Tuesday, June 16

"That will happen," the old saying goes, "when pigs can fly." I don't know much about the aeronautic properties of swine, but in Alaska there are a lot of beavers that have wings. And I'm glad. What the heck, I'm in love.

Alaska's flying Beavers were made decades ago by De Havilland, the Canadian aircraft company. The seven-seat Beaver is the workhorse of the North Country. Neither speedy nor fancy, they're rock-solid reliable and can take off and land in a very short space.

Beaver in the Sky

Rainbow River Lodge has two Beavers, and yesterday Mrs. Fuzzy and I, plus another couple and our two guides, left about 7:30 a.m. and flew to . . . I don't know. Alaskan rivers tend to sound the same after awhile, so we may have fished the Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Perhaps it was the Ackack, the Ticktock, and the Nocknockhoozthere.

Anyway, we parked the Beaver at north end of a large lake, then fished the inlet stream. Jagged mountains swathed in mist and cloud rose from the treeless tundra south of the lake. A large bear vacated as we arrived.

Our first stop in the Beaver.

It was sunny where we were, but a cold gusty wind blew. I stuck a thermometer in the river. Forty-one degrees, a real toe chiller.

The order of the day was sink-tips at thirty paces. I was fishing my seven-weight Winston B2X with a Teeny T-200 tip. The 2X fluoro tippet was tied to a six-inch fly that was said to imitate a lamprey eel. Big trout were said to feed on the eels.

Apparently this was true, because on the second cast I felt an authoritative pull. After some tussle, I brought in a bright 22-inch rainbow. A few casts later, I had one a couple of inches longer. Shortly after that, I had one that split the difference.

Our first stop in the Beaver.

Big flies, big fish.

After the third big trout in thirty minutes, I reeled up and went to see how Mrs. Fuzzy was doing. She was struggling, sad to say. Large flies and sinking lines are not her thing. Our guide was Dorian Thompson, who had helped us two days before. He worked with Barb to get the timing down for her casts, then I chimed in with more advice. The challenge was greatly compounded by the wind, which increased to 15-20 mph.

After being bonked on the head four times, and getting a large fly stuck in hand once, Mrs. Fuzzy started casting with her left (downwind) hand. I have to hand it to her. Few people would have tried that, and even fewer that spend as little time casting a fly rod as she does. It helped, and eventually she hooked into a nice rainbow.

Lunch counter.

After lunch, it was back in the Beaver and a short flight from the Shadrack to the Meshack. Or was it from the Ackack to the Ticktock? Doesn't matter; it was not fishing well.

A double at our last stop. Note the leaping fish.

Falling in Love with Beavers

So back in the Beaver and on to the Abednego (Nocknockhoozthere?). It offered up some good fish, but by that time the wind was really kicking up. Our pilot, Troy Abplanalp, said, "Time to go!" The lake we had landed on was solid whitecaps, with two-foot swells. But the Beaver handled it beautifully, and we arrived safe at the lodge.

Weather kicked up big swells and whitecaps on the lake at our last stop. Note the lenticular cloud at the top, a sign of high wind aloft.

It's hard not to romanticize the Beaver. Shoot, why fight it? I love this plane. Think of its virtues--stick to the basics, do a few things very well, be there when you're needed, have stamina for the long haul, don't go for glitz, and just go get the job done without a lot of fuss.

We should all do so well.