Both of us had fished in countless states and waterways but never had either of us landed one of those coveted trophies. My dad and I were two of those hopefuls this fall, trekking upstate with my uncle and cousins one October weekend to bring home a fish of our own.

They are joined by throngs of hopeful anglers who aim to arrive in Oswego County just as the salmon begin their annual “run,” when the fish leave the lake’s relative safety and begin their doomed mission upstream.

Thousands of coho and king salmon swim inland every autumn just five hours northwest of New York City, pouring out of Lake Ontario and into dozens of tributaries across Oswego County to spawn and die upstream.

The twist in that fantasy is that such visions are not pipe dreams restricted to the West. That fishermen and women wish for salmon is no surprise. Its very mention brings fantasies of deep woods and of roaring streams, dammed by hordes of slick green backs begging to be hooked. King salmon, with its signature pink streak and hooked jaw, is almost certainly on anyone’s list. I was also not in Alaska, the assumed home of this prized fish I was an hour north of Syracuse, New York.Īll anglers have a catch they dream of landing. Two decades of fishing experience vanished the moment its body – 3 feet long, at least – swam in front of me. Like a phantom, it glided against the current, its rhythm just a beat slower than the water around it. My dad and I were on the rocky bank of Sandy Creek when I saw the first salmon close enough to catch. Daughter and Dad, chasing salmon in Upstate New Yorkġ February 2020 Words: Ali Watkins | Photos: Tony Cenicola

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