Brian leaned back in his chair, his face warming into a smile.
“And what do you know? They actually start thinking about it, and they remember some of what I told them; it starts to click. Of course it doesn’t matter which one they pick. I tied all those bugs. They all work, but they don’t know that. They take their time; they build a relationship with the fly. When they finally decide on that one”—Brian emphasized this moment, pausing and pointing a long finger at an imaginary fly held out between us— “they fish it differently. They fish it with confidence and, yeah, they catch more fish.
And the fish they catch on that fly, the one they picked, they remember those fish.” Leaning back in his seat, satisfied, Brian let the wisdom settle. Then he went back to watching the satellite porn channel that often glows in his living room.
The first outfitter I guided for in Alaska is one of the most impressive and distasteful humans I’ve ever encountered. He can catch anything that swims, and has significant difficulty controlling his bowels.
“Ralph” belongs among the bears of Bristol Bay, because he’s essentially a human version of one. He’s not hairy or tall. In fact, aside from his girth, he doesn’t look especially ursine. But, like the bears, he’s perfectly suited for survival in uneven tundra, squat pine, and red alder, and is totally inappropriate anywhere else.
Ralph scooped the fish and dropped it, twitching, into the bottom of the boat. “That’s one,” he said.
During my second season working at the lodge, Ralph had a boat break down during a supply run. He’d crossed the edge of the bay to pick up some lumber from town. Just as he hit the river mouth coming back, the engine seized. The tide had peaked and gone slack. It would soon retreat, pulling the craft out to sea. He didn’t have a satellite phone, and the radio wasn’t working. The water in Bristol Bay rarely warms past 50 degrees. No one would come looking for him for at least 24 hours, and searching for a tiny boat in that vast expanse is an act of faith.
Though the tide would soon drag him toward the horizon, the wind was onshore. Ralph picked up a sheet of plywood from the stack of lumber and angled it to catch the wind. After an hour his deltoids had to be screaming, but he managed to sail the jetboat upriver to the first tidewater lodge. I got a message that evening saying Ralph would be a day late; he’d had boat trouble. I found out the details days later, and only because I’m nosy.
A client once told me a story about Ralph as a guide, before he ran the lodge. They were fishing for kings, and this client had brought along a friend who worked as a financial advisor and carried more gear than knowledge or skill. The run was heavy and the fishing exceptional. The financial advisor was hooking a king every half hour or so, but landing none. A half dozen fish had shaken the hook or broken the leader at the boat. The financial advisor got overexcited when he saw the fish, and kings get particularly acrobatic during the endgame. Ralph’s inner predator got restless.
When the financial advisor brought the next fish close, it mimicked its predecessors and cartwheeled just under the surface, 10 feet from the gunwale. Instead of reaching for the net, Ralph quietly unholstered his sidearm and put a .45-caliber solid through the fish’s head. His well-bred urban clients nearly fell out of the boat. Ralph hadn’t bothered to warn them.
The fish went belly up, blood blooming the surface. Ralph scooped the fish and dropped it, twitching, into the bottom of the boat. “That’s one,” he said. The financial advisor never returned.
These men stand among the countless anglers with whom I’ve shared a boat, bar top, tent, or truck cab. Despite our insistence on the mythology of the lone figure, we make up a distinct and vibrant community. I was once pulled over by an Idaho highway patrolman while on assignment for a magazine story. I was driving a 1974 Mercury Marquis with a busted-out trunk and a bald rear tire and was wearing a camouflage Waffle House T-shirt. I looked like trouble, and the officer was wary. But once he discovered I was a fishing writer on assignment, he knelt down and helped me change the tire, and then offered to let me fish his private pond.
These characters, and the stories we carry and create, are why I remain as avid an angler at 35 as I was at 12.
There’s a photo of me as the solitary figure. My mother took it when I was 9 or 10. In the photo I’m shirtless, standing on a dock that stretches above a smooth lake, in front of a Midwestern July sunset. When that photo was taken I was indeed fishing alone, but just behind me, near my mother, was a bonfire encircled by family toasting s’mores.
Miles Nolte wouldn’t fish nearly as much if it weren’t for the attendant personalities. But if you run into him on the river, he probably doesn’t want to talk.
