It was still rainy in the morning, but Dave made us ham and egg sandwiches for breakfast that were a 10/10. I, of course, ate mine in bed. What’s the point of getting up and sitting in the rain?
We had decided to fish at Montana Creek based on a recommendation I got from a few guys I met at the boat landing connected to the campground. I have mentioned before about the rivers being huge and silty, right? Well here is a pic of the Talkeetna River that these guys were standing on the banks of with their fly rods:
So I approached them and asked where they fished. And one guy said “Not here, obviously.” This river is like the dirtiest opaque chocolate milk/latte color. Clarity zero. It’s not actually dirty though. It’s glacial silt. There are, apparently, salmon in there, but “fishing” for them isn’t possible. (Though snagging them is.) I still don’t understand Alaska fishing:
OK I lied. I don’t have a picture of the Talkeetna River. But here is a picture someone else took:
When he said, “not here” I wasn’t even 100% sure if he was teasing me. As in: “Don’t fish here because it’s our secret spot.” I thought he might mean that because right after that he said that, he continued: “If you want to fly fish, you should go to Montana.” —What happened to friendly Alaskans?? I laughed and said, “Well I’m from Colorado, so I know all about Montana fly fishing…” And HE laughed and said, “No, no, no. Sorry, I can see how you thought that. No, I meant Montana CREEK — it’s just down the road.” Alaskan friendly is safe and sound.
Armed with our insider scoop, we set out for a 20 minute drive to Montana Creek with plans to hike up a trail that paralleled the main fork — we wanted to get good and far from other fishermen. As we parked and got ready, three trucks pulled up on the bridge behind us and piled out of their cars like ants. I can’t tell you the anxiety that causes us. We tried to make double time… but then a pickup truck with a single guy pulled up right next to us and hopped out. We were being all grumbly and spastic* — hooks getting caught everywhere, tripping over our own feet… and the pickup guy beat us to the river. But he went straight into the brush toward the main fork and not along the trail, clearly not as COMMITTED and HARD WORKING fishermen* as we are.
We set out on the trail — a well signed and official trail that shows up on maps — which quickly degraded to the size of a game trail, fording multiple streams, over dead trees. There was no way you could have done that trail without waders on. Especially when it came to an actual river — one that even we, with waders on, couldn’t cross because it was too dangerous. As we were contemplating our next move, who walks by us from upstream but that dang guy from the pickup! Where did he come from?? He told us there was no where to cross so he was going back to the main river.
No where to cross, my ASS! We are HARD CORE. We will find somewhere to cross. Where there’s a will there’s a way, man.
We bushwhacked. Through what I think must be similar to the Amazon Jungle. I do NOT like walking through stuff like that. It grosses me out. It’s scary. It’s hard. It’s stressful. You can take a step and fall into a hole. You can fall over an unseen tree covered in moss. Your rod gets stuck in branches. Waders are REALLY hard to climb in.
It was a serious mental and physical effort.
We disagreed about where we were. Dave INSISTS on using his maps app in SATELLITE mode. So he was struggling to even SEE the creek we were trying to follow and eventually cross…
Am I sufficiently describing the scene? Are you getting the picture? It was no bueno.
We ended up, what seemed like, a long way upstream. We fished some good looking runs here and there. But, at this point, we are totally clueless. It was worse than being a beginner flyfisher. We were constantly yelling back and forth to each other (futilely because the river was so loud) “WHAT ARE YOU PUTTING ON?” Of course there would be no answer. Only an irritated look meant to communicate, “What in the SAM HILL are you screaming about.” — Which didn’t stop the screaming. It only intensified it.
EVENTUALLY we determined there are NO FISH in this fork of Montana Creek and we needed to go to the main fork. (Hopefully anyone reading this will know the ridiculousness of this thought. If there are fish in one fork, there are surely fish in another that is nearby.)
We commenced another long bushwacking trek. It was awful. I silently promised myself “never again…” After another round of tense navigational “discussions.” We pop out on the main creek. —And let me explain another Alaska-ism: their “creeks” are our rivers. They are… HUGE. Half mile wide. Bigger than the Mississippi.
Dave goes upstream to take a cast and I hear… is that a car door? Is that a dog barking? I cast a few times. I get snagged. I look upstream to see if Dave sees my snag and I see that SAME GUY FROM THE PICKUP standing right above Dave casting into the water we so strategically picked to fish next.
Here we think we are at LEAST a mile into the back country where literally NO ONE ELSE would ever think of venturing and we are apparently on some main thoroughfare? Within the next thirty minutes I saw a guy with his dog on an ATV. Six more fishermen in four different groups. Two kids running through the creek barefoot, seemingly unsupervised, with a net — in water I was struggling to stand up in and not die.
It was a day.
We walked out along a FRICKEN ROAD. It was actually pretty funny if you can get over the fact that we both felt like we had hiked 8 miles.
All either one of us wanted at that point was another beer at Denali Brewing. The sun had come out toward the end of the afternoon and it was LOVELY! We sat on the deck in the sun and drank it up (the beer).
I noticed a t-shirt on a guy at the next table and asked if he was from Minnesota. They were not only from Minnesota but from Norwood Young America (near Watertown). When we learned that he grew up in Waconia, Dave asked him if he know Randy and Julie Sicheneder (great friends from Watertown). The guy goes “We ARE Sicheneders. Randy’s my cousin.”
Again — what are the FLIPPIN’ CHANCES of THAT?
We talked to them for a long while. His son lives in Wasilla, is a pilot, owns, not one, but two planes. Lives with his girlfriend who also owns a plane. They keep them in their “garage” and “drive them down the street” to the runway. Did you know that planes have right of way in Alaska? Neither did I.
Fun afternoon.
We went back to our gravel-pit-circus-pizza campsite, ran our generator along with the rest of the RVs. I guess we are fully “those people” now… We weren’t terribly hungry, because — oh yeah — in order to sit in the SUN at Denali Brewing we had to order some food. And one order of chips and salsa just wasn’t enough. So we had two…
But I didn’t think we could have crackers and cheese again, and Dave told me I HAD to use up the rest of the hamburger from tacos 5 days earlier, so I made literally the worst patty melt hamburgers I have ever eaten in my life. They tasted like NOTHING. It didn’t stop me from eating the whole damn thing though.
Why?
We logged another game of cribbage in the bright sunlight at 9:30pm and went to bed at 10 (still in the bright sunlight). In fact, the sun hadn’t even yet gone below the tree line. We hadn’t seen much actual sun so far and it was really, REALLY nice.
*Spastic. FisherMEN: both words I’m not sure I’m supposed to use anymore but I’m using them anyway and hope dearly I haven’t offended anyone.
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