What does it mean to have a “long day” of fly fishing? The old adage says : a bad day of fishing is better than a good day in the office. Agreed. However, by the end of our sunny, late April day at the Magalloway River of northern Maine, my friend Kevin Shea and I were doubting that any of the trophy 22″ brook trout we were seeking could ever be caught in a river renowned for them. The brookies were not intrigued by our fly fishing techniques of finessing nymphs or stripping streamers, and drift after drift our lines stayed slack. After hours of the torturous work of standing in the water to fish (sensing the irony?), I turned my eyes to a soft spot on the bank and took a seat. The sun shown overhead, and in my memory not a cloud could be seen in the sky. At least that explained the poor fishing – they never bite on the nice days! The Magalloway River flowed in front of me, and several fisherman were down the bank from me about 25 yards still dredging the rocky bottom with their #18 beadheads.
It was the movement that caught my eye. A bird had flown near my left shoulder and disappeared. Turning my full attention to the area I watched a black-capped chickadee emerge from the end of a rotten alder log and fly off with a face full of sawdust. As it flew off, another of the gregarious birds quickly flew in to take the first’s place in the hollowed log, and seconds later reappeared with a mouthful of sawdust. The bird flew to the nearest branch and pulled apart the sawdust, apparently looking for some type insect or larvae. In its place a train of birds flew into the hollow log and then back out creating a constant stream of entertainment for a curious human.
The fearlessness of chickadees makes them a favorite bird of children and adults alike and is part of the reason chickadees are one of the best-known birds of North American feeders. [As a side note, these tiny birds are able to survive brutal winter (e.g. -40 F in Fairbanks, AK) temperatures by dropping their body temperature as much as 12-15 degrees below their average body temp every night, conserving as much as 25% or their body energy!] However, even though I had seen their antics many times at a bird feeder, this was the first time I had seen them so voraciously ripping apart wild fodder. It was addicting to watch the organized flow of black-caps eagerly looking towards their next meal!
Their consistent pattern of entering the log, and emerging a few seconds later gave me enough time to snag my camera and take some shots. The shots I captured sealed the moment in time and memory of these great birds for me, which is what I offer you today!
So, the old adage is right. However, arguably based on my day, a bad day of fishing is worse than a good bout of bird watching! The images, antics, and thoughts of these birds have stuck with me for the last 18 months. There’s always something to watch in nature, even if the fishing isn’t good!
For those of you who haven’t read through one of my ‘photographic reflections’ before they are entries from pictures I took before the blog started, but have a story. This one took place in 2013, I hope you enjoyed! I will leave you with this short clip of the Chickadees using the alder-log bonanza
This story is about fishing and how we get to places. It’s also about how advice and the kindness of others shape our experiences.
When the drive south started with Kassie, Andy, and Jenny for our first salmon fishing trip we were headed to the Gulkana River. Online reports and an early push of “red” salmon in the river that summer gave us hope for good fishing. When we arrived we found an incredible camping, a beautiful rushing river, no fisherman, and no fish. If the salmon are running well it would make sense for the river banks to be dotted with rods, lines, and men. Our attempts there proved what could be assumed, we did not catch a fish. We had a great night at the campground with a fire, s’mores, and chatter.
The next morning we were ready for a change of pace. Heading to the local gas station we stepped inside to hunt for some information. The gas station was small, but well kept. A basket of coho flies sat near the cashier’s box tended by a woman in broad rimmed glasses. Her shock white hair gave little doubt that she had been in Alaska for quite some time. After telling her we tried fishing the Gulkana she explained the fish were not there yet. But, she continued, if we headed to the Klutina they were doing pretty well on salmon. This information was good enough for us! We headed south.
As we walked across the bridge over the Klutina River we met a couple who went out of their way to inform us of a path that ran down the river for almost a mile. We fished the troughs, holes, and eddies on the way down with the expectation of a tight line; we were never gratified. As we moved down the river we came to a spot where large pool swirled and seemed a natural place to fish. To add to the beauty of the spot a large snow covered peak held guard at the downstream end of the river and only one older man fished the area. I stationed below this man about forty yards and Andy fished above him. 5…15…..45…. 90 minutes we fished-and-fished, dropping small casts upstream and floating our flies. Sockeye salmon, also nicknamed ‘reds’ for the color they turn as they go upstream, swim up the rivers with their mouth open and do not eat. The only way to legally catch the fish with a hook and line is to drag a line through their mouth, effectively ‘flossing’ the fish and hooking it in the corner of the mouth. Any fish snagged in the side or belly must be released. Before you object that it sounds like catching fish in a barrel remember that due to high rain the river ran fast and was cloudy. You simply play the odds that enough fish are going up river and that sooner or later your line will pass through its mouth. …100..110….120 minutes we fished. Neither of us could catch a fish, but in that time the man between us had pulled out his limit of six beautiful sockeye salmon. He had lost just as many as that. Both Andy and I were wide-eyed. I have never felt so inadequate as a fisherman, or more strongly that wisdom comes with age.
After packing up his rod and net the man sat on the bank with his head down. After holding that pose for 5 minutes, Andy and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows; was the man having a problem? I walked over to him.
“Are you alright?” I asked him tentatively.
Looking up at me he replied “Oh, bless you, yes I’m OK. I have a heart issue, so I just need to take it slow”.
“Well” I stated, “I would gladly haul those fish to the bridge for you in trade for a secret or two on how you did that”.
“Oh, bless you”, the man replied again, “if I can’t haul these fish out of here I might as well quit. This might be my last season as it is and I’ve been fishing this river for forty-two years. Here, let me show you.”
We walked downstream to where the man had stood for two ours and had caught six beautiful red-salmon. He instructed me to stand five feet straight downstream of a rock. In front of me, a large ‘pocket’ of water eddied behind a brawny boulder eight feet upstream of me. Adding a ‘more weight’ to my line, he instructed me to cast to an small piece of water about 2×2 feet wide.
“Don’t cast too far”, he advised, “there’s no need, and you’ll get a better drift”
I thanked him and he moved upstream to clean his salmon. Andy was the first to hook up. The fish took off downstream and Andy played it back and forth. Jenny helped by running the net helter-skelter over slippery rocks and around hanging alders to where the red splashed in the shallows. With a few pokes of the net the fight was over. Fish was on the menu! The man watched from his pile of fillets and cheered along with us.
I was the next to hook up on and the fish got off. However, the following sockeye to be flossed by my fly took off downstream. With my nine-weight fly rod bending over, the fish turned downstream stealing line from my hands and headed for the middle of the rapids. I pulled him back towards shore before the salmon peeled off more line from my spool. Back and forth we went for 5 minutes. In the end, the net which was pinched between my knees during the whole fight was unsheathed and the salmon scooped up. Finally, some success! And all thanks to the gentleman.
I missed several more fish that day before disaster struck. While pulling out a snag the top of my rod snapped. I was not doing anything irresponsible with the rod. In fact. I had the line grasped in my had and was pulling on it. I must have exerted enough pressure to break the rod. Believe it or not, this was only the first fly-rod of the trip to be broken pulling out a snag like that. The next day, relegated to using my 5 weight fly-rod I broke the tip off doing the same thing!! I was pulling on the line with my hand to get the snag out when the tip of the rod broke off. I must admit, I’m pretty confused by how it happened. If anyone reading this now or in the future has had this same issue, I would love to hear your feedback!
The second morning we arrived at the fishing hole at 6:30 AM. It took two hours, but finally I hooked up with a large red on my 5-weight fly rod. The rod had a far different feel than the stiff 9-weight. It bent hilt to tip fighting the strong salmon in the current. Back and forth it went in the current. Twice it almost wrapped up in the alders on the bank which surely would have released it. I drug it away from there each time. After 5 minutes of play, I tired the fish, but the rod did not have enough strength to pull the fish upstream. Andy headed downstream with the net and scooped up the fish. Just for the record, I thought he might knock it off 😉
The fish was the last red to be pulled from the Klutina River. All four of us regarded the trip as a huge success. We could not help but to appreciate the destiny-like chain of events that led up to our catches and feel thankful for it. The old woman at the gas-station, the couple on the bridge, and George, the old man who out-fished us with his forty-two years of knowledge, made it all happen. I felt George was passing the torch to us like we were his grandchildren. His feeling that he would not be on the stream again was sobering, as it was obvious how much fishing meant to him.
I dedicate this blog entry to George and to all who’s kindness and patience direct their recipients to success. We all know who you are.