Читать книгу Never Cry Halibut. and Other Alaska Hunting and Fishing Tales онлайн

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“What sort of stunts?” I asked. I’d never fly-fished, but it didn’t seem like an activity involving too much danger.

“Fly-fishing stunts,” he said. As soon as Dad put a rod in my hands, I realized the kid was telling the truth. Fly-fishing was dangerous. There were beavers to contend with, crashing brush when I tried to free a fly from a tree, lightning storms, and tangles that couldn’t be untangled. Most of all, there were the consequences of losing a fish in front of my dad.

It was at Hyalite Creek in the mountains above town, while hunting for brook trout, where I credit the birth of my neurosis. After hours of following Dad through thick brush with an impossibly long fly rod snagging on everything possible and tangling my reel as I cried, Dad shoved me into a creek.

A spring king salmon. (Photo courtesy of MC Martin)

“That looks like a good spot for a fish,” he whispered, gesturing at a slow-moving section of the creek. “Cast over there.”

After hooking a tree once and splashing the water twice, I managed to get the fly near where Dad pointed. A few moments later, a fish sucked it down. I was so flattered, I didn’t think to set the hook. The fly floated free, and what sounded like a wounded grizzly bear made me realize that if I didn’t catch this fish, I’d likely be mauled. Awkwardly, I cast again.