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A gentle mist was softly caressing the waters surface
as my partner and I approached the stream. Slipping
on our polarized glasses we probed the depths for the
telltale shadow of the Dolly Varden. Our excitement
lent a sparkle to the sodden air as we hurriedly strung
our rods, breathlessly anticipating that first cast, that
first take. So it was with great eagerness that I
reached into my vest to pull out my battle scarred okuma
fly box, reverently opened the lid to expose my gleaming
masterpieces. I carefully selected two choice morsels,
both with gleaming brass beads already glistening with
moisture, as if envisioning their role in this adventure.
I handed one of my hybrid Battle Creeks to my partner,
modified by utilizing a 3x streamer hook size 8, with
white marabou tied short so the bend of the hook was
flush with the tail of the marabou. Orange chenille
over-wrapped with a white saddle hackle ending in a
brass bead at the eye. Through previous outings observing
these beautiful Dolly Varden short striking my delicately
presented nymph, I attempted to overcome this disrespectful
shortcoming by tying a size 12 Battle Creek on a size 8 hook.
This was to be the trial by fire of my design.
We stalked to the first pool, a beautiful clear bowl of water
with nary a ripple to mar its exquisite beauty. So pure that
every misshapen rock, twig, and branch was clearly visible
even at its depth. There were five torpedo shaped shadows,
almost perfectly blending into the textured bottom, visibly
only by the rhythmic pulsing of their gills, and the occasional
sweep of their tails. I watched with almost pure awe as my
partner started false casting behind the fish, taking his
time warming up, measuring line, as he prepared to break
the almost magical calm that had befallen this stream.
His first cast was masterful, a beautiful loop of line
shot over the pool, until at the last moment, he twitched
his rod tip to create some undulation to help the fly penetrate
the depths. The bright fly sank like the proverbial rock as
it swiftly proceeded on its preordained path. These trout
were no fools however, and watched the fly drift past with
complete distain for our offering, and merely retreated to
the sanctity of the nearest root mass. Realizing further
attempts at this pool were futile, we decided to prospect
up around the bend.
The next stop, after crossing the creek, through what was
obviously some rather large black bears primary kitchen,
based on the visible remains of the chum salmon carcasses
strewn haphazardly through the alder patch, was a bubbly
riffle run that had produced some nice examples of the
Dolly Varden species during previous visits. This time,
I was to step up to the plate, to test my skills against
these wild creatures. My partner nervously scanned the
overgrown banks, ever watchful, as we weren't the only
fishers on this stream. Barely visible through the brush
upstream was a blurry outline of a furry four-legged beast,
slowly wandering down to our location. So it was with one
eye on my presentation, and one on the potentially eventful
meeting, that I made my first cast. My intentions were to
present my Battle Creek along a partially submerged log that
provided great cover, yet easy access to the salmon eggs that
were being swept downstream, looking like iridescent beads
bouncing along the river bottom. Occasionally we caught out
of the corner of our eye, the flash of silver that marked
another trout enthusiastically feeding. Alas, victory was
not to be mine, as I suspect there was just too much in the
way of victuals to persuade the wary trout to my line.
Our four-legged competitor had parted company as I was attempting
to lure a trout to my fly, so we searched upstream for our first
strike. Rounding the next bend however, we were greeted to
instant adrenaline rushes, as we came face to face with an
extremely large black bear. Luck nonetheless was on our
side. As he obviously was more interested in dinner than
sport. We watched breathlessly, immobile as he calmly,
almost daintily reached down and plucked a fat chum salmon
from the waters, grasping the still struggling salmon in its
maw, and calmly receded into the underbrush. After getting
our heart rates back down to something resembling normal,
we decided to skip this particular stretch of water, and
investigate further upstream.
Around the next bend was the most beautiful stretch of
water man has ever seen. Glorious Alders reached to the
stream, their leaves bedecked with the rich golden hues
of autumn, and the icy blue-gray water seemed to glow
from the granite pebbles reflecting the soft rays of
light. A picture perfect sandbar stretched across the
bank from us, a single line of bear tracks, its only
imperfection, yet that imperfection seemed to only enhance
the beauty. This we thought must be Nirvana.
We spread out on this stretch, pocket water too numerous
to count lay before us. Our flies caressed the waters
surface almost simultaneously as we prospected for our
quarry. My friend stuck first, his joyous yelp of
satisfaction cracked across the water to my ears. I
paused in admiration as he skillfully maneuvered the
trout to the shallows. A beautiful 13" Dolly lay
placidly in his hands. I watched as he gently returned
his prize to the water. Still admiring his catch, I
almost missed my first strike. The gently tug of my fly
snapping my attention back to the matter at hand. Yet
my moment of distraction cost me dearly, as I pulled
the fly out of his mouth.
Frustrated, I cast again, this time chanting to myself almost
like a mantra, 'Set the hook, Set the hook,' as my fly bounced
crazily across the bottom. It cleared the last boulder, my
line twitched yet again, this time I was ready, setting the
hook firmly in the corner of the trout's mouth as it screamed upstream
to attempt to shake this annoyance. I hurriedly cranked
my reel, taking up the loose coils of line that had accumulated
while I had stripped in line.
Finally taking up the last foot, I proceeded to work this
fish to my hand. Faintly I heard my friend holler his second
fish, as I guided mine to the shallows. This bright bespeckled
trout gleamed in the pale glow as I raised the fish to release
my barbless hook. Its orange spots and white tipped fins were
vivid in color, contrasting beautifully with its silver scaled
sides. I lowered my prize back to the water, to allow this
gorgeous 12" beauty to resume its journey.
Several more trout succumbed to our flies, as our time on
this water came to an end. Twilight shrouded our heads while
we made our way back to the trail. One last look over our
shoulders and we were rewarded with another bear, fur slicked
with rain, amble unhurriedly to this stream, to catch one
more fish before it retires as well. It was with huge grins
on our faces that we made the short walk home. ~ Clay R. (AK)
Credits: Dolly Varden watercolor by Vic Erickson, from Native
Trout of North America by Robert H. Smith, published by
Frank Amato Publications.
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