I've been to Alaska all the past three summers since 2004, and every time my return has followed the same emotional pattern: the first week back I am elated to be in a real town with hot showers and good sushi and tragically hip cafes where you can sit and watch beautiful people go casually about their business without a single thought of running into a grizzly bear; the second week, I am a little less thrilled and even perhaps a bit bored; and then by the third week, I am petulantly discontent, wishing I was back on the river and cursing the distance between me and the summer salmon runs of the North.
Certainly that has been the story this time. I've worked hard to fill the time and have made a point of hanging out with all my favorite people in the area. I even went out to the East Sierra and did some car camping and social fishing with a couple of friends and even a friend's wife -- and let me tell you, I got way, way more sun out in those arid hills than I really needed. Ten minutes of East Sierra sun covered the entire amount of heat and direct rays that I enjoyed in three weeks of Alaskan weather.
However, one of those friends just happened to be planning an Alaskan float for 8/20, and I just happened to volunteer myself in case any of his three buddies defaulted, and to make a long story short, I just happen to be going back to Alaska in a few days. And my, don't it feel right! It's just in time to head off those third-week willies. And indeed, it lets me say that I really did play a full sonata after all, with distinct instrumentation and arrangement in each movement: 168.5 inflatable kayak miles in Tikchik country; 65 miles sea kayaking in the Wood Lakes; and a concluding 90 miles or so rafting down the Kanektok. My mind is full of fresh cohos and sea-run char, punctuated by the savage strike of big trout taking flesh flies out of the current. What's more, there is going to be some quality accompaniment, which is sure to share the whisky, the sashimi, and the wogging. It all makes that low, disorganized but promising sound of an orchestra tuning up as intermission comes to an end.
Yes gentle readers, this does mean that you may have to endure another flurry of fish pictures and maybe even a few more silly film clips. I apologize. But this is it; life will go back to normal sometime in September and the fish talk will go back down to a manageable trickle. But for now, raise the baton, conductor, and fly me back to Alaska! Bravo!!!!
Friday, August 17, 2007
Monday, August 6, 2007
Quite a Stream
As a lot of people know, there is a very good trout stream flowing into Lake Nerka. If I intentionally fail to name that stream while blogging about it, my reticence doesn't come from a deliberate, logical attempt to keep it a secret -- because it is already far, far from one -- but from a deep sense that it's wrong to 'hype up' any particular piece of water publicly and thereby have the guilty feeling that you have raised the amount of pressure on the fish there without even getting to directly enjoy it. I mean, if fish are going to be relentlessly harrassed, I want to be in on it! And if you figure the name out from all the hundred clues I have typed, then it's your own fault.
If you camped on this stream, as I did, you could wake up at 5:00 a. m. (top of the Alaskan summer morning) and pretend that it really is a secret spot. You might have to share the water with a couple of nice guys from Seattle who have been flying in there and camping out for many years just during the late July dry fly window, but they would be quiet, respectful guys just like you and wouldn't think of crowding you in any way. You could enjoy huge stretches of world-class trout water in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
But instead, let's say you sleep in to 8:30 or 9:00 a.m. This is as late as you are ever going to sleep on this stream during the trout season, unless you are deaf. Float planes landing 100 feet away are LOUD. One, two . . . three or maybe four planes come in all with a twenty minute window or so. They roar away, and then you hear the jet boat motors starting up and whining. You smell the burning oil, too, because the boats all come by your beachside camp on their way to the outlet. And from this hour until 5:00 or 6:00 p. m., all of these guided fishers will be jetting hither and thither in their boats, or getting pushed from slot to slot by guides who jump down into the water and work the boats like rickshaws. The state park has placed a limit on the number of guided rods that can fish the river during a day, but their limit is a good deal more generous than yours.
So if you're not a morning person nor a particulary gregarious one, your fishing day starts at the cocktail hour. And this ain't such a bad thing. By that time the fish are keying onto bugs on the surface, and there are few things more engrossing than a two-foot long rainbow trout rising on a reliable rhythm one long cast away from where you stand. I found that these hard-fished fellas would only take on a downstream, stack-mended presentation, but when the drift went right and the fish took, oh boy, hold on to the rod! They are hot ones. Whether it's the good food or the cold oxygenated water, these trout are champion runners. Very inconveniently for me, a solo guy, they would not sit still for a picture even after twenty minutes or so of fighting. Witness the angler's exasperated tone in this film clip, almost as though he were angry at the fish for fighting so long and hard.
I had a great time there. Fishing with Bob and Rick and occasionally talking to the friendly park ranger helped pass the time very pleasantly. I had a flask of Isle of Jura single malt whisky, and they had Laphroig and Macallan. And really, a bit of daytime fishing among the lords and their menservants wasn't so bad. I got the pleasant feeling of a showoff by casting dries while they did "technical nymphing" -- it seems that in Alaska, if you use a hook smaller than 6 and a leader less than 1X, you get to call it "technical." There were so many trout following the sockeyes into that river that we had plenty, plenty of fish for one and all. Apparently, just by accident, I hit it between the streamer-heavy smolt outmigration and the egg-heavy sockeye spawn, just when these big fat trout were most likely to feed on caddis and mayflies on the surface. I won't make that mistake again! I'll do it very deliberately.
If you camped on this stream, as I did, you could wake up at 5:00 a. m. (top of the Alaskan summer morning) and pretend that it really is a secret spot. You might have to share the water with a couple of nice guys from Seattle who have been flying in there and camping out for many years just during the late July dry fly window, but they would be quiet, respectful guys just like you and wouldn't think of crowding you in any way. You could enjoy huge stretches of world-class trout water in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
But instead, let's say you sleep in to 8:30 or 9:00 a.m. This is as late as you are ever going to sleep on this stream during the trout season, unless you are deaf. Float planes landing 100 feet away are LOUD. One, two . . . three or maybe four planes come in all with a twenty minute window or so. They roar away, and then you hear the jet boat motors starting up and whining. You smell the burning oil, too, because the boats all come by your beachside camp on their way to the outlet. And from this hour until 5:00 or 6:00 p. m., all of these guided fishers will be jetting hither and thither in their boats, or getting pushed from slot to slot by guides who jump down into the water and work the boats like rickshaws. The state park has placed a limit on the number of guided rods that can fish the river during a day, but their limit is a good deal more generous than yours.
So if you're not a morning person nor a particulary gregarious one, your fishing day starts at the cocktail hour. And this ain't such a bad thing. By that time the fish are keying onto bugs on the surface, and there are few things more engrossing than a two-foot long rainbow trout rising on a reliable rhythm one long cast away from where you stand. I found that these hard-fished fellas would only take on a downstream, stack-mended presentation, but when the drift went right and the fish took, oh boy, hold on to the rod! They are hot ones. Whether it's the good food or the cold oxygenated water, these trout are champion runners. Very inconveniently for me, a solo guy, they would not sit still for a picture even after twenty minutes or so of fighting. Witness the angler's exasperated tone in this film clip, almost as though he were angry at the fish for fighting so long and hard.
I had a great time there. Fishing with Bob and Rick and occasionally talking to the friendly park ranger helped pass the time very pleasantly. I had a flask of Isle of Jura single malt whisky, and they had Laphroig and Macallan. And really, a bit of daytime fishing among the lords and their menservants wasn't so bad. I got the pleasant feeling of a showoff by casting dries while they did "technical nymphing" -- it seems that in Alaska, if you use a hook smaller than 6 and a leader less than 1X, you get to call it "technical." There were so many trout following the sockeyes into that river that we had plenty, plenty of fish for one and all. Apparently, just by accident, I hit it between the streamer-heavy smolt outmigration and the egg-heavy sockeye spawn, just when these big fat trout were most likely to feed on caddis and mayflies on the surface. I won't make that mistake again! I'll do it very deliberately.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Photography Difficulty
Here is the link to the photo album of my trip. I lament my poor skills as a photographer. Excuses follow.
One of the biggest favors a fishing buddy can do for you is to help you take a picture. When you fish alone, each catch-and-release photo becomes a comedy; you have to get the camera out with one hand, hold it in your mouth for a moment, make sure it doesn't get wet, hold it at very awkward angles while making sure not to swim, and all the while the fish is understandably trying to take advantage of the improved opportunity to make an escape. Often enough, the leader gets wrapped around your leg and snaps, or the hook just pops out, exactly in the moment before you were going to take the picture.
That's why most of the decent pictures of fish are pictures of dead fish. Dead fish (which are of course headed for the fry pan) are quite the opposite of the live ones, even allowing you to set up a timer and take the classic shite-eating grin shot. Every once in a while you do score on a live fish, as with this lucky flash shot of an Agulukpak bow:
I took some films that amused me, and I hope you will enjoy them too. But they too suffer from bad filming conditions. Most times I started filming too late, or stopped too soon, to get the good stuff. This clip of a bear running along the Tikchik river is an example; just before I started filming, the bear was making a really strange roaring sound. And then, right after I stopped filming, partly out of a desire to have both hands on the paddle if the bear came down, well, the bear came down! He crashed into the water right near me, stood up on his hind legs to get a good look, and then ran away up the riverbank as though the water were boiling hot. This was spectacular, and would have made a great film clip.
I think many of the pictures could use some explaining. For instance, "who is this George Taylor in Ekwok? What, and where, is Ekwok?" In the past I used to write such verbiage into the photo album pages, but now I'll address those issues haphazardly here in my blog. I'd like to devote a whole entry to Ekwok, which is one of the most unique towns I have seen within the borders of the United States. George is perhaps the nicest guy in that town. If you're curious, tune back in later for details.
One of the biggest favors a fishing buddy can do for you is to help you take a picture. When you fish alone, each catch-and-release photo becomes a comedy; you have to get the camera out with one hand, hold it in your mouth for a moment, make sure it doesn't get wet, hold it at very awkward angles while making sure not to swim, and all the while the fish is understandably trying to take advantage of the improved opportunity to make an escape. Often enough, the leader gets wrapped around your leg and snaps, or the hook just pops out, exactly in the moment before you were going to take the picture.
That's why most of the decent pictures of fish are pictures of dead fish. Dead fish (which are of course headed for the fry pan) are quite the opposite of the live ones, even allowing you to set up a timer and take the classic shite-eating grin shot. Every once in a while you do score on a live fish, as with this lucky flash shot of an Agulukpak bow:
I took some films that amused me, and I hope you will enjoy them too. But they too suffer from bad filming conditions. Most times I started filming too late, or stopped too soon, to get the good stuff. This clip of a bear running along the Tikchik river is an example; just before I started filming, the bear was making a really strange roaring sound. And then, right after I stopped filming, partly out of a desire to have both hands on the paddle if the bear came down, well, the bear came down! He crashed into the water right near me, stood up on his hind legs to get a good look, and then ran away up the riverbank as though the water were boiling hot. This was spectacular, and would have made a great film clip.
I think many of the pictures could use some explaining. For instance, "who is this George Taylor in Ekwok? What, and where, is Ekwok?" In the past I used to write such verbiage into the photo album pages, but now I'll address those issues haphazardly here in my blog. I'd like to devote a whole entry to Ekwok, which is one of the most unique towns I have seen within the borders of the United States. George is perhaps the nicest guy in that town. If you're curious, tune back in later for details.
Friday, August 3, 2007
General Reflections
I'm not a cruel person despite what PETA might say, so I will not force people to read through all my blogification to see all the pictures of fish and landscapes from my trip. As soon as humanly possible for a guy who needs to get used to staring at screens all over again, I'll put all those in an album and post the link here.
First, though, some general reflections on Alaska fishing: Finding the Fish film clip.
That is a fairly typical horde of ripe oncorhynchus nerka (or sockeye, or red salmon), taken on a small stream emptying into the eponymous lake. There is no shortage of sockeyes in Lake Nerka, though experienced anglers will know that it is ironically very hard to get them to strike a fly or lure. Fortunately in any horde of anything there are a few oddballs that break the rules. This one in the photo below took a small fly and then even landed for a special beach shot, perhaps to show off her beautiful crimson swimsuit:
To get sockeyes on the line dependably, you generally have to do something vaguely unethical and "line" them -- instead of letting them strike the fly, strike them with the fly, preferably near the mouth. That's how I got this next one on actual spinning gear (unheard of) and transformed him quickly into an edifying snack at the end of a 24 mile paddling day.
In the Little Togiak River and Lynx Creek, both tributaries to Lake Nerka, I put in some lining time and got sockeyes bright enough to eat. They are great fighters and very tasty, so I have no problem justifying the ethical stretch. Throw in a little hunger plus a dearth of protein in the bear can, and a Liner is born from an Angler every time.
Next post up I'll reflect on some real angling, in a world-class stream that emtpies into Lake Nerka. For now, here are some more long-winded reflections on film, this time regarding Alaska paddling: Kayak Cam film clip.
(I really did paddle around listening to my mp3 player, just like Paul Theroux with his walkman. Scary to think, I may be turning into that guy . . . .)
First, though, some general reflections on Alaska fishing: Finding the Fish film clip.
That is a fairly typical horde of ripe oncorhynchus nerka (or sockeye, or red salmon), taken on a small stream emptying into the eponymous lake. There is no shortage of sockeyes in Lake Nerka, though experienced anglers will know that it is ironically very hard to get them to strike a fly or lure. Fortunately in any horde of anything there are a few oddballs that break the rules. This one in the photo below took a small fly and then even landed for a special beach shot, perhaps to show off her beautiful crimson swimsuit:
To get sockeyes on the line dependably, you generally have to do something vaguely unethical and "line" them -- instead of letting them strike the fly, strike them with the fly, preferably near the mouth. That's how I got this next one on actual spinning gear (unheard of) and transformed him quickly into an edifying snack at the end of a 24 mile paddling day.
In the Little Togiak River and Lynx Creek, both tributaries to Lake Nerka, I put in some lining time and got sockeyes bright enough to eat. They are great fighters and very tasty, so I have no problem justifying the ethical stretch. Throw in a little hunger plus a dearth of protein in the bear can, and a Liner is born from an Angler every time.
Next post up I'll reflect on some real angling, in a world-class stream that emtpies into Lake Nerka. For now, here are some more long-winded reflections on film, this time regarding Alaska paddling: Kayak Cam film clip.
(I really did paddle around listening to my mp3 player, just like Paul Theroux with his walkman. Scary to think, I may be turning into that guy . . . .)
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Negatively Positive
I went ahead and did it -- exercised my positive freedom negatively by cancelling the third movement of my kayak sonata. Doing so went unusually smoothly, with a polite man in Bangalore easily changing my return flight to tomorrow with no charges or changes. I'd barely hung up before the giant sinking feeling arrived and made me my skin flush with an ominous near-panic: "did I just make a giant mistake?"
But no, it's a decision that will hold. I'll keep the maps and charts and dreams and look for another sucka or two who likes to paddle and fish. There are some likely suspects out there (Jim I think you are probably reading this, right?) and I will hunt them down for next time. Or, on the other hand, I now know that three weeks alone in the bush is about my limit. Must plan accordingly.
In the meantime, I've had some really nice fishing and paddling in the smaller way that the road system allows. After wading through a few million turistas and dodging bobbing flotillas of guided kayak tours, I put in twelve miles on Resurrection Bay and got some nice silvery pinks and cohos trolling. Stopped by Ptarmigan Creek and found beautiful little rainbows aggressive to dries on a very pretty stream, and later that night found the trip's biggest coho while fishing alone (very rare for the area) on Willow Creek.
However, fishing on the road system is not really the way to rest. It's too much of a letdown after being in the real backcountry, fishing storied waters full of fat trout. I did my trip in the reverse of what it should have been -- I mean, when the plane left me on Tikchik lake a month ago, it left me OUT there. After finding a good tent site I looked around for a likely food cache, and walked over to check it out . . . "what's this, a big pile of recently chewed caribou bones, with the joints still red with blood? Maybe I won't cache my food just exactly here after all . . . ." I went five days down that river without seeing a human form, and it was a good thing to do. The big grayling were all mine, the lake trout could only chase my flies, and the world was my oyster.
Next time online I should have some photos ready of grayling, lakers, and oysters. However, I have decided to exercise my positive freedom in another small way and post about the trip in completely unchronological order. Maybe.
But no, it's a decision that will hold. I'll keep the maps and charts and dreams and look for another sucka or two who likes to paddle and fish. There are some likely suspects out there (Jim I think you are probably reading this, right?) and I will hunt them down for next time. Or, on the other hand, I now know that three weeks alone in the bush is about my limit. Must plan accordingly.
In the meantime, I've had some really nice fishing and paddling in the smaller way that the road system allows. After wading through a few million turistas and dodging bobbing flotillas of guided kayak tours, I put in twelve miles on Resurrection Bay and got some nice silvery pinks and cohos trolling. Stopped by Ptarmigan Creek and found beautiful little rainbows aggressive to dries on a very pretty stream, and later that night found the trip's biggest coho while fishing alone (very rare for the area) on Willow Creek.
However, fishing on the road system is not really the way to rest. It's too much of a letdown after being in the real backcountry, fishing storied waters full of fat trout. I did my trip in the reverse of what it should have been -- I mean, when the plane left me on Tikchik lake a month ago, it left me OUT there. After finding a good tent site I looked around for a likely food cache, and walked over to check it out . . . "what's this, a big pile of recently chewed caribou bones, with the joints still red with blood? Maybe I won't cache my food just exactly here after all . . . ." I went five days down that river without seeing a human form, and it was a good thing to do. The big grayling were all mine, the lake trout could only chase my flies, and the world was my oyster.
Next time online I should have some photos ready of grayling, lakers, and oysters. However, I have decided to exercise my positive freedom in another small way and post about the trip in completely unchronological order. Maybe.
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