The Quest for King Crab

Adventures from summer vacation

We landed in Juneau knowing that there were only 32 hours left of king crab season. 

Fish and Game never gives much notice when and how long the season will be open, and it’s been a number of years since the season coincided with our annual Alaska vacation. This year, the week-long season began while our Alaska relatives were visiting us in New York for a family wedding.

Flying back together after the wedding made the cross country trip seem faster, but we still felt the clock ticking on crab season. We arrived after dark, too late to get the boat in the water.

Jet lag and the tide schedule foiled our plan to get going at daybreak. The boat is big enough that launching at low tide required more skill and assistance than we visiting deckhands could provide.

So we wasted time on a coffee and donut run until it was finally time to go. Crab pot loaded on deck, stinky bait in a covered bucket, and coordinates from a helpful friend for where to drop the pot to soak for the now 24 hours left in the season.

Those hours went quickly, in part because the salmon were biting. Clear skies, gorgeous sunshine and minimal wind is a rare gift in Juneau, and we thanked the Lord for the forecast of eight rain-free days, as well as the eight shiny Cohoes that filled the boat’s livewell by suppertime. 

Cleaning, cutting and vacuum-sealing salmon provided distraction for the evening, but in the back of our minds we all thought of that crab pot, quietly resting on the bottom of the channel. Was it even now hosting a few crabby guests, lured into the trap by the nasty-but-irresistible little net bags filled with salmon heads?

Down to the wire

It’s now an hour before the noon deadline on the last day of crab season. I’m standing on the deck, phone camera at the ready, watching the guys snag the buoy tethered to our crab pot. They haul it into the boat, grab the line and thread it onto the crab puller, then adjust the tension. Thankfully the days of pulling up 500-feet of line by hand are long past. 

The motor whirrs and they feed the line into a big bucket. One hundred feet. Two hundred feet. The water slicks off easily as the rope clears the pulley; the pot hasn’t soaked long enough for seaweed to entwine with the line.

I adjust my grip on my phone and open my camera. Three hundred feet. The guys lean over the gunnel, waiting to catch that first glimpse of the pot. Will we have crab?

Four hundred feet. The motor slows and grinds with the weight of the pot. Fifty feet to go. Twenty five. Ten. The moment of truth arrives. “You want to look?” My brother-in-law stops the motor and nods toward the gunnel.

I step forward and peer over to see the white, knobby underbelly of a big king crab, upside down atop several others in the pot, a jumble of spiny legs and claws sticking out beneath.

“YES!!”

I’d pump my fist but I need two hands to take the photos. It wouldn’t do to drop the phone overboard. “Let’s hope they are keepers,” I pray as my brother-in-law grabs the gauge. 

The reckoning: five crab, three are too small, but two keepers. 

Elation.

Start melting the butter.