COHO SALMON: THE SILVER IN ALASKA'S AUTUMN : SALMON ABUNDANT WHEN THE WEATHER BEGINS TO TURN NASTY.

Byline: Bennett J. Mintz Special to the Daily News

In the north country the first sprinkle of snow is called ``termination dust,'' for it signals the termination of summer and the end of tourist season.

The caribou know fall is approaching and move into protected valleys and river bottoms. But anglers recognize that summer is on its last legs by the first flash of coho salmon - the silver in Alaska's autumn.

Coho, or silver, salmon begin schooling off the river mouths in late summer, waiting for fresh water to trigger some long-buried desire to procreate. By late July, schools are milling around the brackish estuaries of every river that dumps into Bristol Bay. Waters to the southeast, around Petersburg, Juneau and Ketchikan, begin their silver runs from two weeks and a month later.

By early August, anglers at fishing camps or posh resorts begin their yearly quest anew. The uninitiated are at the ready to absorb all they can learn from the river veterans.

``It's going to be tough finding anywhere to fish this morning,'' said fishing guide Don Martin as he surveyed the mud rolling downstream on a bone-chilling mid-August morn following an all-night rainstorm.

After conferring with other guides, our two small parties concluded that if all were up for a long boat ride downstream, Mosquito Creek would be best to target the salmon. Mosquito Creek generally runs clear even after a gully-washer. Pacific Palisades fly-anglers Leesa and Jay Bingham agreed instead to scout upstream.

With an icy wind whipping our faces, Martin and I motored 20 miles down the Mulchatna River seeking the clean water and spawning sockeye salmon of Mosquito Creek. Sockeye eggs attract trout and Arctic char the way Mark McGwire attracts autograph-seekers; a pink salmon-egg fly pattern or leech imitation fished below the sockeye almost always results in a feeding trout or char. But the rains had dirtied Mosquito Creek so badly we couldn't find a hint of sockeye, and the waters were running too fast to wade comfortably.

Martin nosed the boat carefully back into the main Mulchatna current.

``What do you want to do?'' he asked.

``You're the guide,'' I responded. ``Find us some fish.''

Martin looks like a guide. A well-worn hat keeps the near-constant drizzle off his chiseled face; a handgun at the hip is bear insurance. But Martin is less than typical. During the winter months he lives in West Los Angeles, plays the stock market on the Internet and auditions for acting roles.

He needed to be more convincing in his role as a guide; what had been a long morning was only getting longer with no fish in the boat. Martin did what Alaska guides do when they're stumped. He pulled ashore, built a fire and brewed some coffee.

We were at the mouth of Kiefer Creek, a short, clear-running stream filled with snags and downed spruce trees. It's a great place to land a boat and even a greater place to look for coho as they rest in the soft current.

Most anglers reach for a 6- to 8-weight rod capable of casting a heavy fly to snub the energetic run of a salmon intent on self-preservation. In some waters, a sink-tip line is needed; in others, the fish come within a few inches of the surface and a floating line will be adequate.

It appeared this was going to be one of those years when the silvers don't show or there are so few of them that they're not worth fishing for.

The coffee was gone and my Snickers bar was halfway eaten when a 10-pound silver salmon, bright as a dime, jumped not 20-feet from where we stood. And then another. And another. The fresh water from the overnight rain had done it. The silver salmon were in.

My hands were cold, wet and trembling as I tied on a bright silver-and-red flash fly. I cast it 10- or 15-feet above where the salmon had jumped and instantly was rewarded by a fish. The fly was tied on a barbless hook (``all the easier to let you go, my dear'') and, after three or four heart-stopping jumps, the salmon tossed it clear.

I stripped in the line, recast a time or two, and, bang, another salmon. And then another. In two hours I hooked about a dozen, landed six and released all but one, which took the fly too deeply to remove.

``Patience is very important up here,'' Martin said. ``At this time of year, we really need to check all of our spots a couple of times a day because the fish come in on a tide after a rainstorm and they could come in at any time.''

We motored back to camp, where the cook quickly converted that coho into a cocktail-hour pate.

Back from upstream, the envious Binghams reported plenty of trout and char, but they wouldn't see silver till the next morning, when we all struck salmon paydirt. Autumn's normal bumper crop of coho might have turned into a bummer had it not been for the wait-and-see attitude of the guide.

Three days and 30 hooked salmon later, there was another dusting of snow - more termination dust - and the heavy, moisture-laden winds of mid-August felt more like November. It was time to come home from Alaska, richer in silver for the experience.

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Photo

PHOTO (Color) Alaska angling guide Don Martin, who winters in West Los Angeles, displays an 8-pound silver salmon for which the Mulchatna River is famous.

Bennett J. Mintz/Special to the Daily News