My Alaskan Window

I wouldn’t say that I woke up hungover, but that last beer wasn’t sitting right with me. Full disclosure, it was only a two beer night. My tolerance just ain’t what it used to be. Hard truths you discover in your late twenties.

The culprit was a Glacier IPA by Matanuska Brewing Co. It was recommended to me by the bartender at Gwin’s Lodge in Cooper Landing, Alaska because it “had more alcohol than the other four beers on tap.” I asked if he preferred it to the King Street Hefeweizen. He paused for a moment before affirming, “I would just get the Glacier, man.”

It’s now 5am and I’m tiptoeing around our single room cabin by the dim light of a headlamp. I grab the stack of clothes I had laid out the night before and flick the switch on the coffee maker. Jill and I are here on the Kenai Peninsula to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. It is a decidedly non-fishing trip with the mutual agreement that I will at some point need to get out on a stream for a bit. These next couple of hours are my window. 

I make quick work of getting ready and am on the road by 5:30. The stream that I’ve chosen is a half hour drive away, this should have me sliding into waders around first light. The species that I’m pursuing is the dolly Varden (Salvelinus malma). A member of the char family, they are the bruiser cousins of my beloved brook trout. While I have been lucky enough to find small stream resident dollies deep in the Olympic mountain range, an Alaskan specimen has ranked high on my fish list for some time now. Unable to get it done during my window here last summer on our honeymoon, this is my second chance at a redemption of sorts.

I am timid as I take the first sip of my coffee, but it is a needed stimulant. The coffee maker that I had cleaned out the previous evening contained enough dried spent grounds from prior use that I could have cobbled together enough for a lightly brewed cup, if necessary. The results after a thorough cleaning weren’t half bad. In fact, it was exactly what I needed. I sipped down the rest of the paper cup free of inhibitions. 

Soft daylight begins to illuminate the roadway revealing the expanse of mountains ahead. Hues of pink begin to percolate from behind dramatic cloud formations and the waters of the famed Kenai river glow aquamarine from their glacial origins. 

I pass Troutfitters Fly Shop where the previous day I had picked up a handful of strike indicators and a shop sticker for Dean. I chatted with the shop guide who donned a ‘Squatch and Release’ ball cap, playing the age old subtle song and dance of slipping stream names casually into conversation, seeing if they elicit a response of any kind. “Haven’t been there in a while. I have a buddy who came by last week and said he caught some on the dry there though.” “Oh?” “Yeah. Well, he could have also been full of shit too.” Duly noted. 

Anyone who’s fished in Alaska during the various salmon runs of summer and fall knows that it’s a pegged egg and bare hook fishery. The rig is simple: slide a peg through the center of an 8mm egg colored bead above a bare hook. Above that, add as much split shot as necessary to get it down and throw on a strike indicator. Though the absence of thread disqualifies beads from the distinction of a true fly (and legally, Alaska classifies them as an “attractor”), I have been assured by three different fly shops across this state of their sporting legitimacy. Beads are special here. Sure, your membership to the Dry or Die cult may be placed under judiciary review, by the misdemeanor is not listed on your permanent record.

There’s one other car in the parking lot when I arrive at 6am. I reason with myself that this is a good thing, actually. Safety in numbers and all. Plus when the car has a bumper sticker that reads “More Trees, Less Assholes”, you know you’re in good company. 

I’ve recently resorted to completing the more consequential tasks of rigging up such as assembling my rod and reel, stringing the line through the guides, and tying the knot on my fly the night before an early morning trip. It saves me some time, eye strain, and reduces potential for heartbreak of losing a fish or fly to a hastily tied knot. It keeps the momentum of a trip rolling at a steady clip, “wetting the line” as they would call it in the manufacturing industry. I strap my bear spray onto my wading belt with a carabiner, close the back hatch, and I’m off. 

Bears. The brute beasts of the Far North. The robbers of stream side equanimity. This is my third trip fly fishing solo in Alaska and while I am yet to come across one with a fly rod in hand, I have spent a decent chunk of time mulling over their existence in share spaces. On my first trip, I was paranoid to a fault; spending more time checking my blind spots and infusing the area with noise than focusing on the task at hand. The next trip I thought I was more prepared mentally. That is, until I came across a fresh pile of bear scat still steaming as I entered the river. But now this trip felt different yet. Perhaps I’m developing a healthy yet not quite paralyzing fear from all of the time spent in the Washington backcountry. Things just feel different in Alaska though. The stakes are higher whenever grizzlies are a part of the equation. I’ve come to the conclusion over these past four years that if you can come to terms with not being the top dog on the food chain for a couple of hours, you will likely enjoy some of the best fly fishing you will find all season.

The stream borders a well maintained trail, I walk it long enough to feel sufficiently far away from the trailhead, but am stopped by an irresistible looking pool of water. The first order of business is locating the salmon, a pair of crimson hued logs contrasting with the cobalt gray and brown spotted stream bottom. Where there are salmon, there will be Dolly Varden. These opportunistic egg feeders position themselves downstream for easy, gravity assisted protein. After the spawn and the salmon begin to deteriorate, they will do the same as literal flesh chunks dislodge themselves from the zombified salmon. It’s too early for flesh on the menu, but I keep some rabbit fur patterns in my box just in case.

It doesn’t take long before I’m treated to the first action of the morning. My indicator plunges on the second drift through the pool and I bring a small yet beautifully colored native rainbow trout to hand. With a gill plate of iridescent purple and a string of cherry red spots spanning its medial line, it is a gem of a trout and confirmation that my timing on this stream may just be perfect. 

I’m not the biggest fan of indicator style fly fishing for many reasons, but there is something thrilling about watching a bobber go under from time to time. Perhaps our earliest experiences dunking worms for pond bluegills is something that becomes deeply entrenched in our fishing DNA.

I find what I came for in the next couple of drifts. The indicator shoots under and I pull back on a ferocious tension of supercharged headshakes. There’s a tenacious spunk in this one. No grandiose leaps from a rainbow, just nose towards the bottom charges that peel line through my fingers. I’m desperate for a glimpse, and after a few more tiring runs through the pool my hunch is confirmed. Dolly! I guide the fish headfirst into my net, still containing plenty of vigor. I observe the char in my net as I remove the bare hook from its lower jaw. Silvery, with faint polka dotted spotting that transitions from white to a light pink as you scan from top to bottom. The bean shaped vermiculations patterned across its back, a feature of all char, is a cherished sight shared with my brook trout back east. In males, during the spawn, these colors will intensify to the most brilliant of emerald greens, tomato reds, and sunset oranges. Indeed, these are the colors of its namesake, a gaudily clad character from an obscure Charles Dickens novel. But I’m a month or so early for that. Today, the subdued palette is more than enough for me to appreciate. 

I know that in due time, after the last of the salmon eggs and flesh have been scavenged, the spawning dollies will bear their lavish colorations. Around that same time, the stream side foliage will take on a rusty brown and copper tone, reminiscent of a Glacier IPA. I think I’ll have one tonight in celebration. Maybe two.