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...Continued
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retain their aluminum sheen like torpedoes resting in the river bottom. It takes the fuse of but one well-placed fly, however, to detonate these depth charges.
The first one to erupt sends a shock wave all the way through my 7-weight rod, the fish going airborne with a series of jumps normally associated with Ltlantic salmon. The tug of war continues until we are both played out and I return the hen to the waters where her life began and where it will end in only a few weeks. It is in the death of these and other salmon-particularly the millions of sockeye that infiltrate this ecosystem-that life is sustained. Char, Dolly Varden, grayling, and rainbow trout thrive in many of these waters owing to the nutrients the salmon bring upstream with them and release as they spawn and die. They are a conduit of life from the sea, for all other organisms in and around the river need their roe and flesh to survive. This dependence extends all the way to the top of the food chain where brown bears sit like overstuffed sumos gorging themselves at a sushi buffet.
Moments after my hook-set, my partner Matt Connolly sets a Hula Fly into the jaw of another silver. Connolly spent nearly 15 years at the helm of Ducks Unlimited, guiding it through its heyday while working tirelessly with countless volunteers to create a better land for hunters, anglers, and anyone who cherishes wild places. Few people relish the natural wonders found in our waters more than Connolly, a fact that is apparent as a smile spreads across his face as the strong salmon porpoises in defiance of its temporary tether. It is one of several such fish that test our rigs and our mettle. Whenever I am in Alaska, I carry a suspicion that I'm using up a modicum of life's good fortune-somehow, the gods will settle the balance with plenty of empty fish days ahead.
With afternoon light waning, we board the de Havilland Beaver that has been our bush taxi for the week and depart for one of the outpost camps operated by Ron and Maggie McMillan's Bristol Bay Lodge, one of the oldest and best of Alaska's many-storied angling destinations. The McMillans have been running their wilderness fishing trips since the late '70s and have pinpointed some of the best angling to be found in the million-acre Wood-Tikchik State Park and the 3 million-acre Togiak National Wildlife Refuge. The land is among the most dramatic real estate in Seward's infamous folly and is a showpiece of southwest Alaska's premier wilderness.
It is hard to comprehend and appreciate the vastness of Alaska on foot-one must take to the air. For the angler, each stream is an open invitation to live the dream of the world's finest salmon and trout fishing. I can't wait to feel the gentle glide of the Beaver's pontoons merging with the waters of a small lake near the banks of the Ungalikthluk River, a word that when spoken reminds me of the click languages of certain African tribes. The short river is a favorite home for silver salmon and rainbow trout of mythic proportions.
It's Connolly's fifth trip to the region and his chance to introduce himself to the descendants of the fish he caught years earlier. It doesn't take him long. Only a few casts into the stop, a sturdy silver slams Connolly's fly, whipping his 8-weight in crescent moons, all the while stripping line as though bent on getting back to sea. I watch as the rest of the fish in the pool part to let the bout continue unobstructed. After the tussle, we move farther upriver into another deep pool holding hundreds of salmon. Connolly again hooks a brutish silver that seems ridiculously outsized for the small creek in which it's now splashing.
The fish heads downstream and out of the school, so while Connolly follows his water kite with the current, I cast into the midst of the same pool. Before I can mend the line, a rainbow tears into my Flesh Fly and tarpons out of the water, using all of its 29 inches and 9-pound heft to test my rigging. As the fight builds it quickly becomes apparent that this special fish must be finessed if it's going to be landed.
"Go easy on 'em," says Connolly, back from subduing his salmon and now captivated by the contest unfolding before our eyes. "That's a hell of a fish ... don't horse 'em."
We play give and take for 10 minutes before I'm able to beach the fish. I'm speechless in the face of the beast that has emerged steelhead-like from the recesses of this diminutive stream in which one would better expect to find a cigar-sized New England brook trout. It's a leopard rainbow; its bright red hue is punctuated with pronounced black dots across the full extent of its body-- the flecking even extending into its eyes. Rainbows come in numerous color variations, but none more stunning than the leopard.
We head even farther up the creek as
Connolly spies another similar rainbow holding in a pool by itself It is the kind of sight-- casting to enormous trout that is the hallmark of New Zealand's flyfishing. His streamer no sooner breaks the tension of the water's surface than the fish engulfs it and turns the small pool into a blender. The struggle lasts through several spectacular splashes before the fly pops out and the leader dangles like the punchline to an offcolor joke delivered in mixed company. it was enough to have fought the monster for so long.
Almost.
An angler in this part of Alaska goes to sleep at night with a sense of eternal hope tucked under his pillow, for there's no telling what another day and the currents will bring. This is especially true when heading to the Agulukpak River; another seasonal hotbed for football-shaped rainbows.
Guide Jeff Heppner anchors our jonboat on the outskirts of a seam in the current that looks like the watery living room of plump rainbows that have grown fat on the clouds of sockeye eggs that in places turn the river bottom the color of egg yolks. The trout hang among the salmon the way a pack of hyenas liner around a dying buffalo, waiting for the opportunity to transform death into life. It is a macabre existence in an unforgiving food chain where nothing goes to waste.
It is a wonder that a trout could be fooled to take our egg patterns given the plethora of roe floating about. Just a few casts into our first drift, however a 23-inch 'bow found the artificial more appetizing than the real thing. About the time I boat the fish, Connolly hooks up on a similar trout. Heppner makes quick work of the release and we're both casting our flies and hope to the currents once again.
After a couple of additional hookups, we opt to wade to another lie. As we walk, sockeye bump into us in the salmon-stuffed river. Along the shore, the stench of dead and dying fish hangs heavy in the air. Connolly hooks a Dolly Varden (so-named for the flamboyantly dressed Dickens character). The fish immediately runs downstream giving its best bonefish rendition before surrendering to the tug of the line and the fight of the current. It is the largest of numerous char we find, a subtly beautiful fish of the north.
During the final ride back to the lodge I mentally sketch the week's experiences as though scribbling a postcard to a friend. Alaska indeed is as much a state of mind as it is a place. Go there to catch fish ... but you just may find yourself in the process. SI
Alaska on the Fly
The book on the state's best fishing
To book your trip to Bristol Bay Lodge, call 509/964-2094 or 907/842-2500 (valid only from June to September), or visit their website at . For more information about angling opportunities across Alaska, contact the Alaska Travel Industry Association (800/862-5275) or visit or .
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