| western watershed romance |
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Our last day in the Alaskan bush. The previous
day, we briefly fished Goose Creek and bagged a silver salmon that I
killed for my girlfriend's cousin, to whom I felt I owed something
since she'd put us up in Los Anchorage and thus she had to put up with
me. However, that one fish wasn't enough - the cousin had two kids, one
15 and the other 11, and that called for three fillets, which required
two fish. So we decided to give our cute, bountiful stream one final
fling the following morning.
Next day, in dawn
light at the head of the confluence wedding the big river and our small
stream, on river-left - our side - where a shallow eddy slid slothfully
behind a fallen paper birch. We investigated the water on either side
of the tree immediately, and, given the wood cover and slow water,
expectedly found many salmon, but all were chums, and while I adore and
exalt chums, they weren't the target. We then proceeded downstream and
worked the turbidity line between the mainstem and tributary for a few
hours, and while many sea-runs came to hand, they were all the wrong
flavor, all pinks and chums. Dejected, we decided to leave the
confluence and ply some upstream pools that'd held silvers a few days
previous...except that something whispered to me to look into that
water by the birch one final time. Now the river-left side had a sweet
cut-bank about 12 feet tall that was shielded from the water by bushes,
and if you got on top of that bank, you gained a good vantage point for
peering into the eddy area while being screened by the vegetation. I
slowly, smoothly climbed up there and saw 'bout 10 nice-sized fish
upstream of the tree, and about 15 more in the eddy - glittering,
emerald-ruby, 6-10 pound fish, but they seemed to all be chums, the
lovely chums with whom the romance had ended.
All except one. Centered in the chum mass
upstream of the birch was a fish, a fish with a scythed snout, a
blackish tail, and a red-silver body - a manly silver salmon, ONE
silver, a fish that I desperately needed. The cover and vantage point
provided a clear lane for getting casts with a jig in without spooking
the fish; however, the chums, the beautiful chums, the chums I love,
were, in this instance, a nuisance - they, just like the silvers, LOVED
the tube jig, and I knew that the numerous chum satellites orbiting the
sun of the silver salmon would devour the tube before the silver could
take a swing and a swallow. And if I ended up hooking a chum? The
ensuing fight would no doubt scare the rest of the fish, chums and lone
silver alike. Therefore, I had to wait and hope that the silver salmon
would separate just far enough, for just long enough, to give me a shot
of getting the tube jig close enough to him to where he could gnaw it
before the chums.
The chum clouds parted three
times. I had my first shot after about two minutes of watching 'em. The
silver edged closer to shore, accompanied by two chums. I flipped my
tube out to 'em but missed by a foot, a foot a mile too much - the two
chums chased the lure down, but I yanked the jig out of the water
before they grabbed it. Several minutes later, the school expanded,
creating more space between the silver and the chums. I chucked my tube
and hit the target this time - the silver slashed at my lure, but
either he missed the jig or I missed setting the hook on time.
Regardless, my lure came back fishless. The silver and some chums then
moseyed to the eddy. I felt the clock ticking - I still needed to hit
those upstream pools, plus the lady and I needed to get back into Los
Anchorage at a reasonable time - so I allowed myself only one more shot
to get that fish. After an agonizing quarter-hour had drifted by, the
clock time-bombing down to zero, finally, finally,
the silver sidled closer to shore while the chums ambled towards the
thalweg. Separation, isolation, and my last chance. I pitched the tube
about four feet away from the silver - distant enough to where the
lure's splash wouldn't scare him, but close enough so that a few
twitches would attract his attention - and he swigged it. This time, on
point, I set the hook instantly, hard, rushed down to the water's edge,
fought him to shore, landed him, then killed him with three sharp blows
from a rock at the spine-skull joint. Success.
Of
all the copious fish I caught in Alaska, this one silver was the most
memorable, the most meaningful. It was my most elegant hunt of the
entire week: I spotted the fish without him seeing me, due to my choice
of perch and slow, smooth movements; I had an awesome approach, having
an unencumbered shot at the fish while being concealed by the bushes; I
had a kick-ass presentation, placing the right lure (a purple tube jig)
in the right place (close, but not too close) with the right cast (a
smooth flip-cast); and we had a furious, short fight that ended with a
quick, clean kill. Given those stages, it was the perfect hunt;
however, a solemnity, a sadness permeated the interaction after the
light left his eyes. I'd singled that fish out, out of all the others,
out of all the chums and pinks, I'd marked that fish for death - I was
judge, jury, and executioner. I had a stronger relationship, a more
intimate tie, with that salmon than with any other - I hadn't focused
on any other fish as much, I hadn't connected with any other fish as
deliberately as I had with that buck silver. The moroseness was partly
because, despite the union the buck and I shared, that of predator and
prey, I killed him for someone else - I brought a third party into what
was supposed to be a two-party relationship, almost cheating on that
fish. The other part: the silvers, though just beginning their run,
were getting hammered - on our creek, I'd only known of one silver
salmon released, a hen I caught. Consequently, I felt killing that buck
might've been excessive, and though I killed our salmon, including that
buck silver, ethically - bonk 'em quick and clean - the proportion of
caught silvers that were killed felt too high for the small stream to
absorb. Still, the chance that my salmon-killing harmed the population
was likely low - we were at the run's beginning, so many, many more
silvers probably would've entered the stream after we departed, a
sufficient proportion of which should've been enough to saturate the
stream with new, little coho. But of that, I can never be sure; and
because of that, I'll never kill a fish again when unease shakes my
heart.