Reflecting on the Arctic #4

One of the callings of the arctic was to fish. It was known from the start that the Canning was not the mother of all angling holes. There were no colorful salmon, no long, leaping steelhead, no ferocious pike, nor snappy bluegills but there were elegant Grayling and majestic Dolly Varden Trout that ran up from the Beaufort Sea. At the Plunge Creek landing area just at the foot hills of the Brooks range, we looked at the crystal water only briefly before we were distracted first by a Grizzly Bear, and then by three very large Caribou that sauntered within fifty yards of the pitched tents. A line was never wetted.

It was also clear early on that fishing would only be one of our activities and really not a very important one. I do recall one fishing spot of more than common interest. I had moved back up stream to the south to get within reach of a hole under a large dome where I was sure large and numerous Grayling were holding court. In the first hole I caught a number of fish in the 20 inch range and actually found myself slipping the fly away from smaller fish--the fishing was that good.

Farther up stream maybe thirty yards there was a number of boulders in the water and behind them, still water pools. For a fly fisherman the catching is not everything. Some great enjoyment is gained from placement of the fly in a difficult to reach position and hooking a fish, then retrieving it through difficult waters. The more line thrown, the greater the accomplishment. It is like making a long pass in football rather than some short thing over the middle which any limp rist slackard could do.

I started my move into the holes but no sooner had I laid out the first presentation than on the dome above me a few hundred feet Ian and Craig started yelling out fish locations pretty much demanding I do as they say. Fair enough. They too were taking glee in my success and watching the entire affair from their lofty position. In addition, they were looking for Grizzles and Caribou.

With each cast I had to pause and survey the setting and then examine the beauty of each fish caught. The view to the north was the snow caped mountains forming a wall of never-ending brutal beauty. The tundra was in full fall colors not rivalled by the maples of Wisconsin. The only difference was that the willows and shrubbery were less than two feet tall and much of the wild, diverse reds were actually 2 inch tall bear berries.

Again, I found myself just looking from one side to the other and it wasn't to look for bears because I had the well-armed cover from above. Catching a beautiful grayling in a cold clear stream while the vision is filled with untouched wonders of the radiant tundra is just not the same as getting a thirty pound, lesion covered carp in the Detroit River. It is a world apart and not something to be taken lightly.