A Little Piece of Paradise

I know of a place that is the stuff of legend. I often think of it when I’m fishing my usual waters, wondering how it is. Surely, I’d be doing much better if I was there. After a long day on the river I sometimes yearn to get back there and redeem myself for my mediocre performance today. The water is clean, cold, and gin-clear. Stalking the banks holds endless sight-fishing opportunity with hordes of rainbows and browns in every riffle and pool. You’ll rarely find yourself crowded, in fact some times of the year you can be the only soul for miles on this beautiful river. Sheer red walls plummet hundreds of feet to meet the deep emerald water. Monsters lurk in the shadowy depths and even in the coldest months countless noses lazily sip insects caught in the surface film. It may truly be a trout angler’s paradise.

Preparing for a trip there involves checking every piece of gear, tying a bunch of new flies, and setting the coffee pot for some ungodly hour. The pre-dawn departure is accompanied by hushed excitement, the anticipation of epic fishing growing with each bleary-eyed sip of coffee. The dog knows something good is coming, she can feel it. She may not know where you’re going, but she knows the truck is full of gear and that can only mean one thing.

With an arsenal of rods, flies, and other miscellaneous gear strapped all over, you’ll head down the footpath to the water and suddenly remember just how damn hard this place is. In all the daydreaming, planning, and driving you somehow forgot how badly you were beat down last time. Those hundreds of fish sipping lazily didn’t want anything to do with whatever you were throwing. Every fly you had with you was ten times too big or too small, too flashy or too dull. Every piece of fishy-looking water produced nothing but frustration, tangles, and lost flies. Your footsteps on the bank spooked fish from forty yards. You fell in the thirty-seven degree water miles from the truck. You went through every dry, nymph, and streamer on hand and the one bug that consistently got takes failed to hook up every time because the hook had broken and you never thought to check it.

Never mind all that, you think, this time it’ll be different. I’m ready for it now, bring it on. So you creep along the bank, keeping the dog far from the water. You spot the day’s first rises gently breaking the surface long before you notice any bugs. You can make out the shapes of trout just below the glare, feeding on nymphs or the occasional dry. So you’ll tie the smallest emerger you’ve got onto the longest, lightest leader you can put together and pray that just one of those fish wants it. Moving ever so slowly, you’ll creep up to the edge and make the most gentle presentation the world has ever seen. The drift will be perfect, right down the alley. And that’s how it will go all day; creep, cast, curse, repeat.

Eventually you’ll have to sit down and ponder just what the hell you’re doing here. It’s frustrating, demoralizing, and enough to drive you mad. But sit long enough and at some point you may realize that this truly is a trout angler’s paradise. Not because you can go and beat up on fish all day but because you’ve got to be dialed. This isn’t the stocked pond behind the golf course. It’s unforgiving and will shut you down more often than not if you let it. But the more you fail, the more you learn, and at some point the 7x doesn’t look so small, the micro currents become more obvious, and the 14 incher is every bit as rewarding as the 22. Well, almost.

I won't be able to get back there for a long while, Alaska is a bit too far to drive from. While I'm sure the ridiculous fishing up there will be a ton of fun, I'll be looking forward to another beatdown when I get back.