Reflection on Alaska #5

I realize fishing has been mentioned and for those who do not fish it would seem this may be over kill. However, the Dolly Varden has to be mentioned because of it true beauty. Of course, it goes without saying that part of the intrigue and specialness of it all is the surroundings in which they live. Our first real attempt to latch on to the silver beauties was at the location where a huge spring emptied into the Canning River. Crystalline water that would make Perrier lust, dumped head long into the Canning and headed to the sea.

Tara had said this was a sure thing because of her past experience but either because of our ineptitude, or belligerence on the part of the trout we were not able to secure a single silver darling at this unusual location. The massive spring poured out of the tundra and gouged out a huge hole that any self respecting trout should have lusted for. As one trout said to the other, "Man, like this crib is like to die for."

We were profoundly surprised not a fish was to have its lips ripped. We were stunned if not befuddled and maybe distraught, even despondent if not disappointed. We recovered and moved to the north bathed in arctic sun and the ambiance of a vibrant tundra. The marsh hawk flew past and the loons chatted among themselves noting our presence, possibly thinking we were out of our element. Their ancestors knew the Athabaskans and Eskimos but not many of the white tribe, the tall skinny ones that froze at first sub zero night with 60 mph winds. It was fall and we were warm.

A Day later was another well know holding area, a redd if you will, where they were rumored to be stacked up like a cord of good aspen. It was below a large cliff and extended to the south and north in the moderately moving ripples. We pulled the rafts into comfortable slack water and took stock of the surroundings while assembling our anxious gear. Craig, a fisherman of considerable experience, tied into a dandy right off taking one of his flash flies that looked more like showy transvestite in Los Vegas. But the big males went for the gaudy thing like kids in a candy store, or me for a wee dram of Talister single malt.

All of us got our satisfy (as they say in Wisconsin) as we landed a number of real muscle bound beauties. Ian lost one by thinking he could turn a monster while it ran with the current. As a result of the loss he caught the derision of even the seagulls. All the fish were returned to the river and ultimately to the Beaufort sea--that is if they didn't want to winter over in the big hole by the rock. We were not planning to hold over for the winter season so we moved on, reluctantly, for here is where the fisherman's heart resides.