It was dark as the inside of a bear’s behind when I pulled into the gravel parking area in Buskin River State Park. Holding a flashlight in my teeth, I pulled on my chest-high waders and struggled to tie my felt-soled boots. After donning my fishing vest, I checked the contents of my pockets: box of lures, extra swivels, fingernail clippers (for cutting line), surgical clamps (for removing hooks). I carefully unclipped and withdrew my 7-foot Shakespeare Ugly Stick from the inside of my Ford Explorer. The short rod is a necessity when fishing on the river, to prevent snagging the tip in the undergrowth. After checking to see that the line was taught so the treble hook wouldn’t snag me, I set off down the trail.
The path to the river was wide but completely overgrown with alder, forming a virtual tunnel that shut out any light that might have filtered in from reluctant dawn. Realizing that bears might be hiding in the alders, I slowed my pace so I could listen for any movement. Hearing nothing, I continued down the path, arriving at the river’s edge just as the sun was rising somewhere behind pregnant clouds.
I stood still on the sand bank and listened to the river, which hissed, burbled, and rumbled at my feet. At this point it was about 20 yards across. Water flowed from my right, over a shallow riffle and into a pool in front of me that was about four feet deep. Just to my left, another riffle was evident from a line of rocks across the river. There, it was shallow enough that I could walk across it. I could also detect any fish working their way into the pool by the sight of their tails splashing them forward between the rocks.
At that moment, I heard whistles being blown from somewhere upriver, just around the bend. There must be other fishermen there, I thought, but I couldn’t see them, and didn’t realize what the whistle implied. There had been bears sighted in this part of the river in the past week, but I didn’t connect those thoughts.
As I cast and retrieved my spinner, I saw the unmistakable silver glint of salmon turning in the water below me. They were avoiding the lure, not quite sure whether it was food or something to be annoyed at. After a few casts, I felt the tug. Nothing quite stirs the heart like a 12-pound silver salmon taking your hook. You know immediately that you haven’t snagged a rock, because it feels alive. I gave a gentle tug to set the hook and waited for the fish to respond. A fraction of a second passed before the fish took off, swimming at warp speed upriver.
But as soon as the fish encountered the upriver riffle, it turned and sped downstream, creating slack in my line. I reeled in the slack as fast as possible, remembering the mantra “Keep the tip up!”. The rod acts as a spring to maintain tension in the line. You don’t want the line going straight out toward the fish because a quick jerk of its head could snap the line. I stopped reeling and maintained upward pressure on the rod to keep the tension on the fish. After a moment it settled into a slow but strong movement back upriver.
Normally, this is when I would begin to retrieve the fish by lifting the rod, bringing the fish closer to shore, then reeling rapidly to take up the slack as I lowered the rod again. It was then that the bear appeared.
The bear sauntered slowly around the bend on the opposite bank of the river. By now it was light enough that I could see it clearly, but it didn’t take much notice of me at first. Kodiak grizzly bears have notoriously poor vision, and can’t see very far, so I wasn’t surprised at its composure. Then the fish tugged, and I tightened my grip a bit. The bear caught my movement, stopped in its tracks, and lifted its head towards me, sniffing in my direction. Now I know what the whistles were for – other fishermen trying to scare the bear away. Apparently, it worked, driving him downriver in my direction.
At times like this, there is a simple rule. Leave, immediately. Drop the rod or cut the line, abandon the fish, and slowly back away. Or jump up and down, wave my arms and yell, trying to make myself as big and threatening as possible. I doubted the bear would come after me; the pool was deep enough that it would have to swim, slowing it down, or go around it. Either way, I had probably a minute before the bear got to my side of the river.
But the calculator in my brain was clicking away. Is the bear moving? Does he actually see me? Does he consider me as predator or prey? What about my fish? I really don’t want to go home empty handed, and it’s so close to shore a few quick reels would bring it in. Maybe the bear wants the fish. Should I let him have it? I decided to be as still as possible, almost holding my breath, trying not to make any noise, in hopes that the bear would ignore me.
The bear rocked back and forth on his front paws a bit, suggesting that he was trying to make up his own mind. But he didn’t stand up, or huff at me, or make any other noise that might be seen as a threat. For a moment, we both stood still, staring at each other, trying to guess who would make the first move, and what it would be. I really should be going now, I thought, as my heart pounded out a drum solo in my chest.
Something in the bear’s mind caused it to have second thoughts. Slowly it turned and walked up the bank into the brush on the other side of the river. It’s leaving, I thought, with a flash of joy. The fish is mine.
I quickly heaved my rod and started reeling. In a few seconds, the fish was at my feet. I pulled my knife out of its sheath and stuck it into the gill opening, slicing the gills to bleed the fish. Then, without even removing the hook, I stuck my fingers into the gill slit and lifted the fish. Still watching the other side of the river, I backed slowly away from it until I was near the tunnel of alders. Then, confident that the bear was still on his side of the river, I turned and walked as fast as possible back to my car. As soon as I got there, I threw the fish into the back, stowed my rod, and jumped into the driver’s seat without removing my waders.
Safe inside the car, I reviewed my encounter with the bear. Did I do something stupid? Should I have let the fish go and left immediately? As my heart rate slowed, I started to smile. The bear and I had met as unequals. It was the undisputed ruler of this habitat; river, trees, and fish. I was an interloper, taking something that could have been his. It had every right to attack me or chase me off, but it didn’t. Why is not something I can know.
Perhaps the bear had eaten its fill of salmon already that morning. Perhaps it remembered previous encounters with humans and decided to avoid another. Or perhaps it just didn’t know what I was and didn’t want to find out. For whatever reason, it decided not to contest my ownership of the fish. But that didn’t make us equals. It just makes me lucky.
After catching a salmon, some fishermen club it to death and jump for joy, reveling in having conquered nature and taken a trophy. Personally, I disapprove of that attitude. The fish is something we should appreciate. When fishing, I try to become part of the ecosystem; just another predator looking for prey. I open myself to experience all that is happening around me. I am not hunting the fish, I am waiting for it. When nature is ready, the fish will present itself. When the fish is ready, it will give itself to me. After bringing it to shore, I lift it up and hold it to my chest so I can feel its life force: muscles tightening, heart drumming out its last beats, gills flapping to find oxygen. That life force will soon be transferred to me and my family, when we eat the fish. I want to know it.
Today I didn’t have time to feel the fishy force of life. But it was there, nonetheless. Today, not only did the fish give itself to me, but the bear also allowed me to have it. I was doubly thankful. Next time I catch a salmon, I will tell it my story and let it go, so it can tell its aquatic brethren that I am a thoughtful fisherman. Then they will continue to come to me, knowing how much I appreciate them.
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