The Fisherman

The glacier-fed waters of the Russian River run crystal clear; I see the elk hair caddis fly, with its chartreuse fibers, jutting from the fish’s mouth. Experience tells me the fly’s razor-sharp hook is not sunk deeply into the flesh of the rainbow trout, indeed, it is barely hanging on. Finesse will be required. The black speckling and the dusky pink center stripe running the length of her glorious body reminds me of why I am here. She’s over thirty inches long, not a record but a lifetime story. God made days like today to be remembered forever.

It was awe inspiring—a perfect roll cast, the luminous green braided line matures into a glorious loop shedding sprinkles of water from its back. The fly floats downward softly landing on the ice-blue waters, the fish turns her sleek form, inhales the caddis fly, I test the hook, the river splashes against her struggles, and then…

Heavy footfalls of a brown bear crashing through the underbrush punctuate the landscape. Rocks tumbling down the steep bank into the confines of the frigid river disturbs her serenity. The she-bear comes to an abrupt halt, her breath heavy and rapid. I turn my eyes away from the prize rainbow and the flowing river to see the red-brown of her spring coat, her white teeth, the searching eyes. She doesn’t see me.

Slowly, I move to my left and back a solitary step. I now stand between two massive pine trees. The tree on my right conceals me from the bear. The tip of my fly rod is pointing at the morning sky, the braided line stretches out past the river’s bank, over the pristine waters, held taut by the rainbow trout. Small beads of river water continue to fall from the line. The fish dives to the bottom of the shallow river, wiggling her silky body against the sandy bottom causing a seal, a suction against the pull of my fly rod. She is safe for the moment.

I am not.

Keeping the line taut, I peek around the tree. The bear Is sniffing the air, her jet-black nose quivering rapidly. A bear’s sense of smell is very keen. I can’t remember if they have good or poor eyesight. I pray it’s the latter. She has found my red lunch bag, the kind with a zipper around three sides and thermal lining on the interior. She smells the dried salmon jerky. I curse my wife under my breath. Who puts fish in a lunch bag? We live in Alaska. There are bears in Alaska. Bears eat fish. Stupid!

I forgot to close the zipper. Who’s the stupid one?

One swipe of her massive paw and the bag rips apart. A earsplitting snap of her powerful jaws and the salmon is consumed. Nothing more to eat here. She sniffs at the remnants of the red bag. A second swipe and the injured bag soars into the river, carried away by the current never to be seen again.

I check my line. Still tight, tip pointing at eleven o’clock. The rainbow is still there. My arms are bent, holding the pole against my chest. They are beginning to ache. Beads of sweat drop from brow to pine needle blanket below my feet.

The brown bear strolls to the water’s edge. If I tug on the line the fish might break water. The bear see’s the fish. The bear runs to the fish. The bear eats the fish. My fish. It could give me a chance to reach down and remove my pistol from the holster. I could shoot off a couple of rounds. Not at the bear; that would be deadly stupid. But the report may frighten her away...with the remains of my fish hanging from her jaws.

I hold the line steady.

Maybe someone will come. Probably not. The tourist, (I call them pukers) don’t venture this far up river. Because of the bears. They stop downstream, before the confluence of the Russian and Kenai River. That’s where the salmon are. Easy pickings. The pukers will sing “Fish On, Fish On!”, not knowing what they are doing or what a real fish is. Rainbow trout. Now that’s a fish. Besides, it’s still too early for them, and too cold. Nobody’s coming.

The bear is looking towards me. Good eyesight? I can’t remember. She turns her massive head back to the river. I wonder if she can see my fish hiding in the rocks.

Buzzing. Suddenly a buzzing fills my right ear. Mosquito! I close my eyes and hold my breath. They’re attracted to our breath, you know. Maybe not. That might be some Alaska bullshit. Moose shit? The buzzing gets louder. An almost uncontrollable urge to slap at the incessant buzzing insect consumes me. (Better than the bear consuming you, I almost smile.) Just land you little piece of dung. Stick your proboscis where ever the hell you want, suck some blood and fly away!

More buzzing. She has friends. I could slap at them. That’s a problem. I think I could do it without the she-bear hearing, she seems preoccupied now. But to slap at the buzzing bugs means taking one hand off my fly rod. The line will go slack. The fish, my fish, will spit out the hook. She escapes. She swims the way of the red lunch bag, never to be seen again.

The buzzing is not that bad.

I was wrong. The bear is not preoccupied. She’s hunting. She senses me.

Her eyes follow the line. Up from the river, into the sky. She stares up into the early morning sky, squinting against the sun. Land of the midnight sun. I should be sleeping. So too the bear. Her neck stretches back, following the line’s descent. She’s a smart one. She spies the tip of the spey rod quivering innocently. She watches it as if entertained by this micro-dance.

She has seen me! Shaking her head, she roars. Turning her eyes back to the Russian river she knows my fish is there. Back to me. To the fish. A choice to be made.

“Stephen!” Someone calls.

It’s Ivan. I recognize his brusque Russian accent stretching the “S” before delivering the “tephen”. The tree on my right blocks my view but I hear the ground below his boots crumble away as he descends the steep bank. He must have seen me.

He must not have seen the bear.

Ivan Vasiliev has been my neighbor and friend since I arrived in Alaska eight years ago. He taught me to fly fish, how to kayak the Kenai, how to smoke salmon and thirty-two other ways to prepare the popular fish. He introduced me to the Russian River and her populace of rainbow trout. When my wife went into early labor with our second child I was working a three-week shift in Prudhoe Bay; Ivan took her to the hospital, got a sitter for child number one and even helped with the breathing techniques until she relented and screamed for the drugs. Ivan is my best friend.

The bear saw him.

Forgetting me. Forgetting the Russian River and the snagged treasure that awaits at the end of my line, she turns. The muscles in her shoulders and hindquarters billow exposing her great strength and speed. Ivan is half way down the bank before he spots the she-bear. Digging his heels into the rocky ground his descent stops abruptly, pitching him forward. Ivan’s knees slam into the earth, he skids a few feet closer to the bear. With every muscle rippling the bear stands stretching her quivering snout to the heavens and roars.

Leaning slightly, I can now see Ivan’s face, our eyes meet for a moment. He refocuses, his eyes finding the pistol hanging on my side. He nods his head oh-so slightly. My hands are frozen to the fly rod, the cork spongy beneath my grip. A vibration is felt signaling the impatient trout’s desire to be caught or move on. The weight of the pistol magnifies with each passing second. More sweat pours to the ground. Ivan nods again, his eyes wide, “What are you waiting for?” they scream. The bear roars. She turns her head to me, sniffs the air. Ivan screams, “Stephan! The gun! The gun!” The bear’s massive head turns towards his cries. Another decision to be made. The rainbow trout sensing something amiss breaks away from the river’s bottom; the reel spins rapidly as the line is claimed by the running rainbow. The bears roars again dropping to all fours, her glaring black eyes watching Ivan, my friend.

She runs. I close my eyes. Set the hook…