the kind of focused calm you only get when you’re out there alone. No distractions. Just me, the gear, and the rhythm of the ocean.
Then it happened—the takedown I’d been waiting for. One rod buried hard. I scrambled from the helm to grab it. The fish ran deep, peeling off line, fighting like it knew what was at stake. When I finally got a look at it, it seemed smaller than expected. Not wanting to harm the fish if it wasn’t legal, I set the net aside and gently lifted it aboard. It measured 28 1/2 inches—barely legal, but a solid winter keeper. First one in the box.
The bite stayed consistent. More undersized kings—some heartbreakingly close—but none better than that first one. Until the tide began to shift.
That’s when it happened. A strike that stopped everything. The rod slammed down and held. Heavy. Slow. Strong.
This fish meant business. Alone in the boat, wind biting at my face, I worked the rod and wheel in a careful, practiced rhythm. After a stubborn, determined fight, it surfaced—thick-bodied, chrome-bright, and easily the biggest fish of the day. Around 15 pounds, maybe more. A beautiful winter king, and the perfect closer.
By the time I motored back into Bar Harbor, the rain hadn’t let up, and the wind still tugged at the dock lines. I was soaked to the bone, chilled and worn out—but two kings were in the cooler, and I carried that quiet satisfaction you only get from doing it solo.
Just me, the boat, and the kings—classic winter fishing in Ketchikan. Cold, wet, and unforgettable.