Brothers in Alaska: Fly Fishing Adventures

Oh Brothers, where are we?

Adjacent to the only entrance to the small airport in King Salmon, Alaska looming menacingly over any would-be travelers is a stuffed Alaskan Brown Bear. On the base of the mount are the relevant statistics: height - 9 feet, weight 1200 pounds. And then a simple sentence, "This is the average size of bears in the Katmai Region." There isn't even an exclamation point, just an implied message,

"Welcome to the lower rung of the food chain."

Hey Yogi

I was headed into Katmai with my two brothers and my uncle, to spend a week floating American Creek with our two guides. I had floated this river once before - during the high water year of 2008 when fully half the river was blown out completely and the other half was only marginally fishable. Despite a few fortunately non-violent encounters with those formidable bears, I had vowed to return, having seen the potential of this remarkable little river.

My brothers and uncle had agreed to join me as a celebration of my fiftieth birthday, which would come in August. Our trip, though, which was focused on American Creek's unusually large rainbows, took place in the last week of June.

Thankfully, unlike in my previous trip, Mother Nature provided a gem of a week weather-wise. The sun was shining about 60% of the time. We had mostly gentle rain when it arrived, and overcast days were cool enough to justify all the layers required to keep the truly epic swarms of mosquitoes at bay. As my brother Joe observed coolly on the second morning, when he left the relative safety of the sand bar on which we were camping for a makeshift latrine in the nearby woods, "The varsity is out there!"

On a Mission...

Of course, bugs and trout are a powerful combo, and we found plenty of both. We enjoyed spring-creek-like fishing at American's headwaters just below Hammersly lake and sensational streamer fishing farther down. The river was already full of char too, most of them as large as the big 'bows.

And given that we were fishing through the summer solstice, we could rely on 20+ hours of daylight. Perhaps that's why - at about 11:00 pm one evening - I headed out unaccompanied to try some mouse patterns I had tied up. I figured the dusky light would be perfect, and it was, although the fish were far gentler than I expected. Normally a trout will strike violently to stun or drown a rodent. Many times I have had fish come out of the water beside my fly and come down directly on it. But on this calm night they were just sipping my mouse patterns, almost a more daunting sight. It takes a big fish to sip a Mr. Hankey!

20+ hours of daylight, 20+ hours of fishing?

I was so engrossed with my fishing, in fact, that I was oblivious to movement behind me, until I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Recalling vividly the stuffed bear that greeted us in King Salmon, I turned slowly to see one of our guides holding his short barreled twelve gauge in both hands. I had figured initially that it was his steps I heard, but now I'm not so sure.

He winked at me and said ironically, "I just thought you could use a little company ... or more company." The bear I never saw, though he certainly saw me. The next day my brothers, my uncle and I decided to hike upriver while our guides stayed in camp. We were under clear instructions to stay on the waterway at all times, that way we would always know how to get back to camp. Besides, the bush once you got away from the river was darn near impenetrable. We took along a foghorn, which we could blast three times if we needed assistance. Then we headed out, remarking along the way how many bear tracks we were seeing, yet we had not laid eyes on a bear. That was almost more unsettling than actually spying one.

16 Small

My brother Joe placed his size 16 wading boots beside one of the tracks and noted - for perhaps the first time in his life - that somebody else had bigger feet! I didn't think it prudent to mention my quasi-close encounter the previous evening, so we marched on to more exceptional fishing - several hours of it.

Around noon, as the day became hotter and we all the more saturated with sweat, especially given that we were hiking in waders, we elected to turn downstream. Our plan was to break camp and float farther down river, through the braids that we were now partly in. Given that we were one of the first groups to float the river that year and the waterways change, sometimes dramatically, we had committed ourselves to staying on the main channel. Our guides had reinforced that need rather relentlessly. But somehow we couldn't manage it. I remember being stymied by some impassable brush, turning inland to get around it, crossing what seemed like a side channel and then finding after 15 minutes of hiking that I had no idea where the main channel of the river was ... or even where I was exactly. My brothers were with me, and my uncle, but we were all a little flummoxed by our situation.

Yes, we were that Stupi

Deciding it was probably best to retrace our steps, we headed back the way we came, only to find ourselves in just as unfamiliar territory as we had been earlier. Without a compass (yes, we were that stupid) and no discernible landmarks to orient by, we began to feel some concern.

We agreed ultimately to travel in 10 minute increments, assessing our direction and progress at those intervals, especially if we had not yet intersected the main channel of the river.





We never did.

At about 2:00 pm, still unable to locate the river or even a small tributary we agreed that we should sound the foghorn. Well, actually, I think my brother Fred raised the issue, and my Uncle Rod responded emphatically, "Blow the f---ing horn!" We sounded it three times as instructed, realizing only after we did so that the blasts - though seemingly loud - would not carry far in the broad, meandering river bottom. Given how far afield we imagined we had roamed, there was little chance our guides would hear our distress call. We hoped at the very least that the horn would push any nearby bears away rather than seem like a dinner bell. Time would tell, we supposed.

Daylight to spare

We were reassured by only one thing - that we still had plenty of daylight left. And so we continued our search for the main channel, bushwhacking through woods populated by all sorts of potential threats, conserving the few snacks we had, trying to ignore the bugs who didn't need the foghorn to be alert to our presence, and looking desperately for something familiar. Instead, we found a little hope in a small stream, maybe two feet wide and a couple of inches deep. Figuring that everything flows either from or to the main channel, we elected to walk downstream, trusting that it might lead us to larger and larger channels. On the way - maybe an hour later - as the stream grew into a viable and surely never-fished braid - we passed some extraordinary water which, I confess, I fished. Sure we were in peril, but a few casts weren't going to harm the situation any. Or so I figured.
Oddly, it was when we hit our third larger channel that Robert Frost's poem about the road less travelled popped into my head. "Way leads on to way," he writes, and so it did. At approximately 4:00 p.m. we reached what we believed to be the main channel, though it was water we had not floated yet. We turned upstream, trusting that somewhere up there was our camp and two rather concerned guides. Half an hour later - to our immense relief - we spotted the braid on which we were sure our camp lay. Approaching it we heard a nearby shotgun blast.

In Search of Camp

Our guides were trying to let us know where they were. We answered with our horn. This time they heard it.
We discovered sometime later that one of our guides had, when we did not arrive back at camp at the appointed hour, followed our trail, only to lose it where we lost the main channel. He was as confused as we were at what had happened. Does anybody ever really know how we lose our way?

It is hard to describe the relief we felt, tinged with embarrassment, when we walked into camp some 8 hours after we left it. My 75-year-old uncle, who was the picture of fortitude and endurance during our wanderings noted that he had maybe 15 minutes of walking left in him when we trudged up our braid. He shed his waders, climbed into his tent, and was asleep before his head hit the sleeping bag. My brother Fred zipped up the mosquito netting for him.

Alive and Well

It sounded so simple ... follow the river. It wasn't. And though we did manage to self-rescue, it was all the things we should have done - have a compass or maps, carry more food, bring a guide or a gps, etc. - that gnawed at us. Foolishness is particularly conspicuous in hindsight. 

We didn't dwell on it. We couldn't. We had several days of fishing ahead of us, and thanks to ample portions of good fortune we were alive and well. This was not our first misadventure together, and it probably won't be the last. It was, though, deepely informative, since all of us would have argued that what befell us could only happen to citified greenhorns. Another helping of humble pie, gentlemen?

Checkmate!

Perhaps, in fact, this was our version of a mid-life crisis. Having survived it, maybe we'll be okay for another fifty years. Lord knows, there are plenty of fish out there still waiting to be caught. And we might even be willing to get lost again, just to find them... 

We will, though, be far better equipped next time, when or if we do.

After the Ordeal

Submitted by Ben Williams


Gear to Consider:

• Flask
• Packs
• Flyvines Lanyard
• packable jacket

"Fly Fish the World with Us"

A note from Grandma Froggy

Gabe admiring a sweet rod!

My young grandson moved to Hood River at a young age. He and I fished for trout, bass, salmon. I was able to teach him the basics of fishing.

Gabe was 6 or 7 years old when he started dropping in at the Gorge fly shop. He asked lots of questions, admired lots of flies.

Gabe asked the shop to put pictures of him and most any fish he caught in the store window. The Gorge fly shop did that for him .

Make your own Caption!

The shop even helped Gabe out from time to time with flies and equipment. For no reason other then to be nice and support a little boys interest in fishing.

The little boy is now a 15 year old young man and is a fine fisherman. He still drops by the Gorge fly shop frequently.

I drop by from time to time when I need a new rod or reel . I find quality and reasonable prices. I can't resist a few new flies while I'm at it.

Thanks, Gorge fly shop,
Grandma Froggy


Learn more about Gabe in "What's up with Gabe".

Gorge Fly Shop

"Fly Fish the World with Us"

Charlies Journal...Steelhead Date 10/28/2001

Date: October 28, 2001, Sunday

Time: 6:30a till 10:30 and then 3:30p till 5:30p
Where: AM: Above Harpham flat, PM First run above Maupin

Steelhead today: 1
Steelhead ever: 5
Flies: Purple Peril     

Thanks goodness for a wonderful wife who lets me go out to fish when her sister visits. This weekend, Sue came for a visit, and today, I get to go out and frequent my new home waters, Deschutes River. The fall has been record in terms of steelhead though alas my take has been a new record for me given my recent steelhead efforts, but pales in comparison to that of others.

"I only eat these on fishing trips"

Tried to get up early to meet the sun. Something so invigorating and meditative about being alone in the car first thing in the morning with anticipation of not knowing what the day will bring. Add to the ambiance, fresh brewed coffee and a cheap piece of danish. It ranks up there with what I consider life's other perfect moments, holding your child while she sleeps, a fresh glazed Kruller, watching a meteor shower, observing your most hated sports team lose at the hands of your favorite team. I really can’t get a handle on why this A.M. ritual is so special to me. Perhaps, some wrappings should best be left on the box only to marvel at the wonder of the surprise. Or maybe, I just like driving anywhere that leads me to emerald rivulets and potential for silvery wild fish.

Tried getting to the moss hole, but found someone already plying the waters. Decided to try to work the area above Maupin. My first guided steelhead trip to date, with John Smeraglio was successful  above Harpham flat. That was a memorable fish. My first wild steelhead,  my second steelhead of all time. That fish was so strong and for what seemed like hours, I was linked to the inner prana. I chased that fish from the riffle above Harpham to the boat ramp. Such a mixed sensation to see the flyline backing. First the joy of the strength of the fish, and then the “oh shit, that’s my freakin backing”. As an aside, why do we feel the need to conjure up this objective endpoint to fellow anglers. “Oh yeah, that one took me well into my backin.” As if, only partially into the backing weren’t enough. Or better yet, took me to within two cranks of the end of my backing. Well, a simple tip, set your drag so light that a stiff wind or butterfly flutter would rip line off like a shrieking ghoul. “Yep, that monarch took me to the end of my backing. Should have seened the smonofabitch. “ Anyway, that first wild steelie dragged me down around a quarter mile to the boat launch at Harpham. I told John to let me sit for awhile and get my breath back. Perhaps, a little winded but more likely to soak up the wonder and the thrill of it all. I remember how long it took to revive that fish. How I held his strength in his hands and watched him undulate away into the deeper water. That kind of simple joy strikes the cords of my soul with the same impact as the coffee, danish, car in the morning event.

Anyway, today, I went to the same area. More from default, than from any real determination. As I was gearing up, some chap suddenly showed and worked the water I intended. I was momentarily perturbed but decided to settle down. After he had worked well downstream, I thrashed the water with my line. Had a two fly system with a “Joe Gert” and Purple Peril  After just a few casts, something struck the back of my legs scaring the hell out of me. I looked up to see a mink on a large rock with a mischievous grin on his face. Of course, the “Joe Gert” was store bought and like the unknown ensign from Star Trek on the landing party, would be the first to be horribly lost in a tragedy. Sure enough, 5 minutes later, no “Joe Gert” to be found. But shortly thereafter, a beautiful hatchery steelie. Not a great fighter, but that connection to the prana intact and invigorating. Recently, Judge Hoagy has reversed the decision that suggested that wild and hatchery fish are different. I had in my mind to sacrifice this hatchery fish. One less hatchery fish competing for spawning ground with the wild cousins. One less hatchery fish for some half-assed judge to consider the same as the wild version. Sure, argue the genetics or the watershed, but until you’ve hooked and fought both, you can’t possibly understand that the difference is obvious and doesn’t need objective proof.  I knew that the buck would be on the dinner table this evening and not wasted or spoiled. I brought him to shore and struck him with a grapefruit sized rock. I felt so futile because I don’t know how many times I had to strike him. But the method to this madness, instilled upon me how life struggles to stay on this plane of existence. However, once the fate of the beautiful anadramous creature was decided, a sense of calm came over him as I lay stroking him and looking into his clear eye. Almost an accepting, and with my voicing saying an awkward prayer of thanks, peace came about both fish and fisherman. Throughout my life, death has literally scared the life out of me. But at this moment, I knew that at my passing, I hoped someone that respected me for who I am despite my frailties could stroke me, whisper to me and help me to accept my fate with a quiet awkward but sincere prayer.

I cleaned the fish at the river bank, and placed him in the cooler. I felt a strong urge to preserve him as well as possible. Nothing seems more a rape of nature than the wholesale killing of fish by “sportsmen” only to stock the freezer. After coming back to the run, I found not one but two fisherman. Initially, I had the urge to go over and turn their two piece rods into travel rods. But calmed down to realize that maybe they were just naive and that every fisherman has the potential to be a steward of the resource. However, in contrast to the convention, they didn’t work downstream allowing the water for others to pass, but stayed in a holding pattern. Moments such as this sometimes make me feel that I have more in common with my recently sacrificed steelhead than some anglers and people. By this time, I had had my fill and went to Maupin for the requisite cheeseburger at the local greasy spoon. Man, I love those places. Unabashedly, serving up plain heart warming “grub”. I love cuisine as much as the next guy but occasionally I need to have something that isn’t covered in a guava chutney, blackened with a side of confit and dressed with radichio. I need a place that doesn’t bother to ask how I’d like that burger cooked. Where the refills are always free and the food comes in a basket. Just like some days, I crave spam and eggs, chicken-fried steak, fried bologna sandwiches, and hamburger helper. Maybe I like these simple things because it reminds me how stripped of all my airs, I can be wholly satisfied by fundamental food, relationships, sports and moments. Or maybe I just like greasy food because it’s damn good.

Chase down the river

Afterwards, wandered to Oak Springs for some trout fishing. The day started so promising that I thought those beautiful river sailboats, blue wing olives would hatch. But the sun came through and ruined my hope. Nonetheless, the fishing was reasonable, and I didn’t waste my time. Late in the afternoon, went to just above Maupin at the first run below a short rapid. Not much luck, but my heart didn’t seem in it. Perhaps, my morning spiritual sojourn had filled me and there was no room for any more experience. I picked up and left and found my way home to the ones I love and the ones I adore. I’m not sure what constitutes the perfect day but it was a day lived perfectly. I had a boyish grin as my youngest, Camaryn, had more than one helping of fresh steelhead.

Charlie Chambers

"Fly Fish the World with Us"

There are no fish here!

Like most of the population - at least the male population - I fell in love with a woman who is not at all like me. Most of my closest friends admit that's the good news. So does my wife.

Meet Ben and Ginger
Ginger with a nice Wyoming Rainbow

As much as I agree with everyone though, our differences present some challenges around fishing. I suppose that's the rub with all fly-fishermen. Our sport takes us away from home or other responsibilities, often at the least opportune times. I remember, in fact, sitting at the breakfast table when I was a kid, listening to my two younger brothers scream bloody murder as my Mom tried to get a little cereal down their gullets. My father, who was headed out to fish that morning, strolled through the kitchen, patted my brother Fred on the top of his head and said, "It's okay, my boy." Then he walked out the door. I can only imagine what my Mom was thinking at that moment. Probably not, "Hope you have a great day, Honey!"

In an effort to chart a slightly different path through my own marriage, and because I greatly enjoy my wife's company, I have spent many years slowly trying to indoctrinate her into the fraternity of fly fishers. I figured that was the way to go. She would grow to share my affection for the pastime. We would have yet another marvelous thing in our life together. And our fishing future would be assured. That was the theory anyway.

In practice, Ginger (no Gilligan's Island jokes, please) has indeed become a good and occasionally enthusiastic fisherman. She casts well, can handle a boat, and genuinely enjoys being on the water. In fisherman's vernacular, she's quite a catch. And I have tried not to follow in my father's admittedly insensitive footsteps ... with some success.

The problem - if you want to call it that - concerns our differing degrees of interest. Put bluntly, Ginger is far too reasonable and unselfish. Those are virtues, I know, but only in other endeavors. Where I will happily try to catch fish all day and much of the night, Ginger will try for only so long. If we have early success, her bloodlust is pretty quickly satisfied. I catch one fish and it just fires me up to catch some more.

That's fine, though. If she doesn't want or need to fish, she can still row. I'm happy to have her do that while I bomb away in the bow, an opportunity that I believe my wife genuinely appreciates giving me. Many a fellow fishermen has fired a smart aleck comment my way as we drift by with Ginger at the oars. Even heard a marriage proposal or two. You'll have to ask Ginger if she was at all tempted.

Unfortunately, her rowing, as wonderful as it is, defeats the purpose of the plan. How can Ginger become rabid about fishing if I am the one doing most of the catching? It's all about the quarry, right?

So I push her to keep fishing and let me row. On more than one occasion I have insisted, which of course screws everything up. You'd think I'd learn something in nearly thirty years of marriage.

What's more, my pathological optimism, which leads me to believe that every cast is a potential hook-up is not a pathos that my wife shares. Ginger will happily tell you that she'll plan for the worst, so if things go well, it's a pleasant surprise. And you can see it when she is fishing. A strike always produces a quizzical expression from Ginger, as though she had assumed that there weren't actually any fish in this river and she was simply humoring me by wetting her line.

Part of the reason for her skepticism may be because I have spent so much time assuring her that there are, in fact, lots of fish here. She knows me well enough to understand that more often than not I don't know what I'm talking about. Why should I suddenly be right when it comes to fishing?

On many occasions, I have "suggested" a drift over a particular run and been greeted after one cast with, "I don't know why we are bothering. There are no fish here."

On other occasions, like when she can see the fish, for instance, Ginger credits any catches to the extraordinary stupidity of the fish, rather than skill on her part. On one trip, in fact, to a lake in Northern Montana that contained a slew of voracious cutthroats, I watched Ginger land some thirty fish. When I commended her, she simply deflected.

"They were small. Anyone could have caught those morons." Meanwhile, there were lots of folks on that lake getting skunked.

It doesn't matter, of course, that I think my wife is a good fisherman and a good companion - especially if she does not believe it herself. And the fact that she has landed lots of great fish doesn't seem to make my case any stronger. More often than not those moments of apparent success produce an entirely unexpected set of responses.

Ginger hooked up with a nice fish

Like the time in New Zealand when Ginger hooked three big trout in an afternoon, only to have each one eventually break her off. She seemed crestfallen.

"It happens to everyone," I offered, "and those were really big fish!" Very politic, I know, and proof as it turns out that I didn't get it.

Ginger wasn't mad or upset that she lost those fish. She could not have cared less. Unlike her husband, Ginger isn't all that concerned with the fish she brings to the net. What bothered her was she knew that we would not stop focusing on her until she landed one. She didn't want the spotlight and she sure as hell didn't want me to stop fishing until she had one in the net.

When she did actually land a fish early the next day - a beautiful big Brown - Ginger was just relieved that she had gotten the monkey off her back. So delighted was she that as I plied the waters of the Clinton River in search of more such fish, Ginger sat on shore in her leaky waders and sobbed. Gotta love those fishing vacations!

Thankfully now, I get it ... most of the time. Fishing is my thing, and I think Ginger is touched that I want to share it with her. And thanks to my fiscal irresponsibility, she has all the gear she'll ever need, most of it with her name engraved or embossed on it. I even bought her a new pair of waders. But she only has to use the stuff when or if she chooses.

Ginger's first New Zealand Brown

Being on the water is important for me. Ginger knows that. And occasionally, she loves it too. But only when the experience is not burdened by the weight of expectation - hers or mine.

Besides, if she is always there with me when I am knee deep in a river somewhere, who am I going to tell my stories to? And you know what, she always asks me how the fishing was.


Damn lucky, I know.

Author, First time GFS Contributor

Ben Williams

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