Southwest ALASKA – The Abundance of Wild by Julie Zapoli

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 16:36:48 -0600

The first thing you notice is that there is nothing subtle about Alaska – from the serrated tips of the snow-covered Chugak mountain range slicing up from the clouds towards the belly of your plane, to the scraggly, rangy men you walk past in the Anchorage airport flying back to the lower 48 with large, wet, seeping boxes full of flash frozen salmon and halibut at their feet. These men have a look to them that’s hard to describe but it’s completely recognizable to anyone who’s traveled in remote Alaska. It’s a look that’s both greedy and feral, like I imagine the first gold prospectors in the Yukon might have looked. It comes from staring too long at large bodies of moving water, from too much exposure to cold, clean air and wild, unpredictable open country. I no longer have that look because I’m one of the lucky ones – I get to guide in this extraordinary and wild country every summer.

On my last trip, we had 6 guests, and to help with the cooking on the Gravel Bar and Grill every night, I brought along my youngest sister. Jennifer has never really been camping in her life. As a matter of fact, Jennifer might be the exact opposite of an Alaska fishing guide: she works as a clothing designer in the fashion industry in Newport Beach, has never been in a float plane or anything smaller than a commercial jet, never slept in a tent that wasn’t made out of blankets and dining room chairs, never camped on a gravel bar in the wild every night, and never spent time on a raft unless there was a pool underneath it. But she called me this spring and asked if she could come to Alaska. “I think this is something I really want to do,” she said on the phone. “I want to challenge myself. I want to do something extraordinary and beautiful and wild.” So 5 very small planes later, there she was, sitting on the back of my raft, in the rain, wearing all of the extra fleece, windproof, and waterproof clothing I’d brought, taking pictures of the bear I knew we would inevitably see because we were alone and separated from the group. I felt around for my shotgun with one hand while my other hand kept control of the of oars, never once taking eyes off of the very large brown grizzly that was eating salmon in the river – the very same water – that my raft with my little sister, wildly snapping pictures from the back, would have to float through. To be continued Oct. 27

Steelhead in Stanley or Why We Should (sometimes) Break All of the Rules When Fishing

Fri, 9 Mar 2007 16:53:55 -0700

It was the end of the run. The occasional fish could still be found hiding behind a rock or holding in an eddy waiting to move up and into deeper water. The only fish we saw that day – yes, I said the only, as in one -- seemed exhausted, even indifferent as I watched a fly fisherman flip a nymph over and over again, drifting it past the tight set jaw, the unfocused doll-eyes eyes focused on something other than the orange fuzz that kept floating by it’s nose. Flip, mend, drift, drag. Flip, mend drift, drag. Over and over again. Even I was bored and I’d just gotten there.
“Any luck?” I asked the fisherman.
“I’ve been casting to this fish for over an hour now.” He said. “I’m about to give up. If you want to step in, I’m moving.” He gestured downstream with a head nod. “There’s another guy down there who just left his spot so I’m going to cast to his fish for a while.” Then he reeled up and turned, his shoulders low as he trudged downstream. He didn’t look around at the beauty of the valley. He didn’t look like his spirit had been lifted by the sound of the moving water he was standing in, and I don’t know if he felt the warm sunshine or the cool, crisp spring air rushing down off the snow-topped Sawtooth Mountains, but I do know what he was feeling, it’s that terrible feeling steelhead fishing will give you on more days then you care to admit.

Was is it about fishing for steelhead that reduces an adult to the idiotic monotony of standing in one place for a very long time, doing the same thing over and over again yet expecting different results? Last time I checked, that was the definition of insanity. As I looked into the water at the fish, unmoving behind the rock, probably sleeping, I thought about my own state of mind. Sure, the fish was large, but was I going to enjoy flipping, mending, drifting, and dragging my fly over it, again and again with no results? At what point does nymphing become harassment?

The idea had been Paul’s. He was visiting from the East, taking a weekend off from the snow and ice that still covered Vermont to wet a line in the west with us. Elizabeth and I couldn’t wait to introduce to him the pristine rivers and the gorgeous trout we’d been fishing all winter and early spring. They call this place Sun Valley for a reason and I wanted to show Paul just how lucky I was having moved from the gray, cold Midwest to such a beautiful place. No crowds, big trout, exquisite water, skiing in the morning, fishing in the afternoon -- who gets to live like this? The problem was that we hadn’t planned our timing all that well and all of those rivers we wanted to spoil Paul on, the Silver Creek, the Big Lost, and the Big Wood, were all closed for spawning. So we did what Paul thought would be the next best thing and the three of us headed to Stanley for steelhead.

If you could pick a town to set down around a beautiful and pristine river, it would be Stanley. Old wooden buildings with family ties that date back to the pioneers of the region, a saloon, an Orvis fly shop, a couple of rustic restaurants, true fishing motels, and all of the authenticity that comes from no pretension. The Salmon River begins in the Sawtooths and although it is no more than a foot stream when we crossed it coming over the pass, it quickly gains in size as it drops in altitude. At the bottom of the pass, the river comes into view wide and wild, flowing with the promise that high, clear, cold water brings.

Our first stop was McCoy’s fly shop for a few flies and local advice. I always do this, stop at local shops to buy flies whether I need them or not – that way if don’t use them and I don’t catch fish, I’ll still have something to bring home with me. McCoy’s gave us gave us the hard truth about our prospects; there were few fish left and the fish that were would have many rods in front of them. But there was also plenty of steelhead smolt…smolt? We’re they serious?

We went anyway. And that’s when I spoke to the fly fisherman who had been casting to that one, lone, large fish over and over again, the one I was standing in front of now. I cast upstream and dropped my line into the water, right into the seam. It drifted perfectly over that steelhead. What I’d like to say now is that the big hen turned and smashed down on my fly, pulling with the all of the power and fight that comes from years of training; from pushing over rocks beds, straining upstream through shallow water, dodging foxes and coyotes and bright orange nymphs, fighting with the strength that’s built from swimming against the spring run-off to spawn in the high stream beds of the Salmon River. I wanted to feel that -- that pull that bends your rod and sends your body into the combination of surprise and panic and pure joy. And yes, I felt something, but sheer, massive strength wasn’t a part of it. Oh, I’d hooked steelhead, all right…after my fly had drifted over that big hen and was dragging in the current, and right before I lifted my line to cast upstream again, I felt the take. The fish was maybe 7 inches long, and fought like an angry puppy pulling back on a chew toy. I looked over at Paul who had a curious look on his face. He was standing in the river between two rocks, laughing at missed takes as the small steelhead slapped his dry fly.
“I can’t believe this,” I yelled over to him. “Smolt!” I landed and released the little fighter, and instead of casting to the big girl in the current again, (who was snubbing me so I decided I would ignore her, too), I threw my line downstream where the hit had come. Nothing, until I began stripping my nymph back to me then, bam…another fighter. I laughed, landed and released then cast again. Bam!
“What are you using?” Paul asked.
“I’m not sure it matters.” I said.
What we did next; Paul, Elizabeth, and I, wasn’t noble or dignified, or even gracious, but it was legendary. What we did was trade in our eight weights for the 3 bamboo rods we had stashed in the back of my car and we purposefully set out to try every pattern in our boxes on those steelhead smolt. We threw green-butts, parachute Adams, stoneflies, and caddis; we dropped nymphs from hoppers and threw wooly buggers. It didn’t matter, everything worked. We threw our flies downstream and we stripped them upstream toward us – contrary to everything we know about catching freshwater fish. And here’s the best part; we had the time of our lives. Our bamboo rods bent and bobbed with each fight and we laughed on that gravel bar on the Salmon River like no one else. I mean that. No one else around us was having as good a time, or even smiling, for that matter. Elizabeth’s waders were leaking, but she didn’t seem to care. Standing in that cold, icy water we were warm with the joy of doing something wonderful and unexpected on a beautiful Idaho day.
Our conversation on the drive home was mixed with explosive laughter interrupted with this one solemn question, should we or could ever tell anyone about this? Here is what the three of us decided: sometimes there is inspiration in a moment, when three good friends are together, when you’ve driven to one of the most pristine and beautiful places you’ve ever seen and the day is crisp and clear and bright – it is not only your duty, at that moment to go with it, it is also the promise you made with yourself when you first began to fly fish. It is the promise of warm days, close friends, and good water. It is the promise of fun.

Ketchum on the Fly

Southwest ALASKA – The Abundance of Wild by Julie Zapoli

Steelhead in Stanley or Why We Should (sometimes) Break All of the Rules When Fishing