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In researching a profile on the Alaskan guide to be
published in the July issue of Fish Alaska, I was confronted with more than
one question as to the importance—and worth—of the fishing guide. Are guides
necessary, I wondered, or are they just another invocation in the same
litany of laziness that sends students searching for Cliffs Notes instead of
Crime and Punishment?
Then, while reading David James Duncan’s brilliant
My Story as Told by Water, I again stumbled across the conundrum. In an
essay titled “In Praise of No Guide,” Duncan opines that guides defeat much
of what inherently belongs to the pursuit of fish with feathers and fur.
“Flyfishing guides accept payment in order to help clients circumvent their
ignorance,” he writes. “But ignorance is one of the most crucial pieces of
equipment any fly fisher will ever own.” After much pondering, I must say I
tend to agree, especially to the extent that a person can never evolve into
a virtuoso of Lord Byron’s solitary vice without first bathing in the depths
of an angler’s ineptitude. And yet, like Duncan, I also realize there are
places where hiring a guide, if not absolutely necessary, is at least an
exceedingly prudent choice.
For a lot of reasons, Alaska is just such a place. Untamed rivers careen
through the landscape, often requiring an experienced hand at the tiller,
and getting at the more remote (which is usually a synonym for more
productive) fisheries frequently entails hiring someone to haul you in and
out. Unlike Montana and the fabled East Slope trout creeks, Great Land
anglers can rarely drive to spots within walking distance of the best
streams. Added to that, the transitory nature of many of Alaska’s gamefish
combines with violently fluctuating water conditions to provide ample
grounds for enlisting the services of a guide. Besides, when that
long-awaited fishing expedition to the Bush does materialize, many anglers
simply aren’t willing to entertain lottery-like odds.
The really good guides, the elite among Alaska’s angling cognoscenti, are
worth employing anytime, whether you’re trekking deep into the bosom of the
Last Frontier or prospecting a roadside drainage for motherlodes of salmon.
These are the few who do a lot more than just put you on fish. They’re
masters of the hatch, casting physicians, spiritual savants, and generally
the most able abettors of the piscatory proletariat that you could ever
find. And if none of that matters to you, they will put you on fish.
However, while we do know they’re out there, finding a modern-day Virgil
to lead you across the River Styx, through the purgatorial hurdles of
angling’s netherworld, and on to the rising fish of Paradise is another
matter completely.
In fact, my initial foray into the realm of fishing guides began and ended
in disaster. With a blast of dazzling incompetence, I not only booked a trip
on the first website put together with something better than kindergarten
art skills, but I neglected to check any references. What I got was a
sub-contracted pedant (a college student up for the summer, as I recall) who
knew little more about the river in question than I did, a phenomenon I
thought impossible.
“Don’t worry about the gear,” were his memorable first words as he rigged
up rods and passed them out to the four of us in his boat. “This is top
quality stuff.” Later, watching helplessly as a brawny chinook stormed
downstream, my line and patience wearing perilously thin, I realized the
guide had quite a sense of humor. In the right kind of current, a dishrag
would have peeled line from that reel. The second, and as it were, last
strike of the day came from a more agreeable king. I managed a few feet of
progress before the now replaced reel simply seized. Luckily, another
frustrated angler in our party was nearby and began towing the fish by hand.
He managed to pull the lethargic salmon right to the boat, where our guide
promptly lunged with the net and knocked the hook from its mouth. Somehow,
nothing but silence escaped my lips, though I do remember the words
fluttering about in my mind were aimed at neither the gear nor the fish.
Added to the indignity of my impromptu devotion to catch-and-release fishing
was the dogged recollection of actually shelling out money for the service.
By subtly revising Mark Twain, I immediately fashioned a new edict: Why pay
someone else to take you fishing when you can depend on being just as
unsuccessful on your own?
Still, the experience didn’t spoil me on guides forever, which in itself
might be a testament to their worth for Alaskan anglers. The state is too
large, the fisheries too diverse for a neophyte or visiting angler to find
instant success. The right guide can make all the difference, and even the
most adamant of walking fly shops must grit his teeth and employ one from
time to time. For those whose egos may be bruised by the mere thought,
there’s always one surefire way to hold onto those maverick convictions, as
a certain cavalry officer who went fishing for a battle near the Little
Bighorn proved long ago—paying for advice doesn’t mean you have to take it.
—Troy Letherman
Editor
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