From a roadside cafe with huge rainbows covering the walls to a remote fly-in shanty a willowed mile from an unexplored river that might hold steelhead, Ken Marsh will take you on a flyfishing adventure as only a native who has lived and flyfished his entire life in Alaska can.
You won't find a catered, cozy flyfishing camp with protective, professional guides in these stories. Instead, you'll join Ken and his sometimes crazy, always interesting friends as he flyfishes through the seasons in the real Alaska. For the anglers who live there, flyfishing is much more than the salmon and big rainbow fishing the outsider rushes in to do. It's quiet evenings float tubing for grayling and flyfishing adventures after prehistoric pike. It's investigating rumors of steelhead and prowling coastlines for sea-run cutthroats.
Most of all, it's a search for solitude, for the untrammeled, and for a place where angler and fish can meet in one moment that can't be taken back or forgotten. It's the same search all flyfishers are on, but the scale is, like the state itself, much grander than those in the Lower Forty-eight can grasp during a two-week, color-brochure trip.
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When I was young, grayling were for me what bluegills often are for kids in the Lower Forty-eight: the first fish, common, generally easy to catch. Starting at age five, wearing rubber break-up boots and a second-hand wool jacket, I spent my Augusts along the gravel bars of the Nelchina River country fly-fishing for them while my elders hunted caribou.Marsh sings his way along a Prince William Sound sea-run cutthroat creek to ward off lurking grizzlies; wrestles "bat-eating monsters" in a secret Susitna Valley creek; escapes upstream from the Kenai River hordes to pursue salmon in peace. These are not predictable tales of redemption and big fish; Marsh brings to these pages a sense of the mystery that is so essential to good angling literature, as in this extended metaphor for his uncommon local cutthroats:
There are certain items, mostly among the gear I use for hunting and fishing, that exist in an odd sort of limbo: a folding knife I've kept since boyhood, a bag of spare fly lines, a harmonica I sometimes take on wilderness trips. These things are never quite lost. Sometimes, one or another will vanish for extended periods--a summer, a year, occasionally, longer. But in time, they always turn up, out of the periphery, normally when I least expect them. Cutthroat trout possess a similar vagueness.Anglers dreaming of Alaska would do well to dip into Ken Marsh's clear-eyed remembrances from a lifetime of fishing the state's seemingly endless waters; outdoors enthusiasts looking for a good read would, too.
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