Fish Tales

September Silvers

Those coming to Alaska to fish come in all shapes, sizes, interests, preferences, and expectations. Some dream of the big king salmon, the 60 to 100 pounder's from the famous Kenai River. Others dream of the more abundant Reds and Silvers. Most fishers come from normal, genetically unaltered family strains. Once they view and experience the crowds of the road-accessible areas of south-central Alaska, those in the know long for a place like Doc Warner's.

Barney is no average silver fisherman. He's been proving his manliness for 30 years on the silver streams. First, he used bait, advanced to lures, and finally progressed to the ultimate-wet flies.

In September the average size of migrating silvers can approach 16 pounds. That's enough to test the skills of most mortal fly fishers. To Barney, there is just no excuse for a fish getting away once it's hooked. It's man over beast. You've seen his type. They can catch the biggest, and most fish in the group, but will brood all night and scheme all day to catch the one that got away.

Barney had a bad experience the day before fishing with lesser humans. You know, the kind who troll with bait and lures. Anyway, Barney had been trolling when his pole takes a slight dip, then a violent thrust forward. He nonchalantly picks up the rod and jerks the line as if he were trying to pull the fish into the boat in the same motion he used to set the hook.

The reel screams as the line flies out. Suddenly, the biggest silver Barney has ever seen in his life goes skyward out of the water, trailing his blue-prism dodger, and then crashing back into the water. The line-counter on his reel, which indicated 60 feet when he had put the pole in the holder, now read 125 feet and counting.

Like a sergeant Barney begins shouting orders to those present on how this great fish should be handled when he brings it to the boat. Someone cautiously mentions to Barney that he needs to start getting the line back on the reel before he worries about netting the fish. The counter is now at 225 feet and counting.

Again the fish goes airborne. Once, twice, then a third time. Barney proclaims to the world that he is about to land the largest silver ever taken in Alaska.

Suddenly, the reel stops screaming and the line goes slack. Instinct tells Barney that the fish has reversed directions. It's coming toward him at the same speed it had been going away from him. His hand clamps on the reel handle and he begins reeling with all the velocity his chubby hands can muster. Still the line is too slack.

A large fish comes out of the water on the opposite side of the boat from Barney. It's trailing a blue dodger just like Barney's fish. Someone calls this to his attention, with the question, "how come your pole is pointing off that side of the boat and the fish is jumping on the other side of the boat"?

Still Barney cranks ferociously on the reel. Bang, the slack in the line is gone, the pole lurches under the boat, and again the silver goes airborne. Then, there's the big snap. You know, the one familiar to all those who fish for bigger fish. The snap that comes when the pressure applied to the line exceeds the line strength. The snap caused by the parting of the ways.

Barney was dumb-founded. How could a fish do that to him. It wasn't fair. Someone or something was to blame.

Now, to make matters worse, out of the water came the same fish again. Still trailing the dodger as it leaped. But this time, it didn't have Barney hooked on the other end.

Barney wasn't fit to be around the rest of the day. He had disparaging words for Berkeley rods, Okuma reels, Maxima line, dead herring, seagulls, and everything else that impacted his optical nerves.

At supper he scowled at the food, talked to no one, and plotted the next day.

Those silvers were headed to a spawning river somewhere. He reckoned that with the dodger attached that maybe the fish would opt for a closer stream (not). If he were correct that would be the Swanson River, about 15 miles from Doc Warner's. It would require traversing some 3-foot waves in Icy Strait, and about a mile walk up the shore line to get to the good holes, but he was just the man to make the trek. Besides, on the stream he could use his fly gear and no self-respecting silver could resist his offerings.

Carefully that evening he selected his traveling companions. No short, fat out-of-shape, non-fly-fishing humans would be allowed on this trip. Only purists, the elite of the fishing world. He needed people who would support him and admire his forward cast, his back cast, his false cast, his stream-sense, his superiority in all aspects of the sport.

Around the table in the cabin he outlined his plan to the other guests. Next morning, after the full-hearty breakfast, they'd ask for a larger lunch, make sure the boat had plenty of gas, and head for Swanson River. They'd walk up the river bank, staying fairly close together and making plenty of noise in case there were black bear in the area. Then, when they reached the big holes they would "slay" those unsuspecting silvers.

September in southeast Alaska has it's share of rain and wind which sometimes make the water rough and fishing uncomfortable. Rough water in southeast is nothing like Cook Inlet though. Three to 4-foot swells is kids stuff compared to 12-foot seas. And, the waves in southeast are generated mostly by the opposing direction of wind and tide.

Barney was in luck. Winds were calm, seas quiet, and the trip to Swanson was quick and easy. They anchored the boat in the stream mouth, tied a rope to the anchor which they then tied to a tree above the tide line so they could retrieve the boat regardless of the tide level, and began the walk up the river.

On the first turn of the river is a large hole. Standing high on the bank they could see thousands of fish. Mostly, the fish were a little smaller, and had dark blotches on the sides. Pink salmon waiting to spawn in the lower stretch of the river. On closer observation Barney could see schools of larger fish as well. The silvers were in the river, and were plentiful.

No use wasting time on this lower hole. Barney and his group were headed up the river for about 30 minutes walking time to the place where the silver always congregate and the fishing spectacular. Swanson River is a small river by Alaska standards. In fact, in most places in the riffle areas a person can wade across the stream with little trouble. Even in the big holes a fly fisher can't show all their distance casting skills without putting the fly in the trees on the other side.

As Barney marched up the stream bank he kept thinking, "I wonder if that big silver, trailing my blue dodger, has made it this far up the stream." He'd looked carefully in the big hole at the mouth of the river and hadn't seen anything that looked like a big silver with his blue dodger in tow.

They cut through the spruce and hemlock trees, emerged on the bank of the river about a mile above saltwater, and saw their goal. Clear water, tumbling over rocks and boulders, racing around a few fallen trees, and eddying into several large holes full of fish. This was the place every fisher who loves the solace and quiet, who yearns to be away from the crowds, seeks and seldom finds. Here they would spend the day in Alaskan Fishers paradise.

Barney slipped his fly rod from its case, mounted the reel, and threaded the line. Carefully he checked the knots and inspected the leader and tippet to make sure they were not frayed and strong enough for what he was about to put them through. Opening his fly box he viewed its contents looking for that special egg-sucking leech. He wanted the one with salmon orange on the front, a purple body, and a beige ball on the tail. No well-bred, genetically sound silver salmon could ever resist such an offering. He tied it to the tippet.

Barney worked the line back and forth in false casts several times just to get the feel of the line and the pole. Then, he aimed to the upper part of the hole where the stream current disappears into the calm of deeper water. The sinking line took the fly down into the water column as it moved deeper into the hole. A strike, but no hook-up. Maybe the fly had just bounced off the back of a silver swimming by. Barney retrieved the fly and cast again. This time a little closer to the other bank. It seemed like the fly had barely disappeared from sight when the slack zipped from the line as it shot down stream. Calm and collected Barney set the hook and began showing the silver it had met its master. By this time the reel was screaming and the backing was beginning to show from underneath the fly line. Like any experienced, cool, professional fly fisher, Barney began using the palm of his hand to put pressure on the reel, to increase the drag and tire the fish. Something was wrong. This fish wasn't cooperating. It kept going. Visions of yesterdays experience flashed through his mind, filling him with determination not to let this fish come out a winner. Being beaten by a fish once was hard to take, but having it happen twice during the same week, was beyond consideration, especially for someone of Barney's skill. These thoughts only made Barney more determined that this one would be his. He would be its master.

By now the line was off the reel and all Barney could see of the fish was where the backing entered the water. It was time to get after that fish before he ran out of line. He was no cross-country runner, but he made fans proud the way he leaped logs, slid over rocks, crashed though the bushes, and mostly kept up with the fish.

His eyes were focused in a steady gaze following the fish. His nostrils flared, his face flushed, and his attention un-distractible. The fish was near the lower end of the hole and Barney was sure it would not move into the shallower water and continue downstream. He was right in thinking it would stop the down stream movement, but wrong it anticipating how fast it would turn and move upstream. The line tension went slack, but the sight to the line going rapidly upstream past him was his first clue that he was in trouble. In a flash he remembered the big one going under the boat yesterday. This fish was playing the same game.

Have you ever tried to watch fish line, attached to a big fish, going one direction, while your running the other direction. Then change direction of running, without taking your eyes off the fish line, and begin jumping boulders and fallen trees you just passed through and received major shin bruises and neck whiplash. If so, then you can understand a little of Barney's difficulties. He made it to the first few trees and boulders with relatively few miss-steps. Alas, keeping his eyes on the fishing line he neglected to see that low-hanging, old dead limb. I'm not sure he ever saw the limb, but when they met it was about throat-high. I still don't understand how he got the fishing pole under the limb without seeing it, but that was more than likely the fish's fault. Anyway, Barney's feet were still going forward when his head abruptly stopped. The stars were aligned against Barney because at the same time his head was stopping the slack in the line ended, and the result was a hard jerk on the fishing pole.

Somehow, someway, Barney got his head and his feet moving the same direction without completely loosing his balance. But the jerk on the pole was too much. As Barney lunged forward his feet stopped against a large boulder on the edge of the pool. He toppled like a giant Sitka Spruce just released from its roots that held it to the ground. Still conscious of the fish pulling on the other end of the line, Barney was determined to keep the pole and reel above water. I'll never forget the sight. There's Barney's, feet and legs on top of a large boulder. His chest in the water and his head underwater. Both arms were stretched outward and upward, arching behind his head, and hanging on to the fly rod. In one big scrambled motion he was still trying to reel in the fish, not dropping the pole, and getting his elbows under him far enough to lift his head from under the water.

I've seen lots of fish caught. I've witnessed numerous techniques for hooking, playing and landing trophies. But there will never be another Barney. Oh, in case you're interested, Barney survived and so did the silver. Its posterity is out there waiting for you to come try your skill.