|
When the summer rush is over, Alaskan trout await with memories of crystal
waters, golden leaves and solitude—broken only by a powerful tug on the
line.
Fishing in Alaska yields so many opportunities in different
landscapes with so many varieties of fish that people hold different
opinions on their favorite time and place to fish.
Some prefer the magnificent king salmon, often breaking 50-pounds, as
well as rods, reels, knuckles and whatever else gets in the way. Some prefer
halibut, for the obviously great table fare as well as the battle with a
very large fish. Others prefer grayling, with their willingness to take
nearly anything proffered and the smell of thyme and shimmer of green and
blue.
For us the species is rainbow trout, and now that it is fall and the
salmon frenzy is diminishing, we can take the time to enjoy the waterways.
I’m not sure if it’s the bond we share in both feeding on salmon—come to
think of it, that brings us closer to bears than I’d like, using the same
reasoning—but I am sure it’s the glitter of chrome and the rose hue
reflected in the water as a rainbow explodes through the surface of a river
or lake with your fly perched precariously in the corner of its mouth. There
is a certain electric shock that I feel every time I play a rainbow on rod
and reel.
From the days of brook and brown trout as a boy, I was hooked on the
species. Back then it was to put food on the table and we ate 8-inch trout
all winter. It’s easy to understand why you fish when it is for food.
Rainbow trout fishing in Alaska is not normally for food, although there are
many stocked lakes to get some trout for dinner, and you will find many
dedicated anglers practicing catch-and-release.
I’d like to recount one particular story that I think puts in focus the
lure of trout fishing. One early spring—or breakup as we call it in Alaska,
the time between summer and winter when the snow finally melts—the fishing
bug was biting especially bad and a friend and I decided to hike up the
Russian River to scout out the spring rainbow possibilities.
I expected snow along the riverbank, though I still wasn’t prepared for
the two to four-foot drifts that littered the river’s edge. The hiking along
the Russian was especially challenging, as we had to zigzag up and down the
hills that border the river rather than having any direct path. Three hours
into it, with snow packed into my boots and my feet gone numb, clothes
soaked from sweat and snow, I realized that my passion for rainbow trout was
bordering on fanaticism. We didn’t find much open water—we didn’t even wet a
line—but I came back to try it again two weeks later. It is the lure of
opportunity, the chance to see, catch, and touch a rainbow trout that brings
us back.
I reminisce on the past trips that put my trout faith to the test. From
the bone chilling weather last spring on the Naknek or the cold and wet fall
day on the Talkeetna to any of our late fall floats in the snow and wind of
the Kenai Peninsula or the Mat-Su Valley. How about the April trip down the
Kenai, where a float through the canyon is culminated with a three-hour trip
across Skilak Lake? My teeth chatter when I think about it. All of these
experiences find us chilled to the bone, with only the warmth from memories
of rainbow trout to overcome the weather.
So as the days become shorter, the weather cools, and the angling
pressure decreases (almost at a direct proportion to the increase in stench
from rotting salmon), take your child, friend, parent, or dog trout fishing.
Soon you’ll develop into a fanatic like me, and it will help to justify
another fall day on the river.
—Marcus Weiner
Melissa Norris
Publishers |
