“You’re OK,” I told myself over and over again, a mantra more wish than fact. I was not OK, in fact. I was hanging off the side of a sheer slope with my terrified hands clutching an alder branch, bashing my toes into the crusty snow on my way to the top of a ridge on Mount Marathon. Turning around wasn’t an option, because if I looked down that 50-foot drop, I’d really be done in.
As silver salmon move into Kenai Peninsula streams, species from earlier runs are beginning to spawn, concentrating resident species, which are reaching the height of... Read more
