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Originally published January 2008
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Editor's Creel Going Right |
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I was pretty young when I first cast a fly, so you'll have to forgive me for neglecting to notice anything particularly cathartic about the process. From what I recall, I just wanted to catch a fish, in the manner of my grandfather if at all possible, and hopefully at the same ridiculous rate. We were fishing a narrow but relatively deep creek that cut through an alfalfa field near the borders of Montana's Beartooth Mountains. I got ten dollars a day for tossing bales onto the trailer and then ten more for stacking them outside the corrals at home. In between, during the hottest part of those summer days, I got to fish.
The creek was action-packed with brook trout and even though I knew as much about fly-fishing as I did nuclear fusion, success was fast and easy and pretty much guaranteed to ruin what otherwise might have been a fine career in law or accounting or basically anything else that requires some attention to a college syllabus. Time and again I'd inexpertly jackhammer a cast the six feet it took to hit water, get the mend all wrong, miss at least one strike and then come tight to a fresh brookie.
Don't ask me how, but at some point during that summer I took it into my head that I was doing it all correctly, and more ominously, that I was doing it the only way it should be done. Meaning, of course, with a fly. A couple more brook trout and I was the kind of fur-and-feathers-only freak no one likes to spend time around. As a case in point, during my freshman year of high school some friends invited me to camp and fish with them near the confluence of the Powder and Yellowstone rivers in the badlands of southeastern Montana. They used bait and tied little bells to the tips of their rods so they could hear hits in the dark. Even more horrifying was the fact that they were after catfish.
When they finally told me there were no trout in that part of the river, I put on a proper pout-surely another sign of my predisposition towards fly fishing-and rather than join in the fun, I spent the night sulking by the fire.
What's disconcerting about all this is that I can't point to a single moment of metamorphosis. I did not go to sleep one night as a normal lover of the outdoors who just happened to like fish and then, like some western version of Gregor Samsa, awake to find myself trapped in the bug-like body of an irredeemable fly angler. Unless a single, first cast did it, I guess my journey into the world of fly fishing came slowly, in stages, which brings me to Andy Bullick's article later in this issue.
Andy proposes four stages of angling evolution, from the desire to catch a fish, to catching lots of fish and then the biggest fish, until finally arriving at a time when the challenge means more than the result. It's a reasonable theory.
Now, are there four stages for everyone? No, of course not. Some probably have fifteen. As far as I can tell, my friend Greg Thomas has only had one-the big-fish stage-and he's spent more of his life on the water than most sailors. In my own case, while the appeal of stage-four difficult fish are sundry (tarpon, permit and bonefish atop the list), I've had to add another, aesthetically-influenced stage, as I've realized it's more important to me to fish away from any crowds, with a dry fly if possible, and on the swing with a Spey rod if not, than it is to wear down my will under the weight of numbers.
But no matter the peculiarities of our own personal stages, there can be no doubt Alaska is the place to come to fulfill all of them. Not even Montana can compare with Alaska's ability to meet every angler's needs (or dreams, as is typically the case). To begin with, in most areas of the state, one can cover all the stages in a solitary stream. For instance, just catching a fish isn't a problem. We're a fish-catching state. But catching lots of fish? That's our leitmotif. Big fish? If Alaskans know anything, it's that size matters. And finally, difficult fish? Well, just try making those 80-foot casts into a gale-force fall wind on the Naknek, using 300-grain lines and hummingbird-sized flies. Then, after hooking up, realize that the hardest part awaits.
As for other possibilities, getting started on the road is never a bad idea and Southcentral's Kenai River probably heads the list of highway-accessible destinations that can cover all the angling stages. In its upper stretches, the Dolly Varden are thick in number and none too shy about moving to the fly. Likewise the sockeye and pink salmon runs that flood the river during the height of the summer make exceptional targets for anglers who are looking for something close to a guarantee. For big-and challenging-fish, the Kenai is a gem, of course. The size of the system's kings are world famous, and despite the pressure the river gets, the wild rainbows of the middle river are as big, tough and hard to handle as any other trout in the world.
Other roadside fisheries are excellent as well, particularly for those who are willing to trade trophy size for a little peace and quiet (and quite often, some exceptional numbers). The grayling fisheries of the Tangle Lakes region or the trout fisheries in the Mat-Su Valley lakes are two of my favorites.
For those with the ability to get off the beaten path and experience some of Alaska's remote fishing flavor, the Bristol Bay region is just about capable of offering everything to everyone. Over the past few years, I've had nearly every imaginable fishing experience while exploring these tundra rivers, from a fish per cast insanity on the Kulik to the much more difficult and ultimately, rewarding dry-fly fishing in the American Creek braids. Some rivers (at certain times) even allow you to break it up by day: on both the Alagnak and Kanektok, I've spent trips alternating between furious salmon action and trickier trout fishing, never tiring of either. In the end, it's this versatility, common to many of Alaska's fisheries, from Bethel to Prince of Wales Island, that makes it difficult for me to recommend any one area of the state over another. In fact, if I had to make my own list of rivers that fit into the fly fisher's definition of the Four Stages, I'd end up listing most of the destinations in Alaska, and most would serve in every category.
In some ways that makes me think I really haven't come far from where I was as a kid, casting flies to eager brook trout, certain I was doing it right. Whether after lots of fish, big fish or a challenge, as long as I'm in Alaska, I know I can't go wrong.
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