Sick Of Being Skunked? Eggs Can Be The Cure-All

KASILOF RIVER, Alaska - Plenty of people around these parts will tell you the key to catching salmon in Alaska is being in the right place at the right time.

These are the people who aren't catching any fish.

The key is home cooking. More specifically, how one prepares his or her eggs.

It's not a matter of sunny-side up or over easy, hard or soft scrambled - although runny or firm is a prime consideration.

We're talking about salmon eggs here - roe, if you prefer. It's the bait of choice, and in many places, the only effective one.

Alaska's strapping coho can't stop themselves from devouring brightly colored egg clusters of their own kind, dangling on a monofilament loop just above a big, sharp salmon hook.

The problem for anglers is that you will not know if your eggs are good, bad or mediocre for about 12 hours. This is how long I stood on the banks of the Kasilof, little brother to the nearby Kenai River, before I figured it out.

I started to get the hint when the little girl next to me landed her limit of three silvers before I had managed to open my Thermos. My egg problem was confirmed hours later, when a guy from Anchorage in a flannel shirt and baseball cap fishing just up river hooked three exceptionally large coho right at my feet.

Meanwhile, the guy from Seattle had none, zero, zip, not even a bump. I quickly deduced that the egg clusters I had purchased in Soldotna were not up to snuff. They were sort of brownish looking, like ground turkey left on the bottom shelf of the fridge for seven or eight days.

Many of the others fishing here had fluorescent red egg clusters, and salmon limits to match. These people had cured their own eggs, taken from recently caught salmon. But until you catch your first female, you're consigned to store-bought eggs, which are slightly less effective than fishing with Spam fillets.

By 1 p.m., I was skunked and funked. I picked my way along the trail to the parking lot, sulking, when lo and behold, an angel of mercy appeared. Her name was Grace Petranovich. She and her husband, Moose, (every Alaska story must have a moose in it), had just cleaned up on silvers using eggs of their own design.

"No fish?" Grace asked, almost incredulous.

"Nah. Bad eggs, I think," I offered, immediately rejecting the notion that I was personally responsible in any way for my state of skunk.

"Oh, my," Grace said, assuming a concerned, motherly look. With a stoop and a scoop, she reached into a bag and produced a margarine carton. Inside were some of the more beautiful egg clusters I have ever witnessed.

Before I could drop to my knees and worship them, Grace was piling them into my bait carton. "Take these," she insisted. "This will get you started."

I returned to the river, same spot, baited up some of the Magic Petranovich eggs, and cast into the milky, glacial runoff. Fifteen seconds later, the water swirled and my rod nearly danced from my hand. Wham. After a brief struggle, a 10-pound female silver was mine.

I repeated this process two more times in 30 minutes. A limit in an hour. Suddenly, the world seemed right again.

Back at the parking lot, Grace and Moose were standing near their motor home, which is slightly larger than my apartment building. They beamed at the sight of me struggling with a heavy bag of fish. With little prodding, they revealed their secret egg-cure recipe: Pro Cure (a commercial egg cure) and a bit of a secret ingredient.

Everyone, I later learned, has a secret ingredient. You hear rumors of Pro Cure and brown sugar. Borax and ginger. Even Pro Cure and rum.

By the end of the week, I had a secret additive of my own for scores of fresh eggs, which I cured and dried on the back seat of my rental car. I also had a freezerful of salmon.

I won't give away my secret without substantial prodding. But here's a clue: It's the same thing that makes my mother's pumpkin pie better than anyone else's on the planet. And it isn't cinnamon.