You know the day might take an interesting turn when the boss tells you to go somewhere you’d never heard of. I was working for Justin Johns at Fishing Bear Lodge when he told me one morning I’d be taking guests to Grayling Alley. “What’s that?” I needed to know. Justin pointed. “To the wall,” he said.
The lodge had a large map of our locale on the wall. Justin pointed to the spot, saying, “It’s right here. The creek is too small to navigate, so leave the boat at the mouth and walk in. You’ll go a quarter-mile, maybe a little more.”
“Do you have any tips for how to fish it?” I wanted to know. He said, “They’re grayling, John. Any dry fly works. We have a good number of Purple Haze and Goddard Caddis in stock. Take a dozen of each. And don’t forget the Gink.”
On our way to Grayling Alley on a magnificent day in Alaska.
An hour later Mike and Yung Sook were riding my jonboat toward what I sure hoped would be grayling Nirvana, the mountaintops surrounding us wreathed in mist. The lake was smooth, its surface glass-like. It made for such a lovely ride I was almost disappointed when we reached the creek, spooking a pair of tundra swans as we arrived. Still, there was undeniable anticipation in all three of us. And I certainly wanted to know more about Grayling Alley.
I helped my companions disembark, then secured the craft. By the time I finished, Mike was already casting! Right away he raised a fish and missed it, but then, no more bites.
“Come on, Mike, we have some walking to do.” Mike walked, but didn’t reel up his line. He was casting the entire way, which slowed us down a lot. He hit a couple fish along the way, beautiful, fat grayling, slowing us down even more. The first rule of guiding might be, “Keep your fishermen happy,” but I wanted to see hordes of grayling. Let’s go!
I knew we reached “the Spot” when, standing on the bank, I could see through the startlingly clear water that the bottom was fairly carpeted with fish. I pointed my rod. “There’s a couple, there’s one, there’s three…” et cetera. I didn’t know yet how far up the creek the fish went, but it was almost stupid with grayling right here.
The sun was warm. The mists were gone and we could see the fish, the mountain tops, Heaven. In a way, we were there. This place was magnificent!
Yung Sook drifts a dry fly at Grayling Alley.
Mike caught all the dumb grayling, then moved up the creek. He was an experienced fly fisherman who didn’t need any guidance past what he’d already gotten. Yung Sook was another story, though.
She was a beginner who needed a lot of instruction. Before too long she could get 25 or 30 feet of line out and float the fly well enough to catch some fish. It would have helped if Mike had left a few aggressive ones where we were, but the thing about beginners is they’re usually thrilled with any success, and Yung Sook was thrilled with every fish she caught, and she got several. That was a theme that played out over and over again in the coming weeks. Justin would be sending me back, oh yes.
Grayling on a dry fly, probably a Purple Haze. Grayling like purple!
A sentence I heard from guests every week at Fishing Bear was, “I never fly fished before, but I want to learn how this week.” I never said much to this, but thought to myself, “How optimistic! I’ve been fly fishing all my life and still learn important new stuff almost every trip.” Keep that to yourself, John, and just get them some fish.
One week a father and adult son came in, and they both told me a version of that sentence. The son was more coordinated and turned into a better caster, but it was Dad that got a grayling on the very first cast he ever made with a fly rod. The line and leader fell in a big pile, like a colander full of spaghetti, and that fish came up in the middle of it all and took his fly, then held on long enough for him to clear the slack and come tight. Most days, Grayling Alley was that good.
Any grayling over 20 inches is a trophy. In Alaska they grow roughly an inch a year.
Justin was astute enough to rest the fish between trips, most of the time. One time, though, he sent me on back-to-back days. When he told me he was sending me again, I told him it wouldn’t be good. He just said, “He wants to go.” So we went.
The fish didn’t want to play. Grayling are easy to catch, but they can learn. We’d just beaten them up the day before. My fisherman was good, an experienced angler, and he couldn’t get a rise. I tried, and I couldn’t, either. I did not know what to do, but he did. He pulled out a Thing-a-ma-Bobber and a box of nymphs, and started drifting nymphs through the fish.
The bobber went down a lot. It was a new lesson for John, too, although I still dislike fly fishing with bobbers. Fortunately, at Grayling Alley, I never needed to use that technique again.
The route to Grayling Alley is surrounded by mountains. This is typical weather.
During the last week of the season, I came out of the creek after a very successful grayling trip, planning to get the boat ready for the return to the lodge. Two solid fish, clearly not grayling, were cruising over white sand shallows right by the boat. I forgot the boat and put a streamer on them. Strike! Off! Dang!
When my fishermen came out of the creek, I told them what had just happened. At the creek mouth’s very end, the sandbar stopped abruptly, dropping steeply into who-knew-what depths. We mounted up, then I let the boat just drift out past the drop with the current and put the anchor down.
We waited and watched. Before long, a couple dark shapes came cruising along the drop-off. One of my anglers put a streamer on them. Strike. Not off! Good fish!
It turned out to be an Arctic char, a fine fish and unexpected bonus. Which has nothing to do with the grayling, but I had to end the story. An unexpected twist seemed a good way to do it.
The bonus- a fine Arctic Char!
Fishing Bear Lodge can be reached at https://www.fishingbearlodge.com.
