September 8, 2005
| Fishing In Alaska |
| Copyright 2008 by Lewis Harris. All rights reserved. |
I had the good luck to go fly fishing for trout in Ptarmigan Creek
yesterday. I say "fly", but we didn't use flies --instead we used
beads colored to mimic the appearance of salmon eggs. The
beads ranged in size from a caper to the size of an M&M, the color
anywhere from a deep red to almost white. The beads had been
painted with nail polish in the hope of finding the right look to
attract trout. Finding the right color can make all of the difference.
We were lucky and found a desirable bead early, an almost
white/peach shade.
Ptarmigan Creek brimmed with salmon, King and Sockeye. The
slick creatures moved dumbly in the rushing waters, large and
ruby red and at the end of their life cycle. Many already lay dead
in deeper pools, and along the creek banks rotting in the autumn
chill. But where salmon gathered, trout also teemed, hoping to
feast on the eggs that the dying fish had left behind.
My friend Laura and I waded through icy waters in thick waders.
We cast our beads upstream, following our strike indicators
(bobbers) as they sped along the swiftly moving creek. We fed our
lines out by hand and then drew them back, keeping lines taut and
our poles at the ready to set the hook. We caught about a
half-dozen apiece, all Dolly Varden. The fish were sleek, 13" or
14" long. We hooked them and then worked them to the bank
where we carefully removed the hooks and set them free. "Catch
and Release" was our game plan. We were more interested in the
challenge of bringing the fish to shore than landing dinner.
yesterday. I say "fly", but we didn't use flies --instead we used
beads colored to mimic the appearance of salmon eggs. The
beads ranged in size from a caper to the size of an M&M, the color
anywhere from a deep red to almost white. The beads had been
painted with nail polish in the hope of finding the right look to
attract trout. Finding the right color can make all of the difference.
We were lucky and found a desirable bead early, an almost
white/peach shade.
Ptarmigan Creek brimmed with salmon, King and Sockeye. The
slick creatures moved dumbly in the rushing waters, large and
ruby red and at the end of their life cycle. Many already lay dead
in deeper pools, and along the creek banks rotting in the autumn
chill. But where salmon gathered, trout also teemed, hoping to
feast on the eggs that the dying fish had left behind.
My friend Laura and I waded through icy waters in thick waders.
We cast our beads upstream, following our strike indicators
(bobbers) as they sped along the swiftly moving creek. We fed our
lines out by hand and then drew them back, keeping lines taut and
our poles at the ready to set the hook. We caught about a
half-dozen apiece, all Dolly Varden. The fish were sleek, 13" or
14" long. We hooked them and then worked them to the bank
where we carefully removed the hooks and set them free. "Catch
and Release" was our game plan. We were more interested in the
challenge of bringing the fish to shore than landing dinner.
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Sometimes we "horsed" a fish; grew overly excited and lost the
catch before we landed it. We hooked an occasional salmon, too,
which was a colossal pain. We weren't rigged for salmon, our
poles being lightweight and far from ideal for dealing with the
larger fish. Hooking a salmon often ended in the loss of a hook
and bead.
We fished in the sun and then fished in the rain. I waded across
the rushing creek, leaning into the current. The bear spray on my
hip reminded me to be alert, especially with the water and banks
littered with scores of deteriorating salmon carcasses. But
sometimes I would find myself slipping into a trance, focused
entirely on the running water and my strike indicator (bobber).
In Alaska, folks snub the non-glamorous terminology of "bobber"
and "fishing pole". Fishing is a specific and highly specialized
endeavor. Anglers revel in the complexity of their sport, diving into
the "art" of the enterprise, fine tuning each action in pursuit of the
simple line between man and fish. And it is great fun, relaxing and
meditative. All the Zen qualities anglers attribute to fly-fishing can
be found. The water definitely talks, chatters over the rocks, telling
one to chill out, to enjoy the day, to appreciate the fleeting sparkle
of sunlight and the soothing patter of rain.
In a way fly fishermen are something akin to conjurers, casting
lines instead of spells. Abracadabra and Alakazam and then a flick
of the wrist. If you're lucky you have the right bead, and luckier still
if a trout appears.
And hopefully you don't horse it.
catch before we landed it. We hooked an occasional salmon, too,
which was a colossal pain. We weren't rigged for salmon, our
poles being lightweight and far from ideal for dealing with the
larger fish. Hooking a salmon often ended in the loss of a hook
and bead.
We fished in the sun and then fished in the rain. I waded across
the rushing creek, leaning into the current. The bear spray on my
hip reminded me to be alert, especially with the water and banks
littered with scores of deteriorating salmon carcasses. But
sometimes I would find myself slipping into a trance, focused
entirely on the running water and my strike indicator (bobber).
In Alaska, folks snub the non-glamorous terminology of "bobber"
and "fishing pole". Fishing is a specific and highly specialized
endeavor. Anglers revel in the complexity of their sport, diving into
the "art" of the enterprise, fine tuning each action in pursuit of the
simple line between man and fish. And it is great fun, relaxing and
meditative. All the Zen qualities anglers attribute to fly-fishing can
be found. The water definitely talks, chatters over the rocks, telling
one to chill out, to enjoy the day, to appreciate the fleeting sparkle
of sunlight and the soothing patter of rain.
In a way fly fishermen are something akin to conjurers, casting
lines instead of spells. Abracadabra and Alakazam and then a flick
of the wrist. If you're lucky you have the right bead, and luckier still
if a trout appears.
And hopefully you don't horse it.