Chasing the Sailfish of the North
Denali watched over us as we slid into our waders on the back of Troy’s truck. The clouds were sparse when we pulled up to the creek, which flowed under the Denali Highway. Crisp and clear water slipped around boulders, holding grayling in the seams between the fast and slow water. We were excited to don our waders and take our first steps into the water.
In the four hours prior, we sat anxiously in that same truck, working our way north from Anchorage. On the drive up, Troy and I exchanged stories to pass the time on the drive; my few stories paled in comparison to Troy’s fly-fishing history. It was time for me to learn and listen. He has spent his life chasing fish with a fly rod and learning everything he could about the process. We wove between casting mechanics, fly presentation, and fish habits. Being July 4, our entire drive was under the midnight sun. What’s more American than chasing an artic grayling in Alaska with the sun lighting your way at 4am?
Jerissa and I took our initial steps into the water and immediately realized that the water that looked so soft from the banks was powerful under foot. Our first pool was just above the Denali Highway crossing. This was our opportunity to train on the water; the passing trucks and occasionally curious passer-by scared the grayling away from this pool. We learned how to cast on the seams between fast water and slow water, how to present our fly line for a dead drift, how to place our fly in the nutrient superhighway in the river.
While the stream looks docile and simple from afar, the complexity was obvious as we approached. The stream separated into distinct regions: fast water, slow water, and the seams. The fast water carries the nutrient-rich food from upstream. The fish survive off of this water. However, the fish exert a significant amount of effort to remain in this fast-flowing water. This extra energy nullifies the nutritional benefit of the food floating by—just like someone hitting the gym to balance out a double-quarter pounder with cheese. The difference between us and the fish is that we can get a “belly-buster” anytime of the year. The fish, on the other hand, are seasonal feeders. We don’t need to store the energy; they need the energy reserved on their bodies to make it through the next year. In the slow water, they do not have to spend much energy to stay there; however, all the food drops out of the system before it gets there. If they stayed in the slow water the entire time, they would starve. This is where the seam comes into play. The seam is where Goldilocks would feed if she were a fish. It is the junction of the fast water and slow water. The edge of the fast water carries the nutrition and the slow water holds the fish. If you put a fly on the seam that looks like food and drifts like food, then the grayling will perform an acrobatic bite, often breaching the water and landing on the fly. It is this moment, when they enter the water with the fly in their mouth, that you set the hook.
In this first hole, we practiced placing our fly on the seams, laying our fly line to create a realistic drift. The only thing we caught in this pool was the attention of curious RVers and tourists—German for some reason—wondering what we were catching. The fish were not active; not a single strike. We practiced our technique to the point that we convinced ourselves that any self-respecting grayling would eat our fly.
We walked just a short way upstream to another promising hole and began fishing the seams. My turn was up first, so I started casting into the seams. The sun was overhead and beating down on the water, making the fly line more obvious and exposing the artificial nature of the flies. The grayling did not care. After a few casts, there was a quick splash near my fly. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, and that’s all it took for the grayling to be gone. I recast the line, but I had missed the fish. I took another few steps and recast. A grayling breached the water and slammed down on my fly. My nerves were on alert and I was able to set the hook. The line was tight, and I was able to land a healthy grayling, letting it swim back to the seam after I stole a look at it in my hand. As soon as I released the grayling, Jerissa stepped in to try her hand at catching a grayling. After a few casts, she too had a strike. She timed the hook set just right and began wrestling with the fish. She brought in the fish, hand over hand, not taking to the reel. She landed the 10” grayling with a smooth retrieve, posed for a quick portrait with the fish, and let it swim back to the seam to find a more nutritious fly to eat.
We were hooked. Troy took his turn at the grayling and landed one after a few more casts. We began alternating who fished based on a landed fish or bungled cast. We fished the first hole hard, passing a fly by every structure and seam that could potentially house a fish. We caught a few more fish in this hole, but it wasn’t until we worked further upstream that we got into the good stuff. The areas filled with fish were still further upstream, further from the road.
We followed paths, cut by moose and bears, to pools further upstream. With each new pool, we analyzed the dynamics of the water and structure to find more grayling, who were very eager to take our flies. Our elk hair caddis and Adam’s flies were driving the grayling crazy. As we became more focused on the fishing, our focus on time faded. The sun remained high in the sky and we fished deeper upstream. There seemed to be a natural process at work. As we spent more time on the banks of the stream, we became more accustomed to the seasonal clocks that drive the natural processes. We couldn’t help but integrate into this timing, shirking the rigid time structure of our lives in town. But reality hit us. It was 6pm, and we were still a couple miles from the road. We began fishing our way back downstream.
The sun began to dip behind the mountains, and the mosquitos arose from the willows. The mosquitos were present throughout the day, but in small quantities and limited areas. Now, they swarmed by the hundreds and clung to any bit of exposed skin. During the retrieve after a cast, my hands would accumulate 8-10 mosquitos each. It felt as though the vampire flies were sucking more blood from my extremities than my body could produce. I was in a losing battle. Once our faces, necks, and hands were no longer appetizing to the mosquitos, they began to bite through our clothes. By this point, the balance between the excitement of catching a grayling and the misery of being bitten by mosquitos had flipped. We hiked out of the river and returned to the truck. There was a steady evening breeze at the truck to keep the mosquitos moving, so we lazily removed our waders and ate a few of our leftovers from earlier: a few Pringles, a Kind bar, and some Doritos Nacho Cheese coated peanuts, a true delicacy after hours on the water.
We began our journey back to Anchorage, retelling our favorite moments from the day of fishing. Troy excitedly interrupted his stories and ours alike to point out great fishing holes or areas of no-fish infamy while we drove back. Once we arrived back in Anchorage, all that remained from the day was the mosquito bites that covered our skin and memories to be told as stories at another time.